A week later, we returned to trivia. Noah and Jess were already seated, and Jess watched us with the caution of someone approaching a smoke detector after burning toast. When she asked whether questions were allowed, I said no at the same time Maya said yes, and Jess immediately chose Maya’s answer. Noah leaned forward, grinning, and asked the question I had managed to complicate beyond all reasonable recognition: “So, official?”
Maya looked at me. I put an arm along the back of her chair and said, “Yeah. Maya is my girlfriend.” There was no qualifier waiting afterward, and I didn’t hurry to rescue the table from the sincerity of it. Her smile arrived slowly, warm enough that I almost missed Noah slapping the table and announcing that everybody else had apparently aged several years waiting for us to catch up.
On the drive home, Maya sat beside me completely sober, watching the city move past her window. At a red light, she turned with an expression suspiciously close to innocence and asked whether she could ask me something. I glanced over, already smiling, and she delivered the question with perfect seriousness: “Am I really just your friend?” This time, I laughed because there was nothing left in it that I wanted to escape.
