by Megan Crane
“Fine,” she said. “But any insanity in the sleigh, Gus, and I swear to God I’ll feed you to the horses.”
They were so worried about it, in fact, that the two of them flanked me as we waited for the whole party to arrive. Wherever I went, it was in a Georgia-and–Amy Lee sandwich. I would have been more upset about it, except for the fact that it provided a convenient buffer. I saw Nate and Helen arrive—apparently still together, if the hand-holding and outdoor snuggling were anything to go by. From a distance, I performed the nod and smile I’d been permitted. Inside, I was in turmoil. He hardly even glanced at me! What was he doing? Then Henry turned up not long after, crooked his mouth in my direction, and there was no need for nodding or smiling since I was suddenly too shy to look at him.
The last time I’d seen him, after all, he’d been mostly naked.
Don’t get me wrong—I managed to see that he looked way too delicious for a sleigh ride, and I squirreled away salient details about the way he wore his winter coat and jeans—and then I had to look away.
Georgia interpreted that as following the rules, and gave me an approving smile.
“Was that so hard?” she asked.
“I’m about three seconds away from going postal on both of you,” I said. “But no, that wasn’t hard.”
After a moment, Amy Lee shook her head. “I have to go with Gus. That was pretty condescending.”
“Definitely,” Oscar agreed.
“Really?” Georgia looked crushed. “I was going for encouraging.”
“And I’m the crazy one?” I demanded.
I let them bustle me along with them into a sleigh—the one not containing any of the people I wasn’t allowed to talk to, of course—and then I relaxed into the randomness of the whole thing. The sun was already starting to fade by the time we set off, singing Christmas carols like loons into the coming winter night.
We sang until the stars appeared, and our cheeks were too frozen to sing anymore. I surprised myself by having a great time.
Afterward, we all crowded into the house, Oscar got his hot chocolate, and I came back to earth with a jarring thud. It was one thing to avoid Helen, Nate, and Henry while bundled up in a separate sleigh, singing about angels and mangers and walking in a winter wonderland. It was something else entirely while trapped in a house with them.
Not that they were chasing after me.
Helen smirked every time she looked at me, which rankled, but which I ignored because she was the one I cared the least about. Tonight, anyway. And besides, I knew things she didn’t—things she would kill to know, in fact, about her supposed boyfriend. For his part, Nate shrugged a sort of apology in my direction, but stuck close to her side. I knew it was better that way, since Georgia and Amy Lee were watching me like a hawk, but the truth was, it felt . . . weird. I wanted to know what had happened. I wanted to know why he’d called that night, and not since. I was sure there was more to the story this time than I can’t be what you want or whatever he’d said that night in the bar. I wanted—needed—explanations. I forced myself to stop looking at him.
I looked across the room instead, to where Henry lounged in the corner, propping himself up against the fireplace. Waiting. I knew he was waiting because whenever my gaze slid in his direction he met it, in a manner I could only describe as challenging. I dare you to come over here, that look said, right out there in the open for anyone to see.
It made me feel jittery. It made me feel as crazy as I was accused of being. It made me think I wanted to take that dare, and that was a whole different kind of crazy, the kind I’d thought had to do with Nate and had last time landed me naked and in the nearest bed with his roommate instead.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” I announced. Amy Lee and Georgia exchanged a look. “Do I really need an escort?” I snapped. “Will I get to be alone on the toilet?”
They let me go.
The downstairs bathroom was occupied, so I climbed my way upstairs. The house was a beautiful old Victorian settled on the edge of a field. Stately and graceful, which was reflected in the furnishings. I found the bathroom and locked the door behind me.
Stately and graceful, I thought. Two words that will never be used to describe me.
When I came out, Henry straightened from the wall, and it was as if he filled the hallway.
My heart stopped beating, and then kicked back into gear.
I couldn’t describe that look on his face, but it made my knees feel weak.
“Oh,” I said. “Hi.”
He smiled.
“So I’ve been thinking,” he said in a casual, conversational sort of voice, completely at odds with the intent way he watched me. “No smart-ass remarks, please.”
We stood facing each other in the hall. Behind him, I could hear the party noises float up from the floor below. The stairway was right around the corner from where he stood. I could make a break for it.
But I didn’t move.
“I didn’t say anything,” I pointed out.
“And yet I could hear you.” He eyed me. “Imagine that.”
“Were you thinking about something in particular?” I asked. “Or was that just a general announcement? For reference?”
“What did I just say?” He shook his head at me. “Like three seconds ago?”
“I don’t think I want to do this,” I said, barely above a whisper. “Whatever this is.”
“Oh, of course,” he said, this time with more of an edge. “Because talking is scary. I keep forgetting how much you hate it.”
“It’s just complicated . . .” I began, and then stopped myself.
“I bet it is,” he said. “You need to get over the Nate thing. I love the guy, but come on.”
“You don’t know anything about it!”
“I know Helen deserves him, and that’s not a compliment. She’s nuttier than he is.”
I liked the way he said that—so matter-of-factly, as if Helen’s nuttiness was obvious and there could be no rebuttal. As if Henry would certainly never be sucked into her games.
“But see, here’s the thing,” he said, forcing me to focus on him again. “I think what’s going on between us qualifies as a pattern.”
“What?” I frowned at him. “There were two isolated events. No us. No pattern.”
“I think it’s a pattern,” he said. “Which must suck for you, since you think I’m some illiterate jackass of a spoiled rich boy.”
I opened my mouth and then shut it with a snap. I felt my shoulders sink.
“Which sucks for me,” he continued in a low voice, “because who wants to be into a girl who thinks he’s a jackass? That got old in the fifth grade, believe it or not.”
“Henry . . .” But I didn’t know what to say. I knew suddenly that despite all of our sparring, I didn’t want to be responsible for hurting him, even in a small way.
“I don’t know why,” he said. “I just like you.” His eyes searched my face. “Obviously, this presents a problem. The jackass issue. But then it occurred to me that you don’t actually know anything about me.”
“I’ve known you for years,” I reminded him. “Almost a decade, in fact.”
He leaned against the wall. “What do I do for a living?”
“You’re a lawyer,” I shot back at once. Then, to be obnoxious: “And you’re a Farland.” The trust fund was implied.
He sighed. “What kind of law do I practice?” he asked.
I thought about it. I had a specific memory of Georgia, ranting about something, years ago—but no, it was gone.
I shrugged.
“Exactly my point,” he said. “You just know the basic outline. You have no idea who I am.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I burst out. I felt way too emotional, and tried to rein it in. “What makes you think I care?”
“I care,” he shot back. “This is part of the adulthood thing I believe we’ve touched on previously. I can’t allow myself to keep having romantic moments with
someone who hates me, Gus. Right? That’s only logical.”
“But I don’t know you, so it’s okay?”
“Something like that.” He let his gaze drop, and his smirk reappeared.
“Listen.” I had no idea where I was going, but I kept on, in the desperate hope something might occur to me as I floundered. “I handled the whole sex thing badly, I know that now. It was a rough time. And the last time just kind of—I don’t—I mean, it was for all the wrong reasons . . .” I broke off, flustered.
“It was for the best reason,” he contradicted me.
He reached across the space between us then, and traced a pattern along my jaw. I felt my body react to that—I sighed a little bit, and felt an ache spread through my limbs.
And then he was kissing me.
And it was hot. His mouth was clever and I couldn’t seem to get close enough, to taste enough. He made a low sort of noise and pushed me back against the wall, angling his head so everything got deeper and hotter.
I had no idea what might have happened then, but there was a sudden shuffling noise in the hall behind him, and I jerked my head back and out of his grasp.
I was a little bit dizzy, so it took me a moment to blink and then look around him, behind him, expecting to see someone on a bathroom mission.
Amy Lee and Georgia stood there, a scant few feet away, gaping at us.
“Oh,” I said brightly. “Hi, guys.”
“You have to be kidding me,” Amy Lee said flatly.
Henry turned, and then it was like a face-off. A face-off in a nightmare, except I was awake. My stomach cramped from the tension. I was afraid to look at Georgia, but I forced myself to do it anyway.
“Okay,” I began, “I know that it must seem—”
“You’re fucking him?” Georgia threw at me, scandalized. “Henry?” She didn’t say “my Henry,” but I heard it anyway.
“Not in a—I mean we only—um, I—” Language failed me. It had something to do with the way she’d said his name.
“How is that your business?” Henry asked her. He was very polite, but there was a bit of steel beneath.
Georgia’s brows arched up, and then I watched her look at Henry for a long, long moment. Something passed between them, and then Georgia shrugged.
“It’s not my business at all,” she said, but she sounded almost respectful.
I actually thought, then, that maybe it would all be okay. Awkward and weird, but okay. I let myself breathe. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath in the first place.
“Fuck this,” Amy Lee said then, in a strange, deliberate voice that made us all flinch. Everyone turned to look at her, and her flushed, angry face. “Fuck all of you.”
“What?” Georgia looked as confused as I felt.
“Amy Lee—” I started.
“Shut up!” she ordered. She looked at Georgia for a long moment, and then she looked at me. I felt myself wilt. She didn’t look at Henry at all.
“What’s wrong with you?” Georgia demanded.
“I’ve had it with all of this crap, is what’s wrong with me,” Amy Lee snapped at her. “The two of you are exhausting and I can’t take another minute of it.”
“I didn’t tell you because—”
But she didn’t let me finish.
“I don’t care why you didn’t tell me,” she said. “I don’t care if Georgia spends the rest of her life prostrate on the bed, weeping over some loser. I promise you, I have better things to do with my time than keep up with these fucking soap operas.”
“Hey!” Georgia sounded stung.
Amy Lee took a step back, and fired that angry look back and forth between Georgia and me again. I realized she was shaking slightly.
“I’m not in college anymore,” she said. She wasn’t snapping any longer, which, somehow, made it worse. “None of us are, but I’m the only one who seems to have noticed. I have a house. A dental practice. A marriage. We’re talking about babies and college funds, and you—” She glared at me. “You’re wearing my bridesmaid’s dress to a party just to fuck with me while you—” She turned to Georgia.
“While I what?” Georgia snapped, daring her.
“While you go out of your way to live your entire life like it’s the same Tori Amos album we listened to when we were all of twenty.” She sucked in a deep breath. “You both need to grow the hell up, but I don’t care if you do or not, because I’m not dealing with this shit anymore.”
And then she backed up another step, while we all just stood there and stared at her. There was a beat, and someone was breathing heavily—it might have been me, I couldn’t tell—and then she turned, wrapped her arms around her middle, and took off down the stairs as if our friendship didn’t lie in tatters behind her.
chapter fifteen
Every song on the radio was about heartbreak, it seemed, of one sort or another. What to do to keep him from leaving, how to get through those awful days right after she took off, the fantasies about the two of you getting back together, the sick realization that he might never love you again and maybe never did in the first place. It was breakup central all along the FM dial, and if the songs weren’t enough, you could turn on the television to just about any prime-time show to really stick the knife in.
But no one seemed to talk much about what to do when your best friend broke up with you. There weren’t whole artistic media devoted to the subject. There was Edie Brickell’s “Circle of Friends,” and that was about it.
I discovered—with no help in the form of a song—that what happened when your best friend broke up with you was a lot like what happened when you walked into your boyfriend’s kitchen to find out that he wasn’t your boyfriend anymore. Your world stopped with an audible crash as it splintered, but the actual world did not.
I did whatever was necessary to get through the moment.
Amy Lee disappeared down that hallway, and shortly thereafter, from the party. Georgia and I hardly looked at each other, not then and not afterward, when we sat in silence in Henry’s Jeep as he once again chauffeured me across the state of Massachusetts. I turned to Georgia when we pulled up in front of her place, but she lifted a hand instead. She didn’t exactly indicate that I should talk to the hand. It was more of a stop, please gesture. But it was still her hand in the air, aimed at me.
“I can’t,” she said in a thick voice I hardly recognized. “Okay, Gus? I just can’t.”
What, exactly, she couldn’t do—talk to me, look at me, deal with what had happened—she didn’t explain.
She just climbed out of the car and went inside. I watched the door close behind her and wondered—in an absent way, really, because I was about as numb as it was possible to be without actually turning into stone—if I would ever see her again.
Outside my apartment, I eyed Henry from across the gear shift.
“Want to come up?” I asked.
He smiled, and reached over. I noted that no matter what, he was always so very beautiful, which, for some reason, made me feel sad. Vaguely sad, anyway.
He picked up my hand in his and carried it to his mouth. I think he kissed the back of it, but I couldn’t be sure, I couldn’t feel a thing.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
He was kind. But it was still no.
I knew that later, much later, I would probably spend whole days humiliated by that exchange, but it didn’t matter then.
I just shrugged, and went inside.
Where I sat in the dark with the dog, and wondered when I would start crying, and whether I would survive it.
I got up in the morning and went to work, because even though I felt as if the world had received a serious wallop, possibly knocking it off its axis forever, there didn’t seem to be any point to sitting in the house, brooding about it. I dressed without paying the slightest bit of attention to what I was putting on, which could have resulted in something sartorially exquisite. I didn’t care enough to notice.
I hardly knew how I�
�d managed to get myself to work once I found myself on the wide front steps of the Museum. Once inside, I felt as if it were someone else performing my duties, going through my motions.
It was odd Minerva hadn’t noticed, I thought as I walked back out to my desk from the bathroom to see that she was sitting there in my visitor’s chair, awash in bright-colored scarves. For all her assorted manias and delusions, Minerva was usually pretty good at noticing emotional upheavals. (She ought to have been—she thrived on them.)
I studied her as she settled herself more comfortably in the chair next to my desk. Minerva favored bold colors and what she called her bohemian flair—thanks to a summer spent in Berkeley, California, at an impressionable age. Apparently, exposure to Berkeley led to a lifelong habit of draping oneself in tapestries, ropes of beads, and the occasional llama. (Okay, I was making that up. I wasn’t actually sure it was llama. It could be anything hairy and particularly pungent in damp weather.) No wonder I had a phobia about California.
“Gus!” she exclaimed when she saw me walking toward her. “This new diet is fabulous—I can feel the fat simply melting away!”
She waved her hand in the general direction of her midsection, inviting me to agree and—preferably—to shriek at length that she looked simply weak with hunger so she could accept whatever cakes I then pressed her to consume.
I knew the routine.
This was, evidently, why Minerva had failed to notice my mood. This latest diet had something to do with eating shoots and leaves, if I’d heard her correctly, and had come recommended thirdhand from her longtime best friend and diet coconspirator, the horrifically named Dorcas Good-win who was—for her sins—a middle school math teacher. (Yes. The woman was named Dorcas and taught vicious, sniggering thirteen-year-olds. I could only imagine the whispers in the halls, the name-calling in the notes passed in class.)
Their previous diet had involved a series of complicated shakes and revolting powders for a very trying ten-day period.
