Conversations With Friends Book Novels & Stories

My phone buzzed against my fingers in my pocket and when I finally realized what was going on, I pulled it out to speak to my best friend. “What’s going on down there?” I asked by way of greeting. There was a lot of background noise on Craig’s end. Banging and buzzing and grinding. The sounds muffled and I knew he had sought refuge somewhere less noisy. “We’re hard at work, as you can hear.”

"Thanks for understanding and not firing me for bringing it up in the first place" "You know, I don't fire workers like you think I do. Besides, you're not just a chef now, you're my friend" "That sounds like something from a Disney movie" "Don't ask me why" A few minutes passed by and both Lucas and I were done with our meals. Before he started driving us back home, we had an hour long conversation talking about random topics and mostly, stuff that didn't make any sense but hey, the point is that we both enjoyed it. It oddly felt very comfortable for two people that met a few days ago. I usually had those conversations with myself cause I didn't have friends or normal parents to talk to and

As I hear the persistent ringing on the other side, I begin looking over the movements of the cash register from last week, especially the people who visited the Swiss, hoping to close a partnership. My inbox is full of messages from both Juliana and my brother, I sit in the office, extremely reluctant. I didn’t expect Hassan to remind me about Bruno within the first twenty words after we had sex. It’s frustrating that this happened. I hold my large cup of black coffee as I try to organize my mind, which is now filled with pending matters, especially with the Swiss. I turn on my laptop and try to focus while I wait for my mother to pick up. As I hear the persistent ringing on the other side,

'When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares. People come, people go – they'll drift in and out of your life, almost like characters in a favorite book. When you finally close the cover, the characters have told their story and you

That spawns a conversation about the book itself, not a performance, not a cautious conversation, but a real one that has us talking for over two hours, for the first time. It even goes beyond just the book and enters every other part of life. He asks me personal questions and I do him too. What I notice however is that he asks about my father and my pack the most. I don't know a lot about it, but the little I do, I tell him. He listens rather more attentively when I talk about it. I don't see anything wrong with it however. Maybe he just really cares. The conversation is genuine and blissful. It was calm and serene.

The conversation moved the way good conversations move between people who have known each other long enough that silence is comfortable and laughter doesn't need to be earned. I felt, sitting there, like a version of myself that I had not visited in some time. The version that had existed before Victor, before the pack, before all the years of the quiet endurance. The version that was just a woman talking to her best friend in a warm room in the afternoon. I had missed this. At some point the conversation slowed and settled, the way it does when you have covered the easy ground and are drifting towards something neither of you has said yet. "How are things with Ethan?" I suddenly asked.

She didn't ask what I had bought in the cafeteria. "Okay. I thought something bad happened to you," she said. "Nothing bad will happen to me, Anna. So, did you find the book we're looking for? What is the title of the book?" I asked them. I changed our conversation since I don't want to talk about it anymore. My friend Eliza told me the title of the book, and I stood up and started to get one of it at the bookshelves.

It quickly disappeared though, making me feel like I was over reading things. She suddenly stopped talking to stare at me. “What?” I asked in surprise. “I’m talking too much,” an awkward laugh escaped from her as she rubbed the back of her neck in a nervous gesture. “What? No, I’m the one that asked you to tell me about the book, remember? You remind me of my friend. He loves supernatural creatures like you too and he is always talking about traveling the world and meeting them. The both of you will make good friends,” “Yeah? He is your friend in your old pack?”

Both were really awkward at each other at first but when they found out that both were reading the same book, they eventually got a comfortable to talk at each other. “So, you also read that book-” “Yeah, I got into it after a friend of mine recommended it to me.” “Isn’t it a great book.” “Yeah, I got hooked on it after reading the first chapter.” “bla-bla-bla” Both continued to talked to each other and enjoyed their conversation. “I was feeling an awkward atmosphere growing between our table so I was gonna try to start a conversation but when you brought out your book, I was just surprised to see a person reading it.” The girl said.

“You look like someone who already knows what she’s doing.” Killian never needed to narrate me back to myself. He watched and adjusted and left the commentary out unless it mattered. Still, the alcohol has made the air looser. I answer him. I let the conversation continue for a few more exchanges—travel, music, a joke about the string lights looking expensive enough to be a scam. Every easy line he offers slides against a sharper memory. When he says he likes women who don’t take life too seriously, I think of the board interview and the way Killian’s voice sounded when he said together. When he laughs at his own story, I think of the rarer sound of Killian laughing into my hair in the dark.