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It was a far cry from the suburban Olive Garden back home. “Mmm … this is good. What’s it called again?”
    “Wine,” Kim answered, smiling wickedly. Despite Kim’s well-off upbringing, or maybe because of it, she always rebuffed anything that sounded even slightly haughty.
    “Ha, ha.” I deadpanned. “Whatever it’s called, I may crawl into that bottle.”
    “Well, I think your maniac mentor story trumps any maniac four-year old encounter I’ve had lately, so I’ll forgive you if you drink the bulk of it.”
    Kim loved to mock her job as a teacher at an Upper East Side preschool, sarcastically announcing she was “shaping our future,” but I knew her job was probably the one thing she took seriously. When Kim was four her parents went through a messy divorce, each using Kim as a pawn in their dysfunctional relationship. With a complicated custody schedule in place, she’d often been left at school long past the 2 P.M . dismissal time, as her parents fought about whose turn it was to pick her up. Thankfully, a kind teacher took Kim under her wing, reading or doing special art projects long past the final bell, and always explaining away her parents’ absence. “Stuck in traffic. That’s what she would always say,” Kim scoffed when she would recount the memory. “I thought Greenwich was the most congested town on earth until I was about ten.” Although she would never admit it, I knew Kim’s career choice was formed in her preschool classroom.
    I peered at my BlackBerry, placed visibly on the table, as it was at every meal. Seeing it blinking, I picked it up and did a quick check.
    To: Mackenzie Corbett
    From: Mom
    Hi Honey!
    I heard you had dinner with Uncle Nigel last week. He mentioned anytime you’re out there you’re always welcome to spend the night so you don’t have to take the train back to the city late at night. Take him up on it next time—you know how your old mom worries!!
    xo Mom
    P.S. Make sure you and Kim get your flu shots!! Tis the season …
    Kim raised a questioning eyebrow.
    “Just my mom checking in.” I tossed my BlackBerry back on the table.
    “I’m still amazed your mom even lets you live in this city all by yourself,” Kim teased.
    “Please,” I scoffed. “The only reason she’s not consumed with worry on a daily basis is that Uncle Nigel lives close enough to put out any emergencies.”
    Kim snickered.
    My parents were the complete opposite of Kim’s—they’d been married thirty years, worked jobs that meant something to them, but didn’t provide a windfall (Dad was a principal and Mom was an ER nurse), and while they bickered over small things, they rarely fought. They centered their lives around their children, proudly drinking their morning coffee out of their “World’s Best Mom/Dad” mugs, and would love nothing more than to have me living closer to their safe suburb just outside of Boston.
    As my best friend, Kim was under Mom’s worry umbrella too. And although Kim never mentioned it, she loved having a parent actually be concerned about her wellbeing.
    I first met Kim orientation day of freshman year at Princeton. She was sitting on an unmade bed in our dorm room painting her toenails when I arrived, Mom and Dad in tow, schlepping labeled Tupperware storage containers I’d spent weeks organizing. “Mackenzie!” she’d sung, hopping off the bed, duck walking to avoid smudging her freshly painted toes, and embracing me the same way you would an old friend. “I’ve been waiting for you to get here. Welcome to Chez KimMac.” She’d gestured grandly around the tiny dorm room. “Or MacKim, whatever.” Something about the way she confidently assumed we’d be friends charmed me, melting away my usual new person shyness. Mom and Dad had set to work unpacking my clothes into contact paper-lined drawers, putting up shelves, and making both beds. “My mom dropped me off, but she had to go,” Kim explained as Mom spread Kim’s flowered