In late December I ran across the crowded arrivals gate at JFK to a girl in a light blue sweatshirt with a big smile on her face, two pairs of arms open. New York is a tough and lonely place, and I’ve mostly come to terms with that, but for the next two weeks, it wouldn’t be. With P, nowhere in the world could be lonely.
It was her first time and I wanted to make it magical and authentic and fun. I don’t offer my home or life or friendship to just anyone, but for her, I cheerfully lugged the heavier suitcase in freezing weather up four flights of subway stairs. We collapsed on the floor of my 22nd floor apartment and giggled with joy and exhaustion.
P and I have been best friends since I can remember being a person. She figured out all those years ago that my first impulse upon being approached is to put up a tall wall, and proceeded to scale it with ease. So much life happens in almost three decades : failure, growth, death, degrees, halfway across the world moves, breakups. It’s all packed into the air and time between us, every secret and love and loss. We’ve stuck by each other through it all, evolving into the women we used to be and the women we are now. I never hold out hope for romantic soulmates, but I’ll admit without hesitation that she is my platonic one.
Packed into that time in December are sweet memories and belly laughs : We walked the length of the Brooklyn Bridge and got cappuccinos and chocolate croissants at Butler in Dumbo upon our descent. A sweet man offered to take our photo outside the carousel and I nearly growled at him because I misheard his question. P just chuckled and handed over my phone. We inhaled a whole tub of AMC popcorn while watching Anyone But You in Union Square and then went across the street to drink espresso martinis at the Smith, but mostly just to take polaroids in the booth downstairs. We strolled through Macy’s until our knees hurt, dousing ourselves in Tom Ford perfumes until the employees got annoyed. At La Pecora Bianca, we split a plate of spicy vodka penne and overheard a conversation from the girls at the neighboring table - a promising man was turning out to be, surprise surprise, not-so-promising.
I split a cream cheese bagel with her on the Upper East Side and she took a photo of me on the stoop of my old apartment building, the first place I lived alone. I took a photo of her on the steps of the Met. The lawns were closed for the winter, but I pointed out my favorite place in all of New York : the Gloria Steinem bench in Central Park.
For Christmas, we took the Amtrak to her cousins’ home upstate and spent the evening drinking wine and telling stories to twenty people. Late one evening we went to Laut to eat the spicy fried rice and then zoomed up to the 93rd floor of One Vanderbilt, sitting on the glass floor, staring out at the bright lights of New York. I cried a little, because I love the city. P said the Chrysler building was her boyfriend and I said of course, because I’ve always claimed the Empire State.
One weekday evening I took her to Dante in the West Village, explaining the history of each neighborhood while we were there. We spent a whole Saturday in Williamsburg, lost in books in the aisles of McNally Jackson, yearning after clothes we didn’t need at Awoke Vintage, buying souvenirs in the gift shops, photographing the graffiti on every street corner, resting our tired feet in a booth at Gran Torino. After I finished work on another night, we went to Mad Dog and drank too many margaritas and she texted my high school crush who had, apparently, just moved to New York. He wanted nothing to do with me and we laughed even more about that, then scurried down Wall Street to stare up at the stock exchange and FaceTime her Dad to show it to him.
For New Years we went to a nearly empty bar on Madison Avenue that I love called Bookmarks. Truffle popcorn and two drinks and then on the walk to the train, her arm interlocked with mine, we wished a particularly handsome NYPD officer a happy 2024, making him blush. At midnight we squeezed into the crowded elevator and went to my building’s rooftop, where all my cheery neighbors were spilling champagne and yelling the countdown in the cold. Fireworks exploded in the sky and we made our wishes, bouncing up and down with joy. There were so many monstrous feelings articulated, so many ill timed cappuccinos drunk, so many subway rides in circles around Manhattan, so many outfits curated from my two closets.
On her last morning here, we took a 7 am subway to Central Park South before I headed into work and she headed to the airport. The bacon sandwiches in our hands made us easy targets for every adorable dog in the vicinity, sniffing at our knees and pleading with their eyes for a taste. When I told her that we’d be friends forever, I meant it. No boy, no distance, no argument could come between us.
I joke that I’m the most hyper independent girl in the world and I don’t need anyone, but I need my best friend. I love her, and feel lucky to be loved by her. Even over long distance and across time zones, we make each other feel held through four hour long phone calls. We send photos through the day. She has the best book recommendations and is the kind of resourceful person who will send you an epub version before you even ask. She articulates complex emotion with the wisdom of a Harvard professor, holding logic and feeling in the same sensible sentence as she reasons with you. She’s got classic beauty, never needing intricate routines or attention seeking outfits. All her other good traits are obvious to anyone who knows her : her throbbing kindness, her cutting and colorful sense of humor, her excited, Encyclopedic babble of TV show reviews.
I’d like to think I’ve known her the longest, so I know her the best. She returns the favor, frowning at me when I tell strangers we’re best friends. “No,” she’ll say, interrupting immediately, “We’re sisters.”
We are. Today is her birthday and I’m so lucky she was born, that we found each other, that we will always have each other no matter what happens in our lives.