Just Friends
The ringing of the phone interrupted Josie’s dinner—a rare occasion, as she seldom cooked for herself. Mornings were marked by a hasty cup of coffee, lunches eaten in the work cafeteria, and evenings with just a glass of milk and biscuits. If hunger struck, she’d scramble an egg. Weekends meant visits to her parents, where her mother, without fail, packed containers of food—refusing would have been tantamount to declaring war.
Josie had just finished her milk when the shrill ringtone from her mobile pierced the quiet. She’d been meaning to change it—something softer, less grating. The melody drilled into her skull. Reluctantly, she set the glass aside and trudged to the bedroom. An unknown number, but persistence suggested urgency. She answered.
“Hello,” came the achingly familiar voice, distant yet unmistakable. Years had passed, yet she knew it instantly. *Hang up*, her mind commanded.
“Please don’t hang up,” the voice rushed on, as if sensing her hesitation. “I need to talk to you.”
Josie waited in silence.
“There’s no one else I can turn to. Only you can help. Give me your address—I’ll come to you. Believe me, this is important.”
Something was wrong. Emma would never call otherwise. Once, they had been inseparable, but that belonged to another lifetime.
“Fine. I’ll text it,” Josie said, then ended the call.
Her heart pounded. Why now? Fingers trembling, she typed out the address. Emma replied instantly: *Wait for me.*
Josie returned to the kitchen, washed her glass, and sank into a chair.
For years, she had banished thoughts of her former friend—convinced herself she’d forgiven, forgotten, moved on. But that call had dredged up memories like an avalanche, crashing down upon her.
***
Her mother had adored the film *The School Waltz*. The country it depicted had long crumbled, yet the movie endured, timeless. Josie was named after its heroine—something people never failed to mention when introduced. Unlike the actress who played her, Josie was no beauty. Her hair was a pale blond, lashes barely visible, eyes small and grey. Her figure, too, was a quiet disappointment—her chest stubbornly flat. *”It’ll come,”* her mother assured.
Not like Emma’s. Emma carried herself with effortless grace, her curves drawing admiring glances wherever she went, eyes lingering as if glued.
Every summer, Josie was sent to her grandmother’s village—a place now more retreat than home, where only a handful of elderly residents remained. A boy, Tom, would visit his own grandmother next door, and together, he and Josie spent their holidays running wild.
One summer, everything changed. Josie saw not the boy she’d known, but a tall, broad-shouldered teenager, and suddenly, she hesitated before barrelling into him as she once had. Tom, oblivious, greeted her as always, inviting her to the river.
They chatted the whole way, but when they reached the bank, Josie couldn’t bring herself to undress in front of him. She waited until he’d waded in, then turned her back, slipped off her dress, and plunged into the water before he could see just how little she had grown. Her mother’s promise of late blooming had rung hollow.
When August ended, they parted without a thought for addresses or numbers. As if by unspoken rule, village and city lives were never meant to mix.
The summer before their final school year, Tom didn’t come. His grandmother said he’d gone south with his mother. Bored and lonely, Josie wrote to Emma, inviting her to visit. Emma, who’d never known grandparents or the countryside, eagerly accepted. Josie’s parents brought her along one weekend.
Then, unexpectedly, Tom returned—taller still, broader, with dark lashes framing eyes that made Josie’s heart ache. For the first time, she regretted inviting Emma, who took one look at him and instantly introduced herself.
That night, in hushed whispers, Emma asked if Josie had ever kissed him.
*”Don’t be ridiculous,”* Josie snapped. *”We’ve known each other since we were children.”*
She would soon regret those words.
From then on, they were an awkward trio. Josie felt herself the intruder, clinging to the relief that soon, they’d all return to their separate lives.
Tom faded from her thoughts—until, a year later, Emma’s wedding invitation arrived.
*”Already? On your first year of university?”* Josie pressed. *”And your mother agreed?”*
*”What choice did she have?”* Emma grinned. *”She’ll be a grandmother soon enough. Will you be my bridesmaid?”*
The wedding was just before New Year’s. Josie’s breath died in her throat when she saw Tom at her door. She wanted to wake from the nightmare, to flee, to vanish—but she was the bridesmaid. She couldn’t abandon Emma.
Not a single wedding photo captured Josie smiling. Halfway through, she slipped away.
Emma never apologized. *”You said you were just friends,”* she’d shrug in the rare calls that followed. After the baby came, even those calls ceased. Josie forbade herself to think of them.
Yet no man ever measured up to Tom.
***
How many years had passed? Ten, perhaps? Her mother mentioned that Tom’s grandmother had died, the house sold to strangers. And now, this call. Emma was coming. *”What’s left to say? Why did I agree?”* Josie scolded herself.
When she opened the door, she barely recognized the woman before her. Had a decade truly wrought such change? This gaunt, hollow-eyed stranger bore no resemblance to the Emma she’d known.
“Hello,” Emma said, her voice brittle. “I suppose I look different. May I come in?”
Josie led her to the kitchen. “Tea?”
She lit the stove, saying nothing, waiting.
“You haven’t changed at all,” Emma observed. Then, flatly: “I’m dying. They’ve suggested surgery, but I won’t survive it.”
Josie hesitated. “Cancer?”
Emma nodded. “Thought I’d beat it. I was wrong. When I’m gone—look after my son.”
“Don’t say that. You’ll pull through—”
“Spare me. Alex is nine. Tom won’t manage alone.”
“His parents?”
“His mother remarried. Mine, well—you know how she is.” Emma’s gaze pinned her. “There’s no one else, Josie.”
“But I—I’ve no experience with children—”
The kettle screamed. Josie seized the distraction, turning away to hide her tears.
“Is this place yours?” Emma asked.
“A colleague of my father’s was leaving the country. Sold it cheap. They thought it might help me settle down.”
“I knew you fancied him,” Emma said. “You’ve every right to hate me. Just—help me. I check into hospital tomorrow. No need to visit. I’ll have them call you when—” She stood. Josie was struck again by her thinness.
“But your tea—”
Emma was already at the door.
“I’ll see you out,” Josie offered.
“No pity,” Emma warned, her eyes flinty.
After the door closed, Josie sat numb. It couldn’t be real—a life ending so abruptly.
Weeks passed with no word. Josie fought the urge to call the hospital, remembering Emma’s warning stare. *”No news must mean she’s recovering,”* she told herself.
Then Tom called. Emma had died in the night.
The flat reeked of despair. Tom sat motionless, hollow-eyed. Alex curled on the floor by the television. When Josie asked how she could help, Tom rasped:
“Take Alex. Just for the funeral.”
“I’m not going!” the boy shouted—clearly an old argument.
Josie intervened. “Let him say goodbye.”
Tom said nothing. Alex looked at her gratefully.
The fridge was empty. She fried potatoes, opened a jar of pickles. Alex ate hungrily; Tom barely touched his plate.
“You have to stay strong,” Josie urged. “For him.”
Tom only groaned. “Why her? I loved her so much—”
She left her number, made Alex promise to call if needed.
Morning revealed Tom passed out, the flat stinking of spirits. Josie dragged him to the bath, doused him in cold water, forced coffee into him. Together, they arranged the funeral—though it was Josie who did most of the work.
That night, Alex whispered, “Don’t go. What if Dad—?”
She stayed. Listened as Tom paced in the dark. Once, she might have comforted him. Now, she felt nothing but pity. He was a stranger, still in love with a ghost.
Months slipped by. She cooked, cleaned, visited often—until the day she snapped.
“Your grief is endless? What about his? You lost a wife—he lost his mother!And years later, as Josie watched Alex—now a young man with his father’s smile—walk down the aisle with his own bride, she realized that life, in its strange and winding way, had given her the family she’d always longed for, woven from the threads of loss and love.
