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the day we met four years ago, happy to see me, relaxed, and ready to make me smile. He radiated an aura of comfort in his skin that made those around him feel comfort in theirs. I think they call that zen. Yet, as he reached out to pull me in for one more hug, I felt jittery, a passive guest in my own body, watching myself tumble down a path of uncertainty.
    Sam gave me a funny look and cocked his head to the side. I shook my head to indicate that everything was fine and rejoined the conversation, which had moved to Liv’s new apartment in New York, accompanied by an amusing rant from Dante about rent control in Los Angeles. Sam ordered a bottle of Sangiovese and some small plates for us to share, the arrival of which calmedme. If I relaxed and breathed, I told myself, everything was going to be okay.
    â€œHow goes the moviemaking, Dante?” Liv asked. Dante was a producer, primarily of Italian comedies that never made it to the United States, but it allowed him to live a life of leisure and work five months out of the year.
    â€œWonderful. I’m off to Europe for a few weeks to raise money for a new film,” Dante answered smoothly, but genuinely. His life really was that fabulous.
    â€œHow does that work exactly, you just kind of stroll down the cobblestone streets asking for donations?” Liv teased.
    â€œPretty much,” Dante said, smiling at her. “Last stop is Croatia, which I’ve heard is incredible. How can it be that I’ve never been?” Liv looked at me for direction, but I couldn’t tell what the answer should be, so I gave a sort of noncommittal nod. This appeared to be the correct response because Dante continued. “Then I’ll be back here looking for somewhere to live now that Sam’s finally moving out.”
    â€œYou can’t keep your house?”
    â€œNah. What’s the point? I’m only in town for half of the year, and, like this guy, I’m thirty-two years old. I’m getting to the age where I should probably have my own place anyway.” I knew that, like me, Liv was fighting her inclination to vehemently agree, so we stayed quiet while Dante looked around poetically and his hybrid accent deepened. “It’s the end of an era, though. Sam and I have lived together since uni.”
    â€œWow, how many decades is that now?” We loved to make fun of Dante and Sam for being older than us even though in reality it was only by a few years.
    â€œHa. I’m a mere spring chicken, my dear. It has been almost ten years living together, though. Can’t believe I’m losing my flatmate.”
    â€œDon’t think of it that way. You’re not losing a roommate, you’re gaining a sofa to crash on,” I said, a quarter meaning it. This was an extremely dangerous statement. When traveling, Dante was notorious for choosing to shack up at friends’ houses for months rather than take the time to find a proper Craigslist sublet.
    â€œI don’t know about that,” Sam chimed in.
    â€œEmma and I will talk about it.” Dante winked, probably automatically, while the waitress set down a few artisan pizzas.
    Don’t get me wrong, I love Dante like a brother. His only problem is that he consistently dates nineteen-year-old models whose personalities he doesn’t like, and then gets confused when he doesn’t like them. My twenty-seventh birthday was spent with Sam, Liv, Dante, and Lila, a nineteen-year-old model/actress who showed up halfway through a day of beers and burgers on the grill. One minute Dante was holding the spatula and carefully adding slices of cheddar, and the next his arm was draped across a shockingly thin brunette, who was eyeing the burgers suspiciously and referring to herself in the third person. “Lila doesn’t eat dairy,” she said. Which would have been fine, if any of us had any idea who the fuck Lila was.
    Sam and Dante were funny together, like most best