The afternoon I told her was ordinary enough to have been forgettable. Rain had threatened all day without arriving, and our apartment smelled faintly of the lemon cleaner I'd used on the counters. Marissa was sitting cross-legged on the couch, watching stories from the squad's previous weekend adventure. I sat beside her and waited until one video ended before I said I had something special arranged for our anniversary.
Her reaction came before her words. The easy smile disappeared, her shoulders tightened, and she looked at the date on her phone like it had betrayed her. "Oh, babe," she said, "that's the same night as Tasha's birthday pregame. You know I can't miss that." She spoke in the regretful tone a person might use to tell you a flight had been canceled by bad weather.
I thought there had been a mistake. Tasha's birthday was not until the following week, and we'd spoken about our anniversary enough times that the date shouldn't have surprised Marissa. I asked whether she could see her friends Friday night or Sunday instead, or even join them afterward if the timing worked. I wasn't trying to control the event, and I knew I couldn't make an entire group rearrange itself around us.
Marissa shook her head before I finished. Saturday was the only night everyone was available, she said, because Adrien had a work conference beginning Sunday, Khloe was under pressure at her new job, and Finn was still recovering from his recent breakup. Tasha had been looking forward to the party, and they hadn't all managed a proper night together in weeks. With every sentence, Marissa sounded more convinced that I ought to recognize the obvious moral weight of the occasion.
"But it's our two-year anniversary," I said. "I've already made plans, and I really wanted to spend it with you."
She lifted both hands. "We can celebrate another night. It's just a date on a calendar, Ethan."
"It's a date we've been talking about for months."
"And Tasha's birthday is important to her. You don't understand what the group has meant to me."
I took a breath and tried again. I said I wasn't asking her to end friendships, cancel a vacation, or give up anything that defined her. I wanted one evening that belonged to us, especially after my graduation and my brother's wedding and the night at the hospital. When I mentioned those events, she looked hurt rather than reflective, as though the real injury was my decision to remember them.
"You're keeping score now?" she asked.
"I wish there weren't enough examples to remember," I said.
That was when she crossed her arms and said the words about love waiting and friendship not waiting. She added that the squad had been there before I came along and would be there after, her chin slightly raised as though she had delivered an unanswerable truth. I felt the kind of quiet that happens when a conversation abruptly shows you the shape of a future you don't want. I didn't argue with the word after because I was afraid that if I repeated it, I would hear something worse.