Eva is my soul mate—my besheret, meant to be. I’d like to be buried between her and my husband.
Even at 12, I knew our friendship was special. There was no drama, no jealousy. It was what I imagined adult friendships would be like—moving seamlessly from trivial topics like Ren and Stimpy to deeper ones like My So-Called Life.
Our favorite thing to do was dance—bouncing around her house to ABBA, Notorious B.I.G., and R.E.M. We let our adolescent selves go for a fleeting moment and allowed ourselves to be uncool.
The universe had a plan for us, and that plan included some pretty awful shit. But it also made sure we never permanently lost one another.
We did lose each other for nine years. After Eva’s mom passed when we were 15, she had to move to another state. I missed her terribly and thought of her often. But life moved quickly, and by 24, I was partying it up on my $24,000-a-year assistant’s salary (with some major assistance from my parents—I am a privileged woman).
It was during one of those partying episodes—on the Staten Island Ferry—that I saw Eva again. [For the uninitiated: the Staten Island Ferry is free, has a bar, and offers amazing views.]
I heard a gravelly voice between sips of warm Bud Light, and I knew. It was her. I turned around and saw the back of her head.
“Eva?” I asked.
Before she could fully turn around—“Lanie!”
We ran into each other’s arms like a scene from a Ryan Gosling movie.
I may have cried. She smelled the same. She felt the same.
We started seeing each other again as often as we could and picked up right where we left off.
Then my mom got sick. And then my mom died. Eva was there with me the whole time. She knew better than anyone what I needed—and what I didn’t. She said the right things and the wrong things, and we could talk about actual feelings. And when we got tired of talking about feelings, we could not talk and just hold each other.
Eva’s friendship is a divine gift. It’s been discussed—and she feels the same.