You Look Different in Real Life

admit looks overwhelmingly touchable . Then Rory shuts off the light and the beam vanishes. I see her silhouette moving across the room, then sinking into the sofa bed next to me. The coil on my hip moves and that hurts, but I take it.
    I listen to Rory’s breathing for a minute, and suddenly I’m not in an unfamiliar apartment in the middle of Manhattan but Rory’s bedroom, and we are eight or nine or ten. We have just completed a one-thousand-piece puzzle and eaten popcorn with M&M’s and worked on our comic book and looked at all the pictures in her latest biography of Queen Elizabeth I. Rory’s called the shots on all of this, which is annoying as usual, but I focus on the fun parts as usual. She’s wearing one of those floor-length flannel nightgowns with lace across the chest, andI’m in my black pajamas with white skulls on them that I found in the boys’ department at Target.
    Rory shifts. Something about this movement lets me know she’s not asleep yet, or anywhere near it.
    “What was his name?” I whisper toward her.
    In the darkness, just breathing. Then: “Brennan.”
    “Nice.”
    “Or maybe Brendan.”
    “Also nice.”
    “It could have been Brandon. I’m really not sure.”
    “He was cute,” I say.
    “I know,” says Rory. She’s quiet for a few moments, then adds, “Was I supposed to do something else? Like, get his number or something?”
    “If you really want to stay in touch with him, I’m sure Dylan can connect you.”
    Suddenly it strikes me that Brennan/Brendan/Brandon might have been familiar with the documentaries and known who we were, and who Rory was, and his motivations might not have been entirely innocent. But I’m not going to mention that. That’s not about Rory.
    “Justine, you really helped me today.”
    Her voice is all business and I know from experience that she’s just processing the facts. But I want her to get these facts straight.
    “You helped yourself, really.”
    She’s silent for a few moments. Someone on the flooris starting to snore. I can’t help but giggle, and now Rory giggles too. I hope it’s because she legitimately thinks it’s funny.
    This is my chance. I’m getting a total break here, with it being dark. I don’t even have to see her face.
    “Rory, there’s something I’ve been wanting to say to you for a long time.”
    A pause, then she asks, “Is it bad?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Okay. You can say it.”
    “I’ve just . . . I’ve wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. For abandoning you as a friend.” I pause, but she doesn’t answer. I take that as a sign to continue. “I was . . . an idiot. I’m not anymore. At least not in the same way. And I think I’ve missed you every day since then.”
    It’s quiet for a moment. I stare at the shadow of the light fixture above us, a round paper lantern that in the darkness reminds me of the earth, floating in space. Just being.
    Then Rory says, “Good night, Justine,” and rolls over, away from me.
    Alrighty then. I know her response could mean anything. But it must be enough, for now, because a wave of something washes over me, and I’m not sure if it’s relief or plain old exhaustion, but within moments I’m no longer awake.
    The rumble of some behemoth vehicle on the street takes me out of a dream so messed up I forget it instantly. Where am I? Slowly, reality comes into focus. The clock glows a very red 4:32 a.m.
    I roll off the sofa bed, gripping the cool metal frame with my hand for leverage, find my way to the bathroom, and turn on the light. It feels like a sudden refuge from the darkness, from the unfamiliar apartment, from the snoring—not sure if it’s Felix or Nate, will have to check for the record—and from The Weirdness.
    But it’s also kind of exhilarating, this fresh, unpredictable, vaguely dangerous state. I think I might love it. I got nowhere near enough sleep but it’s a done deal: I’m up.
    When I’m finished in the bathroom, I open the door and leave the light on for a few extra seconds so I can figure out who the snorer is. Then I flick it off and find my way to a corduroy armchair in the living room, where I remember leaving Leslie’s camera bag. I pick it up, sit down, and put the bag on my lap. For a few moments, I stare out the window at a light from the building across the alley. Someone’s left their living room lamp on and I can see the top of a sofa, some framed art, a tall armoire. Another person’s whole world, right