by Cameron Bocanegra

Nicole and I met in college. Between our shared part-time jobs, we swam in the local lake after sunset, where she swore that she could walk on water. The every-other-day sleepovers included orange-flavored liquor, hair dye, cigarettes, and long silences, but the silences fattened uncomfortably while our GPAs soured. I only ever chewed my nails when the drama of her lawsuit was snowballing through national media. Her paranoia was contagious. I agreed when she said her lawyers were keeping secrets, a historical institution was plotting against her, and receipts felt like being followed.