by Ellie Hall
“Gotcha.”
“Claire was the only girl, and we were like sisters. You can imagine how thrilled my mother was that I became such good friends with a Connolly.”
“The Connollys.”
“Yes, the Connollys,” I repeat, too young to have grasped the meaning when I first met the family. Later I was too familiar with them and their delightful dysfunction to care about the family legacy, including politicians, celebrities, moguls, and more. “Anyway, as we got older, Claire would always tease me about which one of her brothers I had a crush on.”
“Did you?” Hazel asks, eating this up.
I look away.
“You did,” Hazel whispers.
“Yes, a big, fat, stupid crush, but we were also friends. Practically best friends like Claire and me.” I recall early morning runs, lazy rainy afternoons, the way we’d find excuses to be together, to touch each other’s hands absently, to tease, to joke, and to run off on some important mission so we could be alone.
“But when Claire died—never mind.” I sniffle, turning away.
Hazel squeezes my arm, staying there for a few more long minutes, but I don’t budge.
She gets up, presumably sensing that I’ve run out of words. “I’ll leave it at never mind for now, but I want you to tell me what happened, Catherine. I think you need to let it out.” The joking and teasing Hazel is gone, replaced by the kind, caring best friend. She sets the notebook down, and I listen to her pad out of the room as I struggle to keep the tears in.
I lay in my new bedroom, as night settles in around me, my thoughts heavy with loss, with a broken heart I’d tried to cobble back together. Smiling didn’t help, neither did the right clothes, career accomplishments, unflagging honesty, dedication, and a headstrong will not to date.
Now with the unexpected resurrection of someone from the past, someone I’d rather forget, I’m not sure how well this life of mine is truly holding together. As for my heart, I’ve learned to live with its fractured pieces. I roll over and pull a happily ever after romance with worn edges from my shelf and part the pages. I’m getting to the juicy confrontation when Hazel pokes her head in.
“Dinner time.” Before waiting for me, she calls, “When I was a kid and we’d move to a new place, my mom would always make this crazy macaroni and cheese thing on our first night. I called it crazy-roni. It would be whatever we had added to a pot of macaroni and cheese.”
I brighten. “I’d eat that, but our cupboards are bare. Except I think there’s some hot sauce, my emergency stash of chocolate chips, and—”
“Remember our first night in the dorm? If I recall there was a fiasco at the school newspaper office, an unusual announcement related to your dating eligibility on the school listserv, and a high heel we never found the pair for.”
“Ah yes, the Cinderella incident. I almost got fired from the paper.”
“Yeah well, it was fun, wasn’t it?” She nudges my shoulder. “All those parties we used to go to?”
“You dragged me to.”
“We had a good time.”
“You did.”
“Catherine, admit it, you did too. At least ninety percent of the time.”
“Seventy-five.”
“Well, those stats are better than whatever you were doing the other twenty-five percent of the time. We were party animals.”
“I was more like a party sloth.”
She laughs and says, “I’m starved. And I don’t want anything to do with a hangry Catherine.”
Before I can find my jacket, the buzzer indicating someone is downstairs sounds.
“Expecting anyone?” I ask, wondering if she has a hot date.
Without asking who it is, she buzzes them in.
“Are you nuts? You can’t just let anyone in the building.”
She turns to reveal a sly smile. “Not just anyone.”
My stomach twists and not because I’m hungry. Did she talk to Kellan earlier, telling him we were moving in together? As that thread of thought twists into knots in my stomach, she says, “This is our new home. It only seems fitting that—”
There’s a knock at the door. “I invited friends over for an impromptu housewarming party. And bonus, it’s a potluck. Comfort food required at the door!”
“Wait, you invited people over to have a party? Tonight?”
“Remember, we’re party animals, Catherine!” she says, pulling open the door to greet the guests.
Double Dare
Kellan
“Welcome, welcome,” says the woman who was on the street with Catherine.
Today must be my lucky day. This morning, I narrowly escaped an avalanche of icicles sliding off a building on Broadway. Later, I got good news from my agent. Now, I’m introduced to Hazel by a buddy I met in England. Surely, she can connect me with Catherine.
Everyone gathering in the entryway holds bowls, pots, and pastry boxes. I glance at Harry, also empty-handed and who neglected to tell me this was a potluck.
“It’s a cold night, and this is a housewarming party—eat, drink, and be merry!” Hazel hollers as plates, platters, and bowls fill the counter. Everyone settles in.
Then her eyes land on me.
“Strange coincidence,” I say by way of greeting.
“I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Harry officially introduces us, but my gaze floats across the room to a beautiful woman with caramel-colored hair.
Catherine stands at the end of a hallway. Her perfect lips form a perfect O. Then a door slams.
Hazel sighs. “I don’t know the story, but give her some time.”
My shoulders drop a fraction. Following the loud chatter and Harry into the kitchen, I fill my plate with macaroni and cheese, Brussel’s sprouts wrapped in bacon, and meatballs—which I soon find out are vegan. I was none the wiser. I add some garlic bread to the heap and take a seat on the blankets spread out on the floor, picnic style.
I meet Hazel and Catherine’s friends from college, from various jobs in the city, yoga teachers and students, and others. There’s still no sign of her.
The new apartment fills with laughter and my stomach fills from the delicious dishes everyone brought. But knowing Catherine isn’t in here, likely because I am, empties my heart.
Regret and shame unglue me from the spot. Just as I’m about to go down the hall and knock on Catherine’s door, she enters the room. Or rather, spills into it, nearly careening into a floor lamp.
Hazel brushes off her hands as if she just shoved her best friend into the party.
Tingles rush through me at the sight of her. Yes, even though she wears a scowl as if she’d rather be anywhere but here.
“We’d make you guys help us unpack the rest of the way, but since you brought food on such short notice, I’m going to let you off the hook,” Hazel says then thrusts a plate into Catherine’s hands.
She gazes at the macaroni and cheese. Not at me.
I want to cross the room. To talk to her. To see her latte-brown eyes.
Laughter and a few hoots come from the group—Jake, Lottie, and of course, Harry and Hazel.
But I cannot ignore Catherine. As her stomach fills, laughter comes more easily. I overhear her telling Minnie, Colette, and Tyler about her new entry-level job.
“This is what I get after four years of college and unwavering dedication at my old office,” Catherine says.
They suggest alternatives, starting with working at a newspaper, magazine, or similar venue.
She sighs. “Tried. Failed.”
They devolve into funny options like coupon collector, sweepstakes winner, and wrapping paper designer.
“Tour guide or how about driving for a car service,” Tyler says.
“I’d need a car.”
“My cousin had great luck becoming a life coach,” Lottie offers, joining their conversation.
“First, I’d need a life,” Catherine mumbles. She still won’t look at me.
“Are you craft
y? You could make stuff and sell it on Etsy,” Lottie suggests, telling me about her fabulous knit creations.
My attention drifts back to Cat.
“My hobbies involve words: reading, writing, that kind of thing.”
“You could sell some of your books,” Colette suggests.
Her mouth falls open, aghast. “Never. Plus, eBay is over and small bookstores that bought and resold used books are struggling.”
“She means the ones you wrote,” Hazel corrects.
Catherine’s cheeks shade crimson and she gazes at the floor.
I remember her saying she wanted to be a writer someday. I snort at the irony.
Her gaze snaps to me. “What?”
Hazel adds, “When we’ve met up at coffee shops and you weren’t looking at adoptable dogs, I know you were working on a chapter or two.”
“Or that time I popped by your apartment,” Colette says.
“You made me confess what I was doing at home alone on a Friday night. Reading...”
“And writing,” Colette sing-songs.
Catherine shakes her head. “My love story doesn’t have a happy ending. No one would read it, never mind buy it. The publishing industry is incredibly hard to break into. Plus, it’s not my dream to be an author. I just like writing.” She twists a loose thread from the blanket on the floor around her finger.
My throat goes dry. I shake my head. I want to take her into my arms. To hold her. Help her see her dream through even if she argues that it isn’t her heart’s desire.
She remains seated, frozen. So am I. It’s as if she’s stuck. Can I help her get unstuck? I can try.
Before I make a move to talk to her, she says, “I don’t know what I want to do with my life—picking up coffee for my boss isn’t my lifelong goal. I love being creative with words but hated the ad agency. I can come up with a decent turn of phrase, but I’m not one for the limelight, spotlight, or any other kind of artificial light for that matter.” It’s then that she dims.
Me too. The room is well-lit, but I suddenly feel like I’m also in the dark. I’m pretty sure I’m invisible to Catherine. A hollow emptiness seizes me.
Hazel breaks in. “Catherine probably doesn’t want to talk work right now. This is a party, people.” She raises her glass and says, “To many years of happy cohabitating, friendship, and old memories plus new ones to be made.”
We all clink glasses and the conversation shifts away from Catherine’s lack of satisfying, gainful employment. I think about work all the time. I’m obsessed.
And I’m obsessed with Catherine. Not in a creepy way, but in an I-want-to-brighten-her day, week, month, year kind of way.
Pulling me from my thoughts, Colette calls, “Catherine, who’s your favorite OTP?”
“Han and Leia, Han and Leia,” Tyler chants.
“Whatever you say, not Bella and Edward.” Lottie makes a gagging face.
“Oh, Bella and Edward for the win,” Minnie counters.
Catherine’s blank expression must provide them with a clear answer.
“Wait, my fangirl, the resident book and movie nerd doesn’t know what an OTP is?” Hazel asks.
Confused, she shakes her head. “Over the Top People?” She gives Hazel a weak grin.
“But you’re a reader,” she says.
“Shipping?” Colette tries as if that might ring a bell.
Catherine shrugs. She’s adorably clueless. I recall rainy afternoons spent together, long walks, car rides, so much time. Lost to one stupid moment. A fit of fear that changed the course of my life. Our lives.
I clear my throat. “OTP means One True Pairing. Like two people who absolutely belong together.”
She doesn’t look at me but blinks a few times as though waking from a long slumber. “Oh, well, that’s easy. Chuck and Blaire. Gossip Girl. The books and show.”
Thanks to my sister it’s one of my favorites. “‘Three words, eight letters, say it and I’m yours,’” I say, quoting one of my favorite lines.
Harry’s eyebrows shoot upward.
I wave my hands dismissively to play it cool. I have a reputation to uphold. “It was for research purposes.”
The conversation continues with impassioned arguments for Mulder and Scully, Carson and Mrs. Hughes from Downton Abbey, and the characters from Dirty Dancing whose names we can’t remember. Of course, we ask Siri.
We go around, asking each other who we’d ship as in relationship if we could be with anyone famous, alive or dead.
My answer is on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t dare speak her name in case she runs off again.
“I’d do anything to ship Chris Hemsworth,” Minnie says.
“Either Hemsworth,” Colette adds, sighing. “They’re masters at dropping the look.”
“What look?” Catherine ask.
“The foxy beast look.” Hazel’s gaze flits to me and then to Catherine.
“The smolder.” My voice is lower than I intend.
“The one that makes you swoon.” Lottie mimics Colette’s sigh.
“The look John Trotman gave me two years ago. I’ve never looked back,” Colette says in answer to the sigh.
They go on, talking about this phenomenon.
“I’ve never been given the look,” Catherine squeaks.
“Lies!” Hazel says. “The foxy beast so gave you the look.”
Again, her attention lands on me. But not in a flirtatious way. It’s more like an accusation. My stomach jumps.
Catherine wrings her hands.
Several of the others in the room gather in, intrigued by the conversation, but no one can get Hazel to reveal the identity of the foxy beast.
All the while, she stares at me.
Interesting.
Jake says, “I vote for Rachel and Ross. Best OTP of all time.”
Lottie says, “No, no, Lucy and Ricky Ricardo.”
Hazel smirks. “Guys, we’ve moved on. We’re talking about who you’d ship, you know, to be with,” she says.
“Oh, in that case, Ginny,” Harry says, always up for joking about how he shares a common name with a fictional wizard. However, in his defense, he’s British like Hazel, has dark hair, green eyes, and wears wire-rimmed glasses, so it’s not entirely a stretch.
“Who’d you ship?” Hazel asks Catherine. Once more, her eyes dart between her best friend and me.
“The Rock,” Catherine says in a small voice.
“Duane Johnson?” Tyler asks, surprised.
“He’s a big ole hunk of man,” Lottie says softly.
I shift uncomfortably and my fork clatters to the floor. I set my plate aside.
Hazel smirks. “I never expected you to pick someone so, um, burly.”
“Yeah, more like the shy, studious type,” Harry says. “Glasses, a cardigan...” Jake elbows Harry.
They must be teasing because Harry has a girlfriend and revealed he’s planning to propose.
“Or even someone like our Man-bun-barista,” Hazel says.
“Who?” Lottie asks.
“This guy at the coffee shop we go to,” Hazel explains. “Or the bookstore guy.”
“Catherine, why haven’t we ever met anyone you’re dating?” Colette asks.
Her cheeks are already pink from the warm room, but she blushes darker.
“She doesn’t date,” Hazel answers.
“Neither do you,” Catherine fires back. “Nope, she loves ‘em and leaves ‘em.”
Everyone laughs, apparently Hazel isn’t a committer.
“I’m not a dater,” Catherine says.
“Why?” Don’t you want to fall in love?” Lottie asks in accented English.
“Our Catherine doesn’t play the field. We have to get her out there and then we’ll see some magic happen.” Hazel speaks with affection in her voice.
I take a big sip of water, deflecting the possibility. Interesting to note she hasn’t dated much. Selfishly, hope flares inside.
“So who’s this guy at the booksto
re?” Colette asks.
“I think she called dibs,” Tyler says.
“Wait, wait, are we trying to hook Catherine up?” Jake asks with sudden interest. “Because I know this guy I think would be perfect for her.” His lips quirk.
“This circle of friends is closed,” Hazel says. “We’d never want to lose one of you if you broke up or endure the awkwardness afterward. We need an outside pool of candidates.” Again, she looks at me. The outsider. The foxy beast?
My pulse picks up the pace.
“She needs to find someone herself,” Minnie says.
“Guys, I’m here, in the room. Hello. And I’m not interested in dating,” Catherine waves her hands.
“Why not?” Lottie asks in her sweet, innocent way.
“Because.”
“Was your heart broken?” she asks.
A lump forms in my throat. I have the sudden urge to flee, but this time I’d take Catherine with me. She’d probably kick and scream. Instead, I gaze at her, trying to tell her with my eyes what I haven’t been able to with words.
For a moment, it’s as though it’s just the two of us in the room. The voices fade away. The lights dim. I mouth the words I’m sorry.
She blurts, “My heart is still broken and I don’t know how to fix it.” Then as if not realizing she said that out loud, she adds, “I want someone who doesn’t mind that I like my waffles with cheese. That I’ll read until I fall asleep. And who tolerates me waking up with crazy bedhead.”
I used to make waffles with cheese after school. She’d always steal a bite.
I remember her and Claire having sleepovers. Catherine would sneak to the hall where she could see her book by the street light out the window. I’d sit with her and read over her shoulder.
In the morning she’d wake up with bedhead. It only made her cuter.
“Yeah, it gets bad. I remember from freshman year.” Colette holds her hands away from her head, miming lumpy, puffy morning messy hair and breaks the spell.
“Let’s do something about that,” Hazel says.
Catherine shakes her head. “I’ve tried everything. Shampoos and conditioners, leave-in treatments, special pillowcases...”
