The House on Linden Street

Gavin brought Myrna on the second Sunday. That was unusual — Myrna came to dinner alone most of the time, or called, but did not usually come to the apartment. She was the kind of person who gave you space, who understood that showing up too often was its own kind of pressure.

So when she showed up, Liza knew something was happening.

They had all grown up together, the three of them — Gavin, Liza, Myrna. Gavin and Myrna had started dating when Liza was fifteen. They had been married for nine years. Myrna was the only person who had known Liza before Drake, which meant Myrna was the only person who knew what Liza had been like before she had learned to hold very still.

"Liza," Myrna said, from the couch, with coffee in her hands and the particular directness that meant she had something to say. "You look thin."

"I'm fine."

"I know what fine looks like. This is not it."

Liza sat down across from her. "I know. I know I look like — I know I'm not okay. But I'm getting there."

Myrna was quiet for a moment. "I remember what you looked like in the kitchen on Linden Street. Before any of this. You used to laugh until you could not breathe." She paused. "I want you to know that I'm still here. In case you had forgotten."

Liza had not forgotten. She had just stopped believing that what she had been before was something she could get back.