Chapter 1: Crying on Josie's Kitchen Floor
The first thing Maya noticed was the smell. Not the garlic—that was a given, Josie's kitchen always smelled like garlic and whatever questionable takeout was currently congealing in her microwave—but the sweetness underneath it. Gingerbread. Faint and ghostly, like a memory that refused to die, clinging to the air long after the last cookie had been reduced to crumbs.
She stood in the doorway of the apartment, her hand still raised from knocking, her eyes already blurring at the edges. The hallway light behind her cast her shadow long across the peeling linoleum, and she could hear the microwave humming its tired, mechanical song from the kitchen. Half-digested lo mein, she thought absently. Josie's dinner from three nights ago, probably. Maybe four.
"Maya?"
Josie's voice came from somewhere deeper in the apartment, followed by the shuffle of socked feet against cheap flooring. She appeared in the hallway wearing an oversized hoodie that had once belonged to a college boyfriend Maya couldn't remember the name of, her dark hair twisted into a messy knot that was actively falling apart. Her face shifted through three distinct expressions in the span of a second—surprise, concern, confusion—before settling on something softer.
"What are you—" Josie started, but Maya was already moving past her, her feet carrying her through the narrow hallway and into the kitchen without permission, without explanation, without any of the usual pleasantries that normal people exchanged when they showed up unannounced at their best friend's apartment at ten o'clock on a Tuesday night.
The kitchen looked exactly the same as it always did. Exactly the same as it had looked for the past six years, ever since they'd signed the lease together in a fit of optimism that had lasted approximately three months before Josie had decided she needed her own space and Maya had moved across town. The chipped mug on the counter—the one with the faded cartoon cat that Josie had stolen from a diner in Portland—sat beside an empty wine bottle. A real wine bottle, not the cheap stuff they used to split on weeknights when they were broke and careless and had nothing better to do than get tipsy on the floor and make fun of reality TV.
Maya's knees hit the linoleum before she realized she was falling.
"Oh my God," Josie said, her voice sharp with alarm. "Okay. Okay, we're doing this. We're on the floor. That's fine, that's—" She dropped down beside Maya, her knees cracking in a way that would have made them both laugh under different circumstances. "What's happening? Are you hurt? Did something happen with Daniel? Did he—"
"No." Maya's voice came out strangled, caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. "No, Daniel's fine. Daniel's perfect. That's the—" She pressed her palms against her eyes, but the tears kept coming anyway, hot and relentless, sliding down her cheeks and dripping onto her shirt. "That's the problem."
Josie was quiet for a moment. Maya could feel her staring, could practically hear the gears turning in her head. She knew what Josie was thinking. She knew because she'd rehearsed this conversation in her mind a hundred times, imagining all the ways it could go wrong, all the ways Josie might misunderstand.
"Okay," Josie said slowly. "I'm going to need you to use your words, because right now I'm getting a lot of red flags and I don't know which one to grab onto first."
Maya laughed. It was a wet, pathetic sound. "I'm not having cold feet."
"I didn't say you were."
"You were thinking it."
"I was thinking a lot of things," Josie admitted. "Cold feet was definitely in the top three."
Maya dropped her hands from her face and looked at her best friend. Really looked at her. Josie's dark eyes were wide and worried, her mouth pressed into a thin line, the way it always got when she was trying not to show how scared she was. She was twenty-seven years old, and she looked exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with the late hour. Maya noticed things she'd been too busy to notice lately—the shadows under Josie's eyes, the tightness in her jaw, the way her hands kept curling and uncurling against her thighs.
"I'm happy," Maya said, and the words came out broken, fractured into pieces that didn't quite fit together. "I'm so happy, Josie. I've never been this happy. That's why I can't stop crying."
Josie's brow furrowed. "I'm not following."
"I know." Maya dragged in a shaky breath, trying to find the right words, trying to explain something she'd only just begun to understand herself. "When Daniel proposed—when he got down on one knee, and I saw the ring, and I said yes, I felt like I was flying. Like the whole world had just... opened up, and everything was possible, and I was finally exactly where I was supposed to be."
"Okay," Josie said cautiously. "That sounds good. That sounds great, actually."
"It was." Maya wiped her nose on her sleeve. "It is. But then we started planning. We set the date. We picked a venue. We made the guest list, and we started talking about china patterns and seating arrangements and whose family we were going to sit next to whose, and I realized—" Her voice cracked again. "I realized I was planning a wedding that you weren't in."
Josie blinked. "What? I'm your maid of honor. We literally had a whole conversation about this. You asked me at three in the morning while we were watching The Office, and I cried, and then you cried, and then we both ate ice cream straight from the container."
"I know," Maya said. "I know, and you are. You absolutely are. But that's not—" She pressed her fist against her chest, against the ache that had taken up residence there. "It's not about the wedding, Josie. It's about everything else. It's about the fact that I'm going to have a new last name. I'm going to have a house, and a mortgage, and a husband, and a whole life that doesn't include you in every single moment of it."
Josie opened her mouth, then closed it. Opened it again. Nothing came out.
"We have traditions," Maya continued, the words spilling out of her now, unstoppable. "We have the New Year's Eve thing, and the annual birthday dinner at that terrible Italian place that gives us free breadsticks, and the way we always call each other after a first date to do dramatic readings of the text messages. And I know—I know in my head that we can still do all of those things, that getting married doesn't mean losing you, but it feels like it does. It feels like I'm standing at the edge of something, and I'm so excited to jump, but I'm also—" She choked on the word. "I'm grieving. I'm grieving the version of my life where it was just us, and I don't know how to explain that to anyone because it sounds insane. It sounds like I don't love Daniel, and I do. I love him so much it terrifies me. But I also love you, and I miss you already, even though you're sitting right here."
The silence that followed was thick and heavy, broken only by the hum of the microwave and the distant sound of traffic outside the window. Maya watched Josie's face, searching for a reaction, bracing herself for the practical, no-nonsense response that was sure to come.
But Josie didn't speak. She just sat there, her back against the cabinet, her eyes fixed on some point beyond Maya's shoulder. Her hands had gone still against her thighs, and her breathing had changed—slower, more deliberate, like she was fighting to keep control.
"Josie?" Maya whispered.
Josie's lips pressed together. Her jaw tightened. And then, without warning, a tear slid down her cheek.
"Josie," Maya said again, alarmed. "Why are you—"
"Because I've been feeling the same thing," Josie choked out. "I've been feeling it for weeks, and I didn't know how to say it, because it seemed so stupid. You're getting married. You're supposed to be happy. I'm supposed to be happy for you. But every time you talk about the wedding, I keep thinking about how everything is going to change, and I don't know how to stop it."
Maya stared at her.
"I've been having dreams," Josie continued, her voice cracking in a way Maya had never heard before. "Stupid dreams. Where you move into this big house with Daniel, and you have kids, and you get busy, and you start canceling plans, and eventually you just... stop calling. And I know it's not real. I know you would never do that to me. But I wake up in a cold sweat, and I can't go back to sleep, and I just lie there thinking about how I'm going to be alone."
"You're not going to be alone," Maya said.
"I know." Josie wiped her face with the back of her hand. "I know that. And then I feel guilty for even thinking it, because this is what we're supposed to do, right? This is growing up. We're supposed to get married and move on and become adults and have all these responsibilities, and I just—" She let out a shaky breath. "I don't want to lose you."
"You're not going to lose me."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." Maya grabbed Josie's hand, squeezing hard. "You're my person, Josie. You've always been my person. That doesn't change just because I'm putting on a white dress and signing a piece of paper. Daniel knows that. He's known from the beginning."
Josie let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. "He's a far better man than I'd be in his position. If the love of my life had a best friend she was this codependent with, I'd probably be jealous."
"Daniel's not jealous," Maya said. "He's just resigned."
"That makes one of us."
They sat there on the kitchen floor, holding hands, crying in the dim light of the single bare bulb. The gingerbread smell was stronger now, mixing with the garlic and the regret, and Maya thought about all the nights they'd spent in this kitchen—drunk nights, sad nights, nights when they'd laughed so hard they couldn't breathe, nights when they'd sat in silence and just existed together. She thought about the future, too. She thought about holidays and birthdays and the way Josie would probably end up being the coolest aunt in the world to whatever children Maya and Daniel eventually had. She thought about Josie's own hypothetical wedding, and how Maya would be there, right beside her, making sure everything was perfect.
"Cameron asked me to move in with him," Josie said quietly.
Maya's head snapped up. "What?"
"A few weeks ago. I said I'd think about it."
"Josie." Maya's voice was a mix of shock and excitement and something else—something that felt suspiciously like hope. "That's huge. Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't know if I was going to say yes." Josie shrugged. "And I didn't want to make it a thing. You're in the middle of planning a wedding. You have enough going on."
"Stop." Maya squeezed her hand harder. "Stop trying to protect me. I'm not made of glass. I want to know about Cameron. I want to know about everything."
Josie looked at her for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile crept across her face—small and tentative, but real. "He's kind of great," she admitted. "I mean, he's a disaster. He leaves his socks everywhere. He watches TV with the volume on like he's trying to alert the entire neighborhood. And he refuses to eat leftovers, which is so objectively stupid that I've considered ending things multiple times."
"But?"
"But he's also the first person who's ever made me feel like I don't have to be the practical one all the time. Like maybe I can be messy, and it's okay." Josie's voice softened. "He makes me feel safe."
Maya felt fresh tears prick at her eyes, but these ones didn't hurt. "That's all I've ever wanted for you."
"I know." Josie squeezed back. "And Daniel's all I've ever wanted for you. Which is why I've been such a coward about all of this. I didn't want to stand in the way of your happiness."
"You could never stand in the way of my happiness." Maya leaned her head against Josie's shoulder. "You're part of it."
They sat like that for a while, their breathing slowly syncing, the tears drying on their cheeks. The microwave beeped, startling them both, and Josie let out a watery laugh.
"I think that's my lo mein," she said.
"I think that lo mein is older than some countries."
"Probably." Josie made no move to get up. "I'll deal with it later."
Maya closed her eyes, listening to the hum of the refrigerator, the distant music of a neighbor's TV, the steady rhythm of Josie's heart. She thought about everything that was changing, everything that was staying the same. She thought about how strange it was that you could be so full of joy and so full of grief at the same time, how those two things could coexist without canceling each other out. She thought about how lucky she was—to have Daniel, to have Josie, to have this messy, lived-in kitchen and this person who understood her even when she didn't understand herself.
"I'm going to ask you something," Maya said quietly. "And I need you to be honest with me."
Josie's hand tensed in hers. "Okay."
"Are you happy? I mean, actually happy. Not the version of happy you show everyone else. The real thing."
The pause that followed stretched on for a long time. Long enough that Maya started to worry. But then Josie exhaled—a long, slow breath—and her hand relaxed.
"Mostly," she said. "And that's more than I ever thought I'd get."
Maya lifted her head and looked at her best friend. Josie's face was blotchy and red, her eyes puffy, her hair a disaster. She was the most beautiful thing Maya had ever seen.
"Good," Maya said. "Because you deserve that. You deserve everything."
"So do you." Josie bumped her shoulder. "Even if it means you're leaving me for some guy."
"I'm not leaving you."
"You're moving across town. That's basically leaving."
"It's a fifteen-minute drive."
"Eighteen if there's traffic."
Maya laughed, and the sound surprised her—full and bright and real. "I'll still come over for dinner. I'll still show up unannounced and cry on your floor. Nothing's going to change."
Josie snorted. "Everything's going to change."
"Okay, fine. Everything's going to change. But we'll figure it out." Maya held up her pinky. "Together."
Josie looked at the offered finger, then back at Maya's face. "You're such a dork."
"Your dork."
"Unfortunately." But she hooked her pinky around Maya's, and squeezed.
They sat there on the peeling linoleum, fingers locked, the microwave humming its final warning beep. The gingerbread smell had faded now, replaced by something warmer—something that smelled like the beginning of a new chapter, even if neither of them was ready to turn the page just yet.
"So," Josie said after a moment. "Tell me about this guest list. Is your mother still trying to invite her cousin Barbara?"
"Oh God." Maya dropped her head back against the cabinet. "I forgot about cousin Barbara."
"The one who stole the centerpieces from your cousin's wedding?"
"The very same."
"We're adding her to the ban list."
"Obviously."
They talked about the wedding for another hour, their voices rising and falling in the comfortable rhythm of old friendship. And when Maya finally stood up to leave, her legs stiff from sitting on the floor for so long, she felt lighter than she had in weeks.
She had a wedding to plan. A life to build. A husband to love.
And she had a best friend who wasn't going anywhere.
At the door, Josie pulled her into a fierce hug. "Text me when you get home."
"I will."
"And don't freak out about the seating chart."
"I won't."
"And if you do freak out, call me. I'll talk you down."
Maya pulled back and looked at her. "I love you, you know that?"
Josie's eyes glinted. "Yeah. I know."
Josie let the word hang there between them for a second, then pulled back just enough to look Maya in the eye. Her face was still blotchy, still wet, but something had shifted in her expression. Something steadier.
"It's okay to be sad," she said.
Maya blinked. "What?"
"About all of it. The traditions, the late nights, the version of us that existed before all of this." Josie gestured vaguely at the kitchen, at the empty wine bottle, at the microwave that had finally gone silent. "It's okay to grieve it. I've been sitting here feeling like absolute shit for weeks because I thought I wasn't allowed to. Like being happy for you meant I had to pretend I wasn't also losing something."
"Josie—"
"No, let me finish." She held up a hand. "We always thought growing up meant adding things. That's what we talked about, right? In college, when we were drunk and philosophizing about the future. We'd add careers, and apartments, and partners, and maybe pets, and eventually families. We'd just keep stacking things on top of each other until our lives looked like some perfect Pinterest board of adulthood."
Maya laughed weakly. "I remember. You wanted a golden retriever named Steve."
"Steve was a great name for a dog." Josie's mouth twitched. "But we never talked about the losing part. We never talked about how growing up means things fall away, too. The midnight ice cream runs. Showing up at each other's apartments without warning. Christmas mornings in our pajamas, just the two of us, because neither of our families did the big holiday thing and we'd decided to make our own tradition."
"I still have that ugly sweater," Maya said. "The one with the reindeer that lights up."
"I have the matching one." Josie's voice cracked. "I wore it last month. Alone. In my apartment. Eating takeout and watching The Holiday because I didn't know how to tell you that I missed you even though you were literally texting me every day."
Maya's throat tightened. "Josie."
"I'm not saying this to make you feel guilty." Josie reached for her hand again, threading their fingers together. "I'm saying it because you need to know that you're not crazy. You're not broken. You're not some ungrateful bitch who got everything she ever wanted and still has the audacity to cry about it. What you're feeling is real. And it's okay."
Maya exhaled, long and shaky.
"Because here's the thing." Josie's grip tightened. "You're going to do all of those things with Daniel now. The Christmas mornings, the lazy Sundays, the random Tuesday nights when you just want someone to sit on the couch with you and eat chips. That's what marriage is, right? Building a life with someone. And that life is going to be beautiful. It's going to be everything you've ever wanted."
"But—"
"But it's also going to be different." Josie nodded slowly. "And that's okay too. Because we're not losing each other. We're just... rearranging. Shifting. Making room for the new stuff without throwing out the old."
Maya wiped her nose on her sleeve again. "You make it sound so simple."
"It's not simple. It's terrifying." Josie laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I've been terrified. I've been lying awake at night, staring at my ceiling, convinced that once you walk down that aisle, you're going to forget about me. That I'll become one of those friends you see twice a year at best, the ones you promise to call more often and then never do."
"I would never—"
"I know." Josie squeezed her hand. "I know you wouldn't. That's why I've been so mad at myself for even thinking it. But fear doesn't care about logic. It just sits there in your chest, eating everything."
They sat in silence for a moment. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere in the building, a door slammed shut.
"Can I tell you something?" Maya asked quietly.
"Always."
"I'm excited." She said it like a confession, like something shameful. "I'm so excited to marry Daniel. To wake up next to him every day. To build a home with him. To have kids and watch them grow up and figure out who they're going to be. I want all of it. I want it so badly it hurts."
"Good," Josie said. "You deserve it."
"But I'm also scared." Maya's voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm scared that I'm going to wake up one day and realize I don't recognize myself anymore. That I've become someone's wife, someone's mother, and somewhere along the way I forgot how to just be Maya. Just me. The person who used to dance in the kitchen at two in the morning and eat cold pizza for breakfast and send you voice memos about the weird guy on the bus."
"You'll always be that person." Josie nudged her shoulder. "You'll just be that person with a husband and a mortgage and stretch marks and a minivan. But still you. Still the girl who once cried for three hours because a squirrel looked at her funny."
"That squirrel was aggressive."
"That squirrel was minding its own business."
Maya laughed, and this time it felt real. She leaned her head back against the cabinet, staring up at the water stain on the ceiling that had been there since the day Josie moved in. It looked like a map of a country that didn't exist. They'd named it once, after a bottle of cheap rosé. She couldn't remember what they'd called it.
"I'm going to be a godmother," Josie said suddenly.
Maya turned her head. "What?"
"Your first kid. I'm calling it now." Josie pointed at her. "I don't care if Daniel has some bro he wants to give the honor to. I'm the godmother. I've earned it. I've been putting up with your shit for over a decade."
"You've been putting up with my shit?"
"Remember the time you called me at four in the morning because you couldn't decide if you wanted to dye your hair purple?"
"That was a crisis."
"It was a Tuesday."
"Same thing."
Josie laughed, loud and genuine, and something loosened in Maya's chest. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed that sound. How much she'd been bracing herself for a fight, or worse—understanding. She'd expected Josie to be practical. To tell her to pull herself together and stop being dramatic.
She hadn't expected this.
She hadn't expected Josie to feel the exact same way.
"I'm going to be the best godmother," Josie continued, warming to the subject. "I'm going to spoil that kid rotten. I'm going to teach them all the things you don't want them to know. How to sneak out of the house. How to forge your signature. How to win at poker."
"You're going to get me killed by my own child."
"Probably." Josie grinned. "But it'll be worth it. Because when you're in the trenches, knee-deep in diapers and sleep deprivation and wondering why you ever thought having kids was a good idea, I'm going to be there. I'm going to show up with coffee and take the baby for a few hours so you can shower. I'm going to be your escape hatch."
Maya's eyes filled again, but these tears were different. Warmer.
"And when you're old," Josie went on, "and your kids are grown and moved out and you're sitting in that big house of yours wondering what happened to your life, I'm going to be there too. We're going to be those old ladies who meet for brunch every Sunday and complain about our sciatica and judge people's outfits."
"You don't get sciatica."
"I will by then."
Maya laughed through her tears. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay." Maya sat up straighter, wiping her face. "You're right. About all of it. It's going to be different. It's going to be hard. But we're not losing each other. We're just... shifting."
"Exactly." Josie's eyes were bright. "We're going to miss the old stuff. We're going to miss the midnight ice cream and the Christmas mornings and being each other's automatic plus-one to everything. That's real. That's valid. But we're also going to make new stuff. New traditions. Things that fit the people we're becoming."
"Like what?"
"I don't know yet." Josie shrugged. "That's the fun part. We get to figure it out."
Maya thought about it. Really thought about it. The image of her future that had been so terrifying just an hour ago—the wedding, the husband, the house, the kids—suddenly felt less like a door closing and more like a window opening. She could see Josie in that future. Not as a relic of her past, but as a constant. A presence. The person who showed up when it mattered.
"We're going to be each other's always calls," Maya said quietly.
"What?"
"Not first calls anymore. That's going to be Daniel for me, and Cameron for you, eventually. We're not going to be the ones the other reaches for first every single time. And that's..." She paused, testing the words. "That's okay. Because we're going to be the always calls. The ones who are still there when everyone else has gone home. The ones who show up when it really counts."
Josie stared at her for a moment. Then her lips curved into a smile that was soft and knowing and a little bit sad.
"Yeah," she said. "We're going to be the always calls."
"And even if we don't talk every day, or see each other every week, we'll still have this." Maya gestured between them. "Whatever this is. This thing that we've built over the past ten years. It doesn't just disappear because I'm getting married or you're moving in with Cameron or life gets complicated."
"It better not." Josie's voice was fierce. "Because I didn't spend years cataloguing every embarrassing thing you've ever said or done just to lose my archives."
"You have archives?"
"Mental archives. But yes."
"That's terrifying."
"That's friendship."
Maya laughed again, and it felt like the first real laugh in weeks. Not the polite ones she'd been giving caterers and florists and Daniel's mother, who kept suggesting they add a chocolate fountain to the reception. A real one. One that came from somewhere deep in her chest and left her feeling lighter.
"So," Josie said, shifting to sit cross-legged on the floor. "Tell me about this guest list. How bad are we talking?"
"Bad enough that I considered eloping."
"Eloping is for cowards."
"That's what Daniel said."
"Daniel's smart. I like him." Josie leaned forward. "Okay, so who's the problem? Your mom? His mom? Some weird uncle who's going to get drunk and start a speech about how marriage is a sacred institution and also how he once dated a woman who looked exactly like you, which is technically not a compliment?"
"His mom, mostly. She wants to invite everyone she's ever met. Including her dentist from twenty years ago."
"The dentist?"
"Apparently he did a very good root canal and she's never forgotten it."
"Sounds like love."
Maya snorted. "That's what I said. Daniel thinks it's fine. He says the more the merrier. I think he's just afraid of conflict."
"Most men are." Josie stood up, cracking her back in a way that made Maya wince. "Okay. Here's what we're going to do. We're going to pour ourselves a drink—a real one, not that wine, that wine's been open for days—and we're going to make a plan. A wedding plan, a life plan, a how-to-survive-growing-up plan. Whatever you need."
"I thought you said you were tired."
"I was tired two hours ago. Now I'm invested." Josie pulled open a cabinet and rummaged around. "Where did I put the whiskey?"
"Top shelf. Behind the cereal."
"Ah. The thinking man's hiding spot." Josie grabbed the bottle and two mismatched glasses. "You want ice?"
"Do you have ice?"
"Ice is for people who plan ahead." Josie poured two generous fingers into each glass. "We're not those people. We're the people who cry on kitchen floors and decide to fix it with whiskey."
Maya took the offered glass. "To us."
Josie clinked her glass against Maya's. "To the always calls."
They drank. The whiskey burned going down, but it was a good burn. A warm one. Maya looked around the kitchen one more time—the peeling linoleum, the chipped mug, the bare bulb casting shadows on the walls—and she thought about how many memories this room held. How many versions of themselves they'd been here. How many more they would become.
"You know what I think?" Maya said, setting her glass down on the counter.
"What's that?"
"I think we're going to be okay. I think we've been so scared of losing each other that we forgot we're not the kind of people who lose each other. We're the kind who put in the work. Who show up. Who call at midnight because we need to talk about something stupid."
Josie leaned against the counter, her glass cradled in both hands. "Yeah," she said softly. "I think we're going to be okay too."
They stayed up for another hour, talking and laughing and planning. The whiskey went down easy, and the tears dried on their cheeks, and somewhere in the middle of a conversation about centerpieces, Maya realized she wasn't sad anymore. She was just... ready. Ready for the wedding, for the marriage, for the future. Ready for all the things she was gaining and all the things she was losing and all the new things she hadn't even thought to imagine yet.
When she finally left, she hugged Josie so tight she felt ribs.
"Call me when you get home," Josie said.
"I will."
"And remember—"
"—always calls. I know." Maya pulled back, smiling. "I know."
She walked to her car in the cool night air, her heart full and her head clear. The moon was out, tugging at the edges of the clouds, and she thought about how strange it was that life could feel so big and so small at the same time. How you could hold joy and grief in the same hand without dropping either one.
She started the car, pulled onto the street, and drove home to the man she loved.
And when she got there, she texted Josie. The reply came back almost instantly.
Always.
Maya smiled, set her phone on the nightstand, and fell asleep.
The next morning, she woke up to a text from Josie. A link to a website for custom light-up sweaters.
We're ordering matching ones for Christmas, it said. New tradition. No arguments.
Maya laughed, typed her agreement, and felt something settle in her chest. The world looked different than it had yesterday. A little less scary. A little more possible.
They were going to be okay.
They were going to be so much more than okay.