The cottage faces a shore of broken rock. Knots show through the pine underfoot, and most days the windows stand open. A breeze brings the scent of conifers and salt through the rooms, stirring the pale linen curtains. Coffee gurgles in the kitchen. We carry our hot mugs onto the stone terrace, where the cold air fills my lungs.
Livia and Bianca have been my favorite people since our first year at Alderbrook College. Livia is tall and fair, with honey-colored hair; Bianca is slight, with a tiny silver ring at her septum and box braids dyed another shade at the ends.
How did I ever go through life without knowing them? We hadn't met when Alderbrook's housing committee put us in the same room. Somewhere in western Massachusetts, people who knew nothing about us made the decision that gave me my closest friends. We joked that a research grant must have paid someone to find the least compatible roommates imaginable.
Livia came from a wealthy Seattle real-estate family. Her clothes were immaculate and carefully chosen; her bookshelves were crowded with horror novels. Bianca was an illustrator from Santa Fe, raised by a community-radio host and a documentary filmmaker. She arrived in paint-spattered coveralls and worn vintage boots.