Piece 16

"No, screw A needs to be into piece 18," I said, white-knuckling and crinkling the cheap paper of the instruction booklet as I watched my best friend of 20 years holding a screwdriver and piece 16. She was knelt on the ground in front of the beginning of a bookcase.

"There is no piece 16! I looked through all of the pieces. 18 looks the closest to the picture, are you sure it doesn't say piece 18?" she said.

"Lay, look," I snapped the booklet open, thrusting the page forward between us so the booklet was practically touching her nose.

"Vee, you need to calm down," she said, jerking back her head at the paper being flung towards her so quickly.

"You're not listening to me!" I said.

"I'm telling you that I can't find it."

"That doesn't mean you should just use a random other piece. That's probably important for something else," I said, removing the page from her face to look at it again. She stood up and purposefully dropped piece 18 with a loud clank on the hardwood floor and shoved screw A in her pocket.

"You said you needed my help. I'm giving you my help," she muttered as she walked into the kitchen.

"That doesn't mean we can just make up rules!" I yelled back and followed her. I found her at the refrigerator getting herself a glass of water.

After a moment of her chugging the drink and me watching her, she finally met my eyes.

"You're right, Vee. You're right. Okay? Is that what you want to hear? You're always right. You're right about everything," she said, tears forming in her eyes.

"Layla," I said, moving closer to her. I had put my hand on her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her, but she brushed it away.

"What is this really about?" I asked.

"Veronica..." she said, her voice cracking. She hid her face in her hands, which she tended to do whenever she was about to cry. She hated when people saw her cry.

"I just... I don't want to leave." She pulled her face out from her hands. "I mean, I am excited for my new job, my new life. But I don't want to be far from you. You're here, in this wonderful house, building your fiancé a new bookcase to surprise him when he's back from his trip. And what am I doing? Running?"

"You're not running. You're exploring new options. I know my initial reaction to the news was... negative. It surprised me. But I truly support everything you choose for your life," I said.

She walked back into the living room and sat on the couch, which had a wide view of our bookcase building attempt. I sat beside her. She sniffled and I grabbed her a tissue from the box and handed it to her.

"It just feels like everything is going so fast. Yesterday, we were just kids playing with our dolls in the sandbox. Mermaids in the pool. And now, you're getting married in 6 months and I won't get to visit you daily anymore. Andy broke up with me. My new job is in a whole new state. You're here. My family is here. What am I doing?"

"Lay," I said, grabbing her the whole box of tissues so she had them easily at her disposal.

"How do I know that this is the right thing to do?" she asked.

"You don't until you do it," I said. "When I said yes to Tom's proposal, I was terrified. I had to commit right then and there to the rest of my life. Of course, it was a no-brainer. Of course, I love him more than I love myself. It was always going to be yes. But there is always doubt, with every decision, that grows and becomes terrifying."

"I'm just so scared," she said, gathering herself a bit.

"I know. But you'll do amazing. Any brand would be lucky to have you as their social media manager. You are meant for this. And who knows, maybe you'll find a replacement for me out there," I joked. She hit me with a slight grin on her face.

"You're irreplaceable," she said to me. I felt the sting of tears forming in my eyes, which I desperately blinked back. She looked over at the mess of pieces that is supposed to become the bookcase.

"We don't know how to do this," she joked, motioning to the piles of screws and planks of wood. I laughed.

"No, we don't," I said. A moment of silence filled the air once again as I reminisced on all of the fun memories I've shared with Layla since kindergarten.

"Hey..." she said, pointing. My eyes followed her finger to a piece of wood, clearly marked with "Piece 16."

We both stared at it. The silence stretched for three seconds before Layla let out a breathless laugh.

"I love you, Lay," I said. "And I'm going to miss you so much."

"I love you too, Vee," she said, picking up the wood and shaking it at me. "But if you ever shove an instruction booklet in my face again, I'm moving to a different country next time."

Years from now, when we’re thousands of miles apart and trying to explain to people why the number sixteen makes us hysterically cry-laugh, we’ll just have to shake our heads. It’s one of those things. You just had to be there.