The May sun pressed hard against the living room window, turning the afternoon into something thick and slow. Paige stretched her legs out on the carpet, her bare feet brushing against the worn beige fibers still damp from her shower an hour ago. The smell of bacon lingered faintly from breakfast, mixing with the dust motes floating in the light.
Marla sat cross-legged on the couch, a bag of pretzels balanced on her knee. Jimmy was sprawled in the armchair, his sneakers kicked off, his socked feet dangling over the armrest. Johnny sat on the floor beside Paige, his back against the couch, his arm warm where it pressed against hers.
"So," Marla said, crunching a pretzel, "school's almost over. Three weeks."
"Three weeks and two days," Jimmy corrected.
"Counting." Marla rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.
Paige watched them — her best friend, her boyfriend's brother, the boy she loved. They'd all ended up here by accident, the way Saturday afternoons sometimes worked. Johnny had biked over, Jimmy trailing behind because their mom had kicked them both out of the house. Marla had called an hour later, bored, and Paige had told her to come over.
Now here they were. The four of them.
But it wasn't like before. Before Paige and Johnny had happened, she and Jimmy had been buddies — the kind of easy friendship that didn't require effort. They'd sat next to each other in class, traded snacks, made fun of the same kids. Now there was a buffer. Johnny. And the buffer changed everything.
Jimmy reached for a pretzel without looking. Marla smacked his hand away. "Get your own."
"You're in my house."
"It's Paige's house."
"Same thing."
Paige smiled, but it felt thin. Jimmy hadn't really talked to her today. Not directly. He'd talked to Johnny, to Marla, to the air around her. She caught Johnny's eye, and something passed between them — a question she didn't have to speak.
"Hey," Johnny said, shifting to face the room. "You guys want to split up for a bit?"
Marla stopped mid-crunch. "What?"
"I don't know." Johnny's hand found Paige's knee, settled there. "It's weird. We're all here, but we're not really —" He stopped, looked for the word. "Talking."
Jimmy sat up, his feet dropping to the floor. "You mean you want us to leave."
"No. I mean —" Johnny blew out a breath. "I mean, I haven't talked to Marla in weeks. Not really. And you and Paige used to be —" He gestured vaguely. "You know."
The silence settled. Paige watched Jimmy's face, saw something flicker there. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition.
"He's not wrong," Marla said quietly. She set the pretzel bag down. "I barely see you anymore, Johnny. It's always —" She stopped, shrugged. "You and Paige."
"That's not —" Johnny started.
"It's fine." Marla held up a hand. "I'm not complaining. I'm just saying. He's not wrong."
Jimmy was quiet. His fingers traced the fabric of the armchair, following a seam. "So what? We split up and talk?"
"Yeah," Johnny said. "Maybe."
Paige looked at him. His jaw was set, his eyes steady. He'd been thinking about this, she realized. Not today — maybe for weeks. The way things had shifted. The friendships that had bent around their relationship.
"I think that's a good idea," she said.
Marla looked at her. "You do?"
"Yeah." Paige pulled her knees up, wrapped her arms around them. "I miss talking to you, Jimmy. And Johnny —" She glanced at him. "He misses Marla."
"I don't miss her," Johnny said, but his voice was warm. "I see her at bowling."
"Bowling doesn't count," Marla said. "You're too busy trying to beat your dad's score."
"That's the point of bowling."
"It's not the point of talking."
Jimmy laughed — a short, surprised sound. "He's got you there."
The tension cracked. Just a little. Marla grabbed another pretzel, and this time Jimmy didn't reach for it.
"Alright," Marla said. "So who talks to who?"
Johnny looked at Paige. She shrugged. "You and Marla. Me and Jimmy."
"Fine." Marla stood, brushing crumbs off her shorts. "Let's go, McHale."
Johnny looked up at her. "Where?"
"Backyard. Porch. I don't care." Marla was already moving. "Come on. Let's get this over with."
Johnny hesitated. His hand found Paige's, squeezed once. Then he stood and followed Marla through the kitchen, the screen door slapping shut behind them.
The room felt emptier without them. Smaller.
Jimmy hadn't moved. He sat in the armchair, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on the carpet.
"So," Paige said.
"So."
She waited. Jimmy wasn't the type to fill silence. He let it sit, let it breathe. She'd always liked that about him.
"I feel like I don't know how to talk to you anymore," she finally said.
Jimmy looked up. "You talk to me fine."
"No. I mean —" She shifted, crossing her legs. "Before. We used to just — exist together. In class. At lunch. Now there's all this —" She gestured vaguely. "Between us."
"Your brother," she added, when he didn't respond.
Jimmy's jaw tightened. "Yeah. I know."
"Is that weird for you?"
He was quiet for a long moment. The clock on the wall ticked. Somewhere outside, a lawnmower started up.
"I don't think weird is the right word," he said. "It's more like —" He stopped, started again. "You were my friend first. You know? Before you were his girlfriend. And now when I see you, I don't see my friend. I see my brother's —" He stopped again. "I don't know."
"It changed," Paige said.
"Yeah."
"I'm still your friend, Jimmy."
He looked at her. Really looked. "Are you?"
The question hit hard. Paige felt it land somewhere deep, somewhere she hadn't been paying attention to. She thought about the last few months — the way she'd gravitated toward Johnny, the way she'd stopped looking for Jimmy in the hallway, the way she'd assumed he understood.
"I'm sorry," she said.
Jimmy blinked. "For what?"
"For —" She spread her hands. "For not noticing. For letting it get weird. For assuming you'd just — be okay with it."
"I am okay with it."
"But it's still different."
He nodded. "Different isn't bad."
"No. But it's still —" She searched for the word. "Something."
Jimmy leaned back in the chair. The leather creaked. "I used to think you were just my brother's girlfriend. Like, that's who you were. And then I'd remember you were my friend first, and it felt like I'd forgotten something important."
"You didn't forget."
"I kind of did." He looked at his hands. "But Marla and I talked about it. A few weeks ago. She said I was being stupid."
Paige smiled. "She's good at that."
"She's not wrong."
The silence settled again, but it was softer now. Less heavy.
"I don't want to lose you," Paige said. "As a friend. You were my first friend in middle school. You sat next to me when I didn't know anyone."
Jimmy's expression shifted — something vulnerable passing through. "You remember that?"
"Of course I do. You shared your bagel."
He laughed. "It was a cinnamon raisin bagel. Best I had."
"It was good."
"Yeah." He looked at her, and something in his eyes softened. "You're still my friend, Paige. I just — I needed to remember how to see you."
"And now?"
He considered it. "Now I see you."
She smiled. "Good."
They sat together in the quiet. The lawnmower had moved farther away, the sound fading. The room was warm, the light golden.
"You think they're okay out there?" Jimmy asked, nodding toward the backyard.
Paige thought about Johnny and Marla, sitting somewhere in the late afternoon sun. "I think they're figuring it out."
"Marla's been weird lately," Jimmy said. "Not bad weird. Just — I don't know. Different."
"Different how?"
"Like she's thinking about something she's not saying."
Paige considered that. Marla had been quiet today, but that wasn't unusual. Marla was always quiet. But there was something underneath it — a weight she'd been carrying.
"She misses him," Paige said. "Johnny. They used to hang out more. Before me."
"That's not your fault."
"I know. But it's still true."
Jimmy nodded. "She'll figure it out. She's Marla."
"Yeah." Paige smiled. "She is."
Outside, the screen door creaked. Marla's voice drifted through — light, teasing. "You're such an idiot."
Johnny's response was low, indistinct. Then laughter.
Paige looked at Jimmy. "Sounds like they're okay."
"Sounds like it."
In the backyard, Marla sat on the edge of the wooden porch, her legs dangling, her fingers tapping against the weathered boards. Johnny stood a few feet away, leaning against the oak tree, his hands in his pockets.
"This is weird," Marla said.
"It's not weird."
"It's a little weird."
Johnny smiled. "Okay. It's a little weird."
The yard stretched out before them — grass that needed mowing, a rusted grill in the corner, a birdbath Paige's mom had filled with flowers. The sun was starting to slant, the shadows growing longer.
"I don't see you anymore," Marla said. "And when I do, you're with her."
"I know."
"I'm not mad."
"I know that too."
She looked at him. "Then what are we doing out here?"
Johnny considered the question. He pushed off the tree, walked over, and sat down on the porch beside her. Close enough that their shoulders almost touched.
"I miss you," he said.
Marla's hands stilled. "You do?"
"Yeah. I do." He looked at the yard, the grass, the birdbath. "You're my friend, Marla. You were my friend first too. Before Paige."
"I know."
"And I've been —" He stopped. "I've been so focused on her that I forgot."
"Forgot what?"
"That I need you too."
Marla was quiet. Her fingers started tapping again, slower this time. "I'm happy for you," she said. "You and Paige."
"You are?"
"Yeah." She turned to look at him. "I mean it. I'm happy you're happy. And I'm happy for her too. She's been different since you two —" She gestured vaguely. "Since it started."
"Different how?"
"Lighter. Like something heavy got lifted off her."
Johnny felt something warm spread through his chest. "Is that good?"
"It's really good." Marla smiled. "I was worried at first, you know? With the age thing. I thought you'd mess it up. Or she'd mess it up. Or it would just —" She shrugged. "Explode."
"And now?"
"Now I think you're good for each other."
Johnny looked at her. "That means a lot."
"It should." She nudged his shoulder with hers. "I don't say things I don't mean."
"I know."
They sat together, the silence easy now. A bird called from the oak tree. The lawnmower had stopped somewhere down the street.
"I am happy," Marla said again. "I'm happy you and Paige became a couple. I know I don't say it, but I am."
Johnny felt the weight of her words settle. "Thank you."
"You don't have to thank me." She pulled her knees up, wrapped her arms around them. "I just wanted you to know. You two — you fit. And I'm glad."
"You're not just saying that?"
"I don't say things I don't mean."
He smiled. "You said that already."
"It bears repeating."
The screen door creaked. Paige stepped out, Jimmy behind her. They stood on the porch, squinting in the late afternoon light.
"You two okay?" Paige asked.
Marla looked at Johnny. "Yeah," she said. "We're good."
"Good." Paige walked down the steps, across the grass. She sat on the other side of Johnny, her hip pressing against his. Jimmy took the spot beside Marla, the four of them lined up on the porch, facing the yard.
"So," Johnny said. "We're all still friends."
"And then some," Marla said.
"I don't think we should wait another four months to do this again," Jimmy said.
"Agreed." Marla leaned back, her hands flat on the porch behind her. "Next time, we do this before summer ends."
"Before summer ends," Paige echoed.
Johnny's hand found hers, their fingers lacing together. The sun was warm on her skin. The grass needed mowing. The birdbath was full of flowers.
"This is good," Paige said. "This is really good."
And it was. The four of them, sitting on a porch in May, the future stretching out before them — uncertain, unsteady, but theirs.
The easy silence stretched. A car passed somewhere down the street. The bird in the oak tree had gone quiet.
"I have something to say." Marla's voice was soft, almost swallowed by the evening. "And I don't want you guys to make it weird."
Johnny looked at her. Paige's hand tightened around his.
"Okay," Paige said. "We won't."
Marla kept her eyes on the yard. Her fingers picked at a loose thread on her shorts. "When you two first got together —" She nodded toward Johnny and Paige. "I didn't think it would last. I told myself it was because of the age thing. But that wasn't really it."
"What was it?" Jimmy asked.
Marla took a breath. "I was jealous."
The word landed soft and heavy. No one moved.
"Not of you," Marla said quickly, looking at Paige. "I mean — I was jealous of what you had. The way you looked at each other. The way you fit." She shook her head. "I'd never seen anything like it. And I thought —" She paused. "I thought if it didn't work, then it meant that kind of thing wasn't real. That it was just something that happened in movies. And I'd never have to wonder what I was missing."
Paige's voice was gentle. "And now?"
Marla finally turned to face them. Her eyes were bright, but she was smiling. "Now I see it working. And I'm happy. But also —" She let out a shaky laugh. "Now I know it's real. Which means I have to actually believe I could have it too. And that's scarier than pretending it doesn't exist."
The words hung there, raw and honest.
Johnny spoke first. "That's not weird."
"It's not?"
"No." He shook his head. "It makes sense."
Paige let go of his hand and moved closer to Marla. She sat on the porch beside her, their shoulders touching. "You will have it," she said. "The real thing. I know you will."
Marla's voice cracked. "You don't know that."
"I do." Paige's hand found hers. "Because you're you. And you won't settle for less."
Marla laughed, wet and quiet. "That sounds like something my mom would say."
"Your mom's smart." Paige squeezed her hand. "So are you."
Jimmy shifted on the porch. "For what it's worth, I think you're cool, Marla. And not just because you're Paige's friend."
Marla looked at him, surprised. "Thanks, Jimmy."
"Yeah, well." He shrugged, his ears going red. "Just saying."
Johnny watched them — his brother, his girlfriend, her best friend — all of them sitting on a porch in the fading light, holding something fragile and real. He felt a weight settle in his chest, but it wasn't heavy. It was solid. Grounding.
"I'm glad you said it," Paige said quietly. "All of it."
Marla wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Me too. I think I've been holding it since —" She stopped, calculating. "Since that day in the van, maybe. Watching you two climb in. Knowing something was about to change."
"It did," Paige said.
"Yeah." Marla smiled, soft and true. "It did."
The sun had shifted lower, casting long shadows across the yard. The bird in the oak started singing again, a lazy evening song.
"So," Jimmy said after a moment. "We good?"
Marla laughed. "Yeah, Jimmy. We're good."
"Cool." He leaned back on his hands. "Because I was running out of things to talk about with Johnny."
"Hey," Johnny said.
"What? It's true. You only talk about Paige now."
Paige felt heat rise to her cheeks. "I'm right here."
"I know." Jimmy grinned. "That's why I said it."
Marla snorted. "He's got a point, though. Johnny's been a one-subject conversation since February."
"I have not," Johnny said.
"You have," Paige said softly.
He looked at her, betrayed. "You're supposed to be on my side."
"I'm on the truth's side."
Marla laughed, full and easy this time. The confession had passed, leaving something lighter in its wake. She leaned her head on Paige's shoulder. "I missed this."
"Me too," Paige said.
The four of them sat together as the evening deepened. The streetlights flickered on, one by one, casting pools of orange light along the sidewalk. A dog barked somewhere. The smell of someone's dinner drifted from a house down the block.
"We should do this more," Jimmy said. "Before summer ends."
"I said that already," Marla reminded him.
"Then I'm agreeing with you."
Paige looked at Johnny. He was watching her, his eyes soft in the fading light. She smiled, small and private, meant only for him.
He smiled back.
"Okay," Paige said, turning back to the others. "Next Saturday. Same time. My house. And I'll make sure my mom has plans."
"Deal," Marla said.
"Deal," Jimmy echoed.
Johnny's hand found hers again, their fingers lacing together on the porch between them. The evening air was warm, the sky a deep blue smudged with orange at the edges.
And for a moment, everything felt like it was exactly where it was supposed to be.