I had spent so long being the easy one that difficulty felt sinful. Saying no felt aggressive. Withholding access felt cruel. But from a distance, the truth simplified. People who resent your boundaries usually benefited from your lack of them.
At Christmas, the first since the collapse, Cassie flew to London for a week because she said nobody should spend their first European December alone unless they were a novelist or hiding from Interpol. We walked the South Bank in scarves and laughed until we cried in a tiny pub because the bartender refused to serve her mulled wine until she admitted Americans called it “hot sangria’s smarter cousin.” She slept on my sofa and made fun of English television and one night, after too much red wine and a plate of roast chicken, she asked the question nobody else had earned.
“Do you miss any of them?”
I thought about it. Really thought.
“I miss the idea that there was a door I could someday walk through and be wanted on the other side,” I said. “But I don’t miss the actual room.”
Cassie lifted her glass. “That’s growth. Also tragic enough for a tattoo.”