"Still on for Thursday?" The text came at 9:14 AM, which was when Rachel always texted.
"Of course!" Nadia typed back. The exclamation point was new — maybe two years new. She hadn't noticed when it started.
Thursday came. They met at the Italian place, the one with the bread they liked. They split a carafe. Rachel talked about her daughter's college applications. Nadia talked about the leak in the upstairs bathroom that turned out to be condensation. They laughed about the contractor who'd charged her $200 to tell her that.
It was a good dinner. It was always a good dinner.
In the car afterward, Nadia opened her calendar and typed Rachel — dinner on the Thursday three weeks out. She added a reminder for the Monday before: text Rachel to confirm. Then she sat in the parking lot for a moment with the engine running.
There had been a time when Rachel would just call. Tuesday, Saturday, whenever. And Nadia would pick up or call back, and they'd talk until one of them had to go, and they'd see each other when they saw each other, which was often, because they wanted to.
They still wanted to. She was sure of that. The dinners proved it — two hours easy, never checking the time.
But somewhere a current had shifted, and now the thing that used to pull had to be carried. Not far. Not heavily. Just enough that it needed a calendar entry and a Monday reminder and an exclamation point that said I am still enthusiastic about this in a way that enthusiasm, when it's native, never has to say.
She put the car in reverse. Thursday in three weeks. She'd be there. She'd mean it.