Two terrible dancers laughing at each other.
Exactly where we had promised to be when we were six.
And somehow, the ordinariness of it made the moment perfect.
Part 6 — What Mom Finally Understood
By the time Mom arrived to pick us up, my feet were aching.
I took off my heels before we even reached the parking lot.
Noah picked them up.
“You’re carrying my shoes?”
“You’re walking too slowly.”
“You just complained about my dress all night.”
“That doesn’t mean you should walk barefoot in a parking lot.”
He was overheating in his suit, so I carried his jacket.
At the car, he opened my door.
I climbed inside.
Then, before he could walk around to the other side, I leaned across the back seat and opened his door for him.
Noah grinned.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Mom watched us through the rearview mirror.
She didn’t say anything.
She didn’t need to.
For years, she had looked at our friendship and assumed there had to be a caretaker.
A giver.
A receiver.
Someone strong and someone who needed protecting.
That night, she finally saw what had always been obvious to Noah and me.
Nobody was rescuing anybody.
I wasn’t with Noah because I felt sorry for him.
He wasn’t beside me because my mother had asked him to protect me six years earlier.
Neither of us was fulfilling some childhood obligation.
The promise had brought us to prom.
But friendship had kept us together for the twelve years in between.
We had learned something as children that adults sometimes make far more complicated than it needs to be.
