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back, imagining it wrapped around us in the middle of the night.
    I buy plants for the garden, too, but the job of cleaning it out is too much for me. I don’t even consider asking Gabriel for help. Even before he began to avoid me, he would have found a way to avoid yard work. I call my friends Jules and Alan, and they agree to come over and give me a hand.
    Jules and Alan have been my closest friends for almost as long as I’ve been in New York City. They are the family I made when I left home, the ones who will sing to you and bring you presents, make you laugh and watch you grow up. The two share the same birthday, a year apart, and although they only know one another through me, the coincidence makes them feel related. I haven’t seen much of either one since I’ve been with Gabriel, but they understand that, or say they do.
    Alan is a guitar player. I met him in school. We used to cut class together and walk around the city talking about music. He’s very opinionated and cool, but if he’s your friend, it’s for life. He’s funny, too. Once, I was drinking milk and he made me laugh so hard it came out of my nose.
    Jules also has a good sense of humor, although there’s something almost regal about her. Maybe it’s the high forehead or her clear gray eyes. She’s even smarter than she is beautiful, always hungry to learn more about philosophy, mythology, or art history. She’s a little full of herself, but so would you be, if you were a brilliant actress on the cusp of becoming a movie star. One time, before we really knew one another, we discovered we were dating the same man. We compared notes, ditched him, and became best friends.
    The three of us begin cleaning out the garden around noon, and hardly take a break all day. It’s grueling work to rake out all those rocks. We fill garbage bags to bursting with debris and drag them out to the curb. The cats follow us out back. They stretch their long bodies in the sun and scratch on the old fencing. It’s a hot summer day and the sweat pours off us, but we have fun, too. We catch up, talk about our latest adventures and mishaps.
    By five o’clock, we’re so giddy with fatigue and hunger that everything strikes us funny. We laugh so hard, we have to stop to hold our stomachs and wipe our eyes.
    â€œI’m starving,” says Jules.
    â€œMe, too,” I say.
    Alan takes a look at the contents of my fridge and decides he can make spaghetti Bolognese. He loves to cook. We think if he wanted to, he could be a chef. Jules and I watch him chop the pathetic onion and lone garlic clove he finds in the crisper. He combines a couple of hamburger patties and simmers it all together. The smell makes our mouths water.
    We put whatever money we’ve got together, a few crumpled dollar bills and some change, and I make a run to get wine. Alan and Jules drag the table outside to the newly cleared yard, and we set it with candles and my mother’s cloth napkins. It’s a warm August evening. I tell myself it’s a night I will never forget, and maybe that’s what makes it so.
    â€œTo the little rock star,” Alan says, and we lift our glasses to you. I barely let the wine touch my lips.
    Then we make a toast to Jules, to wish her luck. She’s up for a big movie, and is anxiously awaiting a call from her agent. Last summer she was cast in an independent horror film about monsters in the subway tunnels. But this one would be huge. It has a big budget and a famous director. She tells us it’s shooting in London in the fall.
    I’m jealous. I’d like to have exciting career things happen to me, too. Alan and I talk about starting a band, but it’s hard to imagine what life will be like once you’re born. Will there be time to do anything else?
    After dinner, Alan takes my Martin from its stand and plays us an instrumental he’s working on. I sing along, making up words as I