In Which Quiche Is Excellent but Boundaries Are Better

Jennifer picks me up at 9:15 on a Sunday morning, which means I've been awake since 6:30 trying to figure out what to wear to a church women's brunch and whether "church women's brunch" requires pantyhose, which I don't own, or heels, which I own but can't walk in, or some specific level of femininity that I missed the memo on because I spent my formative years in ankle-length denim skirts and wasn't allowed to read the memos in the first place.

I'm wearing a cardigan. It's fine. It's probably fine.

"You're going to love it," Jennifer says before I've even closed the car door, because Jennifer has never met a silence she didn't want to fill with enthusiasm. "The women are so sweet, and Barb makes these little quiches that are—honestly, Rena, they're life-changing. I'm not exaggerating."

Jennifer is always exaggerating. I love her anyway.

"That sounds great," I say, which is what I say when I don't know what else to say, which is most of the time, and I buckle my seatbelt and watch my shop get smaller in the side mirror and wonder why I said yes to this in the first place.

I know why. Jennifer asked, and Jennifer's face did that hopeful thing it does, and my mouth said "sure" before my brain could intervene because somewhere in my wiring "no" got crossed with "rejection" and "disappointment" and "you're a bad friend," and now I'm in a Hyundai Elantra heading toward a room full of women I don't know while wearing a cardigan I'm not sure about.

This is fine. I'm fine.

The church is the big one—Grace Community, the one with the fog machines and the lights and the worship team that my mother would call "putting on a concert" and I call "the place where I can disappear in the darkness and sing as loud as I want." I like it here. I like the anonymity, the way nobody knows my parents, the way I can raise my hands during worship and nobody's keeping track of whether that's appropriate.

The women's brunch is in the fellowship hall, which is less anonymous.

"Rena!" Barb appears out of nowhere, pulling me into a hug that smells like Estée Lauder and quiche. "Jennifer's told us so much about you! The coffee shop girl!"

"That's me," I say, because it is, and Barb is already steering me toward a table with a hand on my elbow, and Jennifer is beaming like she's just successfully introduced a feral cat to a dog park.

The coffee is bad.

I know I shouldn't lead with this, but it's bad—over-extracted, sitting on a burner so long it's developed that bitter, scorched quality that makes me want to stage an intervention. Pre-ground, obviously. Probably from a can. I drink it anyway because I'm a guest and I have some self-control, but I'm composing a mental lecture about brew temperatures that no one asked for and no one will hear.[^1]

The quiche is actually good. Barb wasn't lying. Little spinach and feta things that I eat three of before I realize I'm supposed to be pacing myself, and the women are nice—genuinely nice, not the weaponized nice I grew up with—and I'm starting to relax when Jennifer opens her mouth.

"Rena would LOVE to bring dessert next month!"

I look at her. She's not looking at me. She's looking at Barb with that bright, helpful expression, and my mouth is full of quiche, and everyone's nodding like this is decided, and I don't remember agreeing to anything.

"Oh, wonderful!" Barb says. "We'll put you down for the April brunch. Do you bake?"

"I—" I swallow the quiche. "I can manage something."

Jennifer squeezes my arm. "She's being modest. She works at a coffee shop. She's got this."

I work at a coffee shop that sells pastries I buy from a supplier because I have the baking skills of someone who once set fire to a frozen pizza. But okay. Sure. I'll figure it out.

Twenty minutes later, I'm reaching for a muffin when my elbow connects with someone's orange juice, and suddenly there's a river of Tropicana heading for the linen tablecloth and I'm apologizing in that high-pitched way I do when my body has betrayed me yet again.

"No worries, no worries!" The woman—Denise? Diane?—is already grabbing napkins, and Jennifer smoothly produces more napkins from somewhere, handing them over, covering for me without making it a thing, and I'm thinking this is why I love her, she just handles it—

"Rena's great at decorating, by the way," Jennifer says to Barb, who's appeared with more napkins. "If you need help with the Easter setup."

I freeze. Orange juice soaking into a napkin in my hand. Easter setup?

"Oh, that would be wonderful! We're doing a whole garden theme this year, butterflies and flowers and—"

"Perfect," Jennifer says. "She's got such a good eye. The Hot Mess is so cute."

The Hot Mess is cute because Jamie gave me a plant and Todd hung up some shelving and I bought things at Target. I don't have "a good eye." I have "a credit card and functional WiFi."

But everyone's nodding, and Jennifer's beaming, and I'm somehow on two committees now.

The drive home is quiet. Not the comfortable kind—the kind where something's building, where the air in the car feels heavy and I can tell Jennifer knows something's off but doesn't know what.

She's humming along to the radio. I'm staring out the window.

Say something. Say something. Say—

"You have to stop volunteering me for things."

The words come out sharper than I meant. Jennifer's hands tighten on the steering wheel.

"What?"

"At the brunch. The dessert. The Easter decorating. You didn't ask me. You just—said I would."

Silence. The radio keeps playing. Some worship song about surrender, which feels pointed.

"I was trying to help you connect with people," Jennifer says. Her voice is careful. Hurt underneath the careful. "You don't always put yourself out there, and I thought—"

"I know." I take a breath. "I know you were trying to help. But I need you to ask me first. Before you commit me to things. Because I don't know how to say no in the moment, and then I'm stuck, and—"

I stop. My throat is doing that tight thing.

Jennifer pulls into a parking lot. A gas station. Turns off the car.

"I didn't know," she says slowly, "that you felt like you couldn't say no to me."

Something in my chest cracks open.

"What?"

"I mean—" She's looking at her hands on the steering wheel. "I thought you'd just tell me if you didn't want to do something. I thought we were close enough that you'd just... say it."

I stare at her. This beautiful, enthusiastic, overwhelming friend who has never understood that sometimes love feels like pressure, that sometimes "I thought you'd love this" sounds like "you have to love this or you're letting me down."

"I'm learning," I say. "The saying-no thing. It's not—I wasn't allowed to, before. And I'm learning. But I need you to ask. Even if you think I'll say yes. Ask."

Jennifer's quiet for a long moment.

"Okay," she says finally. "I can do that."

"Okay."

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

She reaches over and takes my hand. Squeezes. Doesn't let go.

"Do you actually want to make a dessert for April?" she asks. "Because you can say no. I'll tell them I misspoke."

I think about it. Really think about it—not the automatic yes, not the fear of disappointing, just: do I want to?

"I'll figure something out," I say. "But I'm buying it from a bakery."

Jennifer laughs. It's watery, but it's real.

"Deal."

We sit there for another minute. The gas station parking lot. The worship song ending. The silence that isn't heavy anymore—just quiet. Just two friends who said a hard thing and came out the other side.

"I love you," Jennifer says. "You know that, right? Even when I'm being—"

"Aggressively helpful?"

She snorts. "Yeah. That."

"I know." I squeeze her hand back. "That's why I can tell you to stop."

She starts the car. We pull back onto the road.

I still don't know how to say no to most things. But I said it today. To Jennifer. And she's still here, still driving me home, still humming along to the radio.

Maybe that's how it starts.[^2]

[^1]: 205°F maximum. Brew fresh. Don't let it sit. This is not complicated, people.

[^2]: The dessert situation remains unsolved, but that's a problem for future Rena. Current Rena is calling this a win.