Some friendships rival the intensity of lovers. 

▲

Amy wasn’t my first friend in New York, but whenever I smell her perfume on someone else, it feels like a haunting. I used to get anxious and look around, expecting her to appear next to me, wide smile and beaded septum piercing. 

▲ 

I met Amy right after I’d moved to New York. She worked with me at Etsy, a tech company that touted it was going to “reimagine the world of commerce” with handmade artisan goods. We were both on what they then called the Marketplace Integrity and Trust & Safety teams, MITS for short. We were “MITS girls” to all of the engineers, meaning we were young and hot and barely made any money, and thus, were easily lured by happy hours where all of our drinks would be paid for. I was 24 and Amy was 26. I was shy and alone in a city that I didn’t know. Amy was outgoing and seemed to know everyone. She spoke in hyperbole. Everything was “the best” to her—the sweetest, the most beautiful, the most lovely.

I can summon images of our early days at Etsy—Amy walking in to work in a full fur coat which she draped over the back of her chair (and which one of the office dogs promptly peed on), walking through the open office with her while we giggled at something, Amy’s long lacquered nails going click click click clack on her keyboard while she worked through the hundreds of items we had to review for their “handmade integrity,” Amy wearing a skin tight black dress with a pattern of gold chains all over it “girl, I know this isn’t your style but isn’t it so cool? I got it on Fulton Mall.” 

▲ 

The first time that we ever spent time together outside of the office was when she invited me to something called Presentation Party Night, PPN for short. Her friends put it on every month in Bushwick. It was always on Sundays and there was always free Brooklyn Lager and presentations on any topic imaginable—from the rise of craft beer one to cupping. The woman who presented cupping had short dreadlocks and a Marilyn piercing. She called for a volunteer, stripped him of his shirt and had him lay stomach down on a long wooden table. As she explained the medical benefits of cupping, I craned my neck to see her set a little fire in a glass orb before placing it onto the man’s back. It suctioned on and she did it again and again. I remember the large red welts on his skin as she pulled off the suction cups, each separating from his back with a squelch.

There is photographic evidence of our PPN hangout. In it Amy and I are sitting on the ground in the converted warehouse, both of our heads tilted slightly to the right, as we listen to someone out of frame. Both fair skinned, my long brown hair cascades down my left shoulder, Amy’s vibrant red hair in a side ponytail falls over her right shoulder. We both look extremely serious. I posted this on Instagram and Amy commented “Haha, I look deeply suspicious :)” 

▲ 

When I came to New York, I was still raw from a breakup in New Orleans, a man who had disappeared into his heroin addiction where there was no room for me, and I wasn’t enough to make him want to quit. When Amy came to New York, she was fleeing Minneapolis where she’d found out her best friend had been fucking her boyfriend. These were stories that we kept close to our hearts, opening up only after a feeling of kinship and several glasses of wine. 

▲

Long after I left Etsy, I moved to Bushwick. One afternoon I was idly walking around, trying to better familiarize myself with my new neighborhood, and I came to the building where we used to attend PPN. It was now a shared co-working space. The little taco place next door to it was shuttered. I remember getting food there once with Amy, and two drunk middle aged men tried speaking to me. Amy shooed them off. They responded that they didn’t want her, only her “pretty friend.” Amy was hurt by this, not because she cared about the men, but because every woman knows how it feels to be compared to your friend and be found wanting. “Fuck them, they’re disgusting,” I said. “Let’s go back to the party.” 

▲ 

Etsy was a young, growing company when Amy and I joined. Nearly everyone who worked there was in their twenties, and because we all spent so much time at work, we were not just coworkers, but friends, lovers, etc. There were no adults there to teach us about work/life balance or boundaries. Everyone knew everyone’s business. Feelings were hurt over not receiving particular party invites, over who was sleeping with who. 

For me that was Roman. He was older than me, a native New Yorker, a literature PhD dropout with a penchant for William Faulkner. I was naive enough to take his arrogance for wit. Our time as a couple was relatively short, a few months of disappointing sex and stilted conversations, but our possessiveness of each other lingered. We’d get drunk at work parties and inevitably get into a fight, often trying to invoke jealousy to make the other feel inadequate. 

I used Amy as my shield at happy hours and parties. We would huddle together, hold hands, go into the bathroom together. “It makes me happy seeing you two together,” Roman remarked to me in a work chat one afternoon. Though we never spoke of it, Amy and I knew that our dynamic was sexy.

▲ 

I got feedback that I should distance myself from Amy. Both the manager and director of our department began to watch us suspiciously, and though I tried to convince Amy otherwise, it became apparent that both women disliked her. She got feedback that her work was inadequate. She wasn’t answering enough emails, reviewing enough tasks. At the end of the day, we would compare our tally of completed emails and tasks and they were always nearly the same. 

“It’s not a good look—it isn’t professional the way that you’re always with her,” the department director told me in a career development session. In my yearly performance review, my manager said “You do good work, but the other girls on the team don’t like you. You and Amy are popular and that can rub people the wrong way. You should rethink that friendship and start socializing with the other girls more.” 

In Amy’s review, she was told that she was likely going to be fired, but they would try a Performance Improvement Plan first. We stopped sitting together at work, but we communicated via gchats all day. I looked over at Amy’s desk where she was hunched over her computer, blinking back tears, typing furiously to hit her quotas. Click click click clack went her long fingernails, decadently painted in shiny gold lacquer. Out of loyalty to Amy, I did not make any efforts to build friendships with the other girls.

▲

On weekends we met in Fort Greene to walk around and drink coffee until it was time to switch to wine. As we strolled past BAM, Amy turned to me and said, “You know, it’s just that they don’t like me. I’m different—I stand out! It’s offensive to them. You are just what they like. You look the way they want you to, and so they’re never going to do this to you. I have this nose ring and I wear big jewelry and you look... classic. I mean, my GOD, I just hate them so much.” The insinuation that our differences in appearance were what helped me to succeed stung. I stayed quiet while she continued her rant. We reached her apartment in Clinton Hill just as it was getting dark. “Come on mama, let’s have a glass of wine, and then I need to do some more work,” she sighed, heaving open the heavy wooden door to the 3 bedroom apartment she shared with 5 roommates. 

▲ 

Weeks turned into months, and Amy didn’t lose her job, but she unravelled. Now things were the worst, the most hideous, the cruelest. My career grew as hers was snuffed out. I was given new assignments, put in charge of documentation, interviewing for new members of the team, training all of our new hires. I felt defensive when Amy shit-talked our jobs, but I loved her and would listen for hours, sometimes spending the night in her apartment so that we could talk until we fell asleep. 

▲

A friend of a friend moved out of an apartment in Williamsburg before the building was sold. It was empty save for the fridge and a few tables. There was a party. Amy and I arrived together with beer, sticking to our performance of conjoined twins. The house was decorated haphazardly with streamers, balloons all over the floor, a DJ set up in one corner of the room. There was, inexplicably, a giant blow-up zebra in the middle of the main room. Roman was there. Ali, his friend, put his arms around the two of us and squeezed us close to him. “Come on you two, it’s like we’re in an episode of GIRLS!” 

Roman looked at me, “Do you and Amy want to leave and go get some food?” We followed him out of the house, tipsy, holding hands. “Let’s stop in this place for another drink and then we’ll find something to eat,” he said leading us into Bushwick Country Club. 

I still wanted this man to want me and every interaction we had bolstered that insecurity. He went to the bar to order us gin & tonics and Amy squeezed my arm. “I think this is good, girl. It’s good that he’s wanting to spend time with you.” 

The bar was loud; it was impossible to carry a conversation. Amy stepped away and started to dance on the open floor. When I looked to Roman, he had joined her, dancing close to her, his body touching hers. She looked up to the ceiling with her eyes closed and reached her arms above her head gracefully, her body closer to his. I stood still near the wall, gripping my drink. I watched them song after song. Eventually I walked over and grabbed Amy’s arm. She pulled me in between them, moving her hips against mine, but I tugged her arm again. “I want to leave. NOW.” She looked at me, startled. “Okay mama, we’ll leave.” 

“Roman,” she said, “we want to leave. You said we were going to get food.” We piled into a cab. Amy started chatting with the cab driver while Roman looked down at his phone. “Where are we going?” I asked him. “We’re going to my house,” he said without looking up at me. “I just ordered some food to be delivered there.” “What? I don’t want to go to your house. You didn’t ask if we wanted to go to your house.” “Kaycie, it’s okay,” Amy said, turning to me, putting her hand on my arm. 

▲ 

Amy commented on how Roman’s apartment was the most lovely as she excused herself to the bathroom. He went into his room. I sat down at the kitchen table. Amy came out first, and I looked up at her. “I think you should leave. I want you to leave now,” I said quietly. She looked at me like a startled animal. “Okay, I’ll go.” She left without saying anything to Roman, and when he came out of his room, I was sitting alone at the table, drumming my fingernails distractedly. He sat his laptop down on the table. 

“Where’s Amy?” he said.

“What did you think you were doing? You thought we’d all just sit together here and watch the fucking Sopranos on your laptop until maybe you could fuck the two of us?” 

He looked down at the floor. I cried on my way home in a cab that I couldn’t afford.

▲ 

January 8, 2014 7:50AM 

Kaycie: Ugh Amy. I can't sleep anymore and I feel sad. Like can't get out of bed sad
January 8, 2014 10:36AM 

Amy: Kaycie, I know. I'm so sorry. 

Amy: I don't understand what happened last night. Like, the whole thing was weird
Amy: All of it. Like the dancing and then taking us back to his house. It's all weird
Kaycie: It kind of makes me want to throw up that he was touching you and won't even look at me 

Kaycie: In what universe would that ever not hurt me 

Amy: He’s stupid 

Kaycie: It's like oh okay so now I also have to feel insecure about myself in comparison to my only close friend in the city. Okay 

Kaycie: Like am I not sexy or funny or interesting enough? Am I annoying?
Amy: Kaycie, don't feel insecure in reference to me. It's not real. He is just dumb and fucked this up. He can't handle anything.
Amy: Do you wanna get brunch and talk? 

▲ 

Another work happy hour—Our friend Aaron and his girlfriend Nicole discussed Aaron’s upcoming birthday party. 

“He has two lists,” Nicole said. “It’s ridiculous. One list is the shortlist in case I choose a smaller venue, and one list is the long list in case I pick a bigger bar.” 

“Hey, it matters. If it’s a small get-together, I need to have only the important people there,” Aaron smirked. 

“Oh my god, are you serious?” Amy giggled. “Can we see the lists? I want to see them.” “Yeah, show them to us,” I chimed in. 

Nicole showed us her phone. My name was on the shortlist, but Amy’s was not. “Oh, I see how it is,” she said, “I’m not as important as Kaycie, okay.” She smiled.

The next morning I was sitting in my sparsely furnished apartment in Bed-Stuy, huddled on my couch and nursing a cup of coffee. My laptop was perched on the heavy antique coffee table that Amy had helped me load into an Uber and carry up two flights of stairs last year. A gchat popped up from Amy. 

Feb 13, 2014 7:21AM 

Amy: Do you think i should feel dumb about Aaron? 

Amy: I feel dumb. 

Amy: And I feel dumb for feeling dumb. 

Kaycie: Wait why? 

Amy: like this stupid party thing. 

Amy: i feel so dumb 

Kaycie: you shouldn’t feel anything about it. 

Kaycie: it doesn’t mean anything, you were invited. 

Kaycie: Aaron and I have just hung out a few more times, and he knows me from the context of Bonnie and Roman and other parties, so he’s just interacted with me a few more times. It doesn’t mean anything. 

Amy: yes ok 

Kaycie: don’t be upset about that. He’s dumb for doing that. 

Kaycie: also I will BOYCOTT his birthday for hurting your feelings. THAT IS NOT ALLOWED. 

Amy: awww i love you

Amy: I was thinking about not going but then that was the biggest baby thing ever

Amy: I was trying to think of what you would do 

Amy: also, i just cried like a baby last night haha 

Amy: i think i just felt dumb and ugly and not funny and stupid 

Kaycie: aww amy it really doesn’t mean anything. It really doesn’t 

Amy: honestly kaycie 

Amy: I think it's just because it's too hard for me to deal with it both at work and then with our friends 

Amy: a) i love you and don't really wanna care about this 

Amy: i'm just, so so so sensitive and hurt about work that like one leeeetle thing that echoes it outside of work just destroys me 

Amy: so, i'll work on it and stop being a baby 

Kaycie: Aw Amy I understand. I don't think anyone thinks more of me than they do of you. I really don't 

Amy: I was thinking like 

Amy: I've always been best friends with people (ok, this is gonna sound shitty but let me say it)- I've always been best friends with people that are more beautiful and more successful than I am

Amy: part of me was thinking, I mean, I could just make friends that are less pretty and successful than me lol 

Amy: BUT I DON'T WANT TO 

Amy: so I just have to tell myself that, the reason my beautiful and successful best friends want me as a friend is because I am interesting and I do have something to offer

Amy: and then, I guess, I can keep going without hating myself ha 

Amy: I feel so dumb talking like this 

Amy: cuz, its basically like, HEY I'M A BIG HUGE BABY AND I'M THE MOST INSECURE

Kaycie: No it's okay. I understand. Amy I have always always felt that way too
Kaycie: Like I'm the quiet less pretty less desirable friend 

Kaycie: I always felt that way 

Kaycie: But you are not less beautiful or successful 

Kaycie: No one loves me more than they do you. They just don't 

Kaycie: You are your own beautiful successful smart and interesting person

Kaycie: And I'm sorry Aaron made you feel like that. He's a dumbass 

Amy: kaycie, thank you so much. We are good for each other 

Amy: we really are 

▲ 

Another work party—this time in the Lower East Side. Etsy’s head security engineer was leaving, and they had an open tab. I arrived first, flitting around from person to person until Amy arrived. At some point, Amy had struck up a conversation with Ali and then the three of us were in the back of an Uber, heading to a dance party in Williamsburg. “I have molly,” Ali said. “Good stuff. Do you want some?” Amy and I looked at each other. “Dude, let’s do it,” she said. We turned to Ali with our hands out. My mind was void of thought, there was only a warm happiness. Amy pulled me onto the stage with the DJ and we danced. She pulled me close to her, her lips on mine, and I let her, kissing her back, eyes closed. I loved her, of course I did, I loved everyone. Ali pulled me into his arms, but Amy shoved him away. “No, you can’t have her. Don’t touch her.” 

We migrated to someone’s apartment where Amy and I spent most of the time in the bathroom, exclaiming about how large our pupils are. “We look so crazy,” I laughed. “You look just like a doll, you have, like, doll eyes” Amy said, as we stood shoulder to shoulder each of us staring at the other’s reflection. 

The next day I woke up in my own bed, Amy next to me, her mascara smeared. “That was so much fun,” she said, grinning. The molly hadn’t worn off yet. We walked from Bed-Stuy to Clinton Hill, hand in hand, marveling at how we felt, and startling the barista when we ordered cappuccinos, our pupils as big as buttons as we sweetly told him we’d both take the same thing. 

▲ 

After that night our insecurities quietly grew, resentments festered against our wills. My career continued to grow. I created a new position for myself, got a raise and started reporting to the director of our department. Amy’s career stalled. I began to get annoyed by her constant stream of vitriol towards the company and team that were bolstering me, sometimes countering her complaints instead of agreeing with her. I didn’t even care about whether or not I was right; I just wanted to push. 

▲ 

Amy got a new job. I cried on her last day when she walked out of the door without me, waving goodbye to our team. 

She threw herself a big “Goodbye Etsy” party in the backyard of her Clinton Hill apartment. She invited all of our work friends, strung up fairy lights. There was a grill, plenty of beer and wine. Halfway through the evening, Roman showed up, a dimwitted undergrad on his arm. “What is he doing here? Did you invite him?” I hissed at Amy. “Yeah, girl, it’s chill, I mean, I’m friends with him.” I spent the rest of the evening complaining to another friend about how inconsiderate she was to invite him, how rude of him to show up to my closest friend’s party. 

The next day I met Amy for brunch. We drank beers at 11am, followed by large iced coffees. We made ourselves nauseated. We sat on a stranger’s stoop, leaning back against the steps, lazy in the heavy summer air. I took a few photos of us on my phone. I had cut my hair short, just above my shoulders, and I was wearing big sunglasses. Amy’s long red hair was pulled into a messy topknot, and she was wearing a turquoise bubble necklace, which I hated for being so ostentatious. We had both reviewed hundreds of them on Etsy as they were always being flagged as “not handmade,” due to sellers stealing the listing images for them off of J Crew’s website.

“So, I didn’t tell you this last night because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but my sister caught Roman making out with that girl on our couch. Like, really going for it.” 

I looked at her. “So then why are you telling me now?” 

▲ 

We spoke less and less often. I stopped walking over to her apartment. One day Amy sent me a long text asking for distance as she couldn’t have my toxicity in her life at this moment. I never answered it. Instead I took a screenshot and sent it to another friend who replied, “Were you two dating? Is she breaking up with you?” 

▲ 

Years passed, I started dating the man I would eventually marry. I left Etsy for another job—a big corporate one with a livable salary and actual adults for coworkers. Amy’s career grew. She moved into writing policy for one company and then jumped to another one and became the director of her own Trust & Safety team. 

▲

In Grand Central, I walked past a woman and smelled Amy’s perfume. I suddenly remembered our “secret place” in the East Village where we both always ordered a gin cocktail that the waitress would bring out and then, to our delight, gently spray with rosewater. I don’t remember the name of the place and doubt I could find it again by myself. We had vowed to never take anyone else there. 

▲ 

In 2019, I got married. I invited Amy. She brought her handsome boyfriend and her little rescue dog. They arrived at 11pm the night before the ceremony. I was sitting with a group of friends when I saw her through the window. I jumped up to greet her. She hugged me tightly. “Oh I love you so much, this is perfect. Just come out here and be with me for a minute” she said, lighting a cigarette. “I love you too,” I replied, taking a drag from her cigarette. 

▲

On the day of the wedding, I watched from my window as our guests arrived. At the corner of the parking lot, I saw Amy, the sun shining on her vibrant red hair. She wasn’t looking at her phone or watching the other guests. All alone, she stood quietly, looking down at the ground, smoking her skinny Turkish cigarette, wrapped in a heavy black coat.