Bridget moved into Miles’s condo that fall, and the transition was harder than I’d expected. As roommates, we spent countless nights dancing in our socks in the kitchen, talking until our voices grew hoarse and our eyelids drooped. I made hot toddies and mashed bananas on toast when she was sick; she held my hand while I cried. But now she had her big job and her live-in boyfriend. As the future sprawled before us, a tendril of fear curled around my spine. We were getting older. We were growing up. The day had come when we wouldn’t dance in our socks in the kitchen anymore.
