by Kaela Coble
“Ally, would you be one of my bridesmaids?” Steph asks.
“I would be honored.” The way she says it is practiced, and I wonder how many brides she has stood up next to over the years. She was probably maid of honor at the wedding of Tara, who (Ally had informed me at Margie’s) married a soldier in college and had a baby six months later. Ally is little Wyatt’s godmother, and when she showed me pictures on her phone I nearly choked. Tara, my old friend, mother to an eight-year-old boy. Emmett refuses to acknowledge his existence, even though they broke up years before Tara and Wyatt’s father got together. Ally doesn’t understand his inability to let it go, but she’s married to the first person she fell in love with. We always feel like our first love is ours forever, far beyond the point when they’re no longer in our lives.
“And, Ruby,” Steph says, “Emmett and I have talked about this, and I know you live in New York, so if you want to say no, we totally understand, but I’d love for you to be one of my bridesmaids, too.”
I’m stunned. “Me?” I can’t imagine she’s serious. I only met her less than a week ago, and she wants me to be a bridesmaid? A moment ago I was wondering if I’d even be invited. If it weren’t for Danny dying, I might not have been.
“Yes,” she says, linking her arm with Emmett’s and exchanging the kind of smile that makes single girls feel all the more single. “Emmett has always said he thinks of you as a sister, and family is the most important thing in the world.”
My eyes sting, and I take a second to swallow back my emotion before I say, “Yes, of course. I would love to be a part of your wedding.”
And just like that, my graceful exit from Chatwick disappears, and I am a member of the crew again. Full-fledged.
We remain stubbornly at our table long after our plates are cleared and both sets of parents drift off. We stir the dregs of our coffee, order another round of mimosas, and toast to Emmett and Steph. We talk about where to have the events leading up to the wedding. Without thinking, I offer to host everyone in New York for the bachelorette party. After it comes out of my mouth, I worry it will sound like I don’t think Chatwick is suitable, or that I don’t want to be bothered traveling back, but Steph squeals in delight, and Elizabeth says something about reenacting scenes from Sex and the City, and the deal is sealed.
We toast to Danny. We reminisce about high school, the last time we were all together. They reminisce about other things that happened while I was in New York or London. I suddenly ache to be a part of those stories somehow, or at the very least for my absence to have been felt. It’s selfish, I know, given that I was the one who left; and it would have been impossible, given what I was carrying around. But I even wish, just a little, that I had never left. That I had made different choices. It makes no sense. Growing up, all I ever wanted to do was get out of here, and now that I’m back and surrounded by my friends, I’m wondering what was so wrong with it in the first place. I knew this would happen when I came home, and perhaps, more than anything, this is why I’ve stayed away so long. This place, these people, these feelings. They’re intoxicating. I’m as much an addict of Chatwick, and the pain and the drama, as Danny was of anything that numbed him. I’ve relapsed after a ten-year run at sobriety.
And now I’m nothing but a junkie.
“Well, I really don’t want to steal you guys’ thunder, but there’s something I’d like to say before Ruby disappears again,” Ally says, looking pointedly at me, before squeezing Aaron’s arm and smiling. Aaron’s eyes widen, and I’m surprised to find him shaking his head at her. She doesn’t see; she’s already turned back to the group. My eyes connect with Aaron’s, and I narrow mine in concentration. It’s no use. Aaron grew up in Chatwick Town and didn’t join our group until high school. The telepathy doesn’t extend to Townies.
After a pause that allows sufficient anticipation to build up, Ally says, “We’re pregnant!”
Everyone stands and another round of excited hugs is exchanged. The boys clap Aaron on the back, making lewd comments about sperm and masculinity, but Aaron remains grim. A feeling of panic courses through me, just as it had when Emmett made his announcement. Why isn’t he more excited? Why didn’t he want Ally to tell us? Did he feel like it wasn’t the right time, or is there something wrong with the baby? I think back to the night we spent at Margie’s, when I could tell Ally was lying. It was when she said her secret was nothing bad. So is there impending doom accompanying this happy news?
Ally reveals nothing as she is questioned about when the baby is due (in the middle of March) and if they are going to find out the sex of the baby (no). Every inch of her is a proud mama. She takes a sip from her glass, and I realize she’s been drinking water while everyone else has been sucking down breakfast cocktails. Thinking back to the night of Margie’s Pub, I remember Ally holding a clear fizzy drink with a straw. I had assumed it was a vodka soda, but it must have been just seltzer.
“Wow! So, Ally, was that what Danny had on you? Was that your secret?” Steph asks.
“Steph, please, let’s not bring all that up again,” Emmett says, more polite in his request than he had been the day of the reading at Danny’s house. He must have learned his lesson about what happens when you tell Steph to shut up.
“Secret?” Krystal asks.
“Oh, it was the strangest thing,” Steph says, turning toward her friends. “Danny had an envelope for each of them, with secrets he knew about them. He told them they had to reveal them to each other ‘or else,’” she says. I am disappointed in my new friend, the way her eyes glisten with the power of information. She is not above the Chat. None of us are.
“Ooooh, what a fun little game,” Krystal says. “Well, let’s hear ’em!” She looks at me as she says it. The feeling that she has it in for me strengthens. Whether Murphy told her about our little rendezvous or she’s just the type of person who is distrustful of new women, I don’t really care. Either way, I don’t feel the need to deal with her attitude any longer.
“I think the key words you missed are ‘reveal them to each other,’” I say, forcing a smile that matches Krystal’s, in that it doesn’t reach my eyes. I want to say more, like “It’s none of your fucking business, and keep your orange nose out of it,” but I don’t want to ruin the happy mood. Krystal and I remain smile-snarling at each other, neither of us looking away until Ally speaks.
“Yes, to answer your question,” she says, breaking the dense air. “That was my secret. I ran into Danny at the pharmacy when I was picking up my prenatal vitamins, and he noticed. I was just too excited to make something up.”
“That’s fucking bullshit!” Aaron suddenly explodes. He shakes off Ally’s hand and launches out of his chair.
“Aaron—” Ally starts, bewildered by her husband’s sudden outrage.
“That’s not your secret, and you know it,” he says, fuming down at her. I’ve never seen Aaron look at Ally like that. Ever since high school, even when the two of them had their stereotypical adolescent squabbles, his eyes always held nothing but patience and admiration when they were trained on her. It was something I was always jealous of, something I thought I saw in Murphy’s eyes, something I definitely saw in Jamie’s. I wonder for a second what Jamie would think of this little crew, and of me suddenly reclaiming my place in it, but the combination of the champagne and my two worlds mentally colliding makes my head hurt.
“What are you talking about?” Ally says.
“I read your secret,” he says. “You wouldn’t open it in front of me, and then you just told me it was about the baby and wouldn’t show it to me. I found it in that compartment in your purse you think I don’t know about, the one with the cigarettes in it.” He stops at this point and gives an aside to the group. “She hasn’t had any in there since we found out she was pregnant.” I’m relieved, not because Ally has finally given up her occasional secret smoke, but because despite Aaron’s fury, he is still clarifying his own anger in order to defend his wife. It’s a good sign.
“Oh, Aaron, you don’t understand,” she says, visibly deflating.
“How could you not tell me you had an abortion?” he bursts out. I can practically hear the sound of a record screeching to a halt as the rest of the dining room falls silent.
Ally’s face drains of all color. “Aaron,” she whisper-yells. “Please sit down, you’re embarrassing me.”
“I’m embarrassing you?” he yells. He grabs his keys from the table and storms out of the emergency side exit.
Ally turns to the group and says, with tears in her eyes, “It’s not true. I mean it’s true Danny wrote that, but I didn’t do it! Aaron is the only man I’ve ever been with, and I never would have done that without telling Aaron about it. I would never have done that, period.” She puts one hand on her stomach, reassuring her fetus of its safety. “I don’t know why Danny wrote that.” Tears spill onto her cheeks, and I put one hand on her back, rubbing gently.
“Come on, I’ll bring you home,” I say. I hug and say goodbye to Emmett and Steph, nod a “nice to meet you” at AJ, Elizabeth, and Krystal (even though the latter was a bald-faced lie), and give Murphy an aggressive slap on the back, saying I will see him at the wedding. It’s a hint that I’m angry, which I hope the rest of the crew doesn’t pick up on. Krystal looks from me to him, searching for signs of threat. I just smile back at her. I put my arm around Ally, who leans into me as we exit the restaurant. It should be the last thing on my mind, but I wish with my whole body that Murphy would come after us, to stop me from leaving. To tell me there is an explanation for the horrible girl sitting next to him. To tell me I mean more to him than Krystal ever could. That he wasn’t simply using me for sex. It seems I’ve been waiting for him to do that for ten years.
Just like before, he doesn’t.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
RUBY
Back then
“So, Murphy, have you talked to Taylor, since . . .?” Ally asks Murphy.
We are on our way to the gym for the stupid end-of-year assembly, the one where they hand out awards for things none of us have—perfect attendance, school spirit, Best Hair (well, Ally’s in the running for that last one, but rumor is it’s going to Gwyneth Grant and her white-girl dreadlocks). Murphy gives me the side eye and then returns to looking straight ahead, not meeting Ally’s gaze or mine. He shakes his head. My heart stops. What is Ally talking about? Does she know something about Murphy and me? Is there some rumor circulating out there that I’m not aware of? Does everyone know; have they known all along, and I’ve been drifting along, thinking Murphy and I are in this secret bubble of shame?
“Well, is she doing okay?” Ally persists.
“I don’t know, Al. I just said I haven’t talked to her,” he says through his teeth.
“What are you guys talking about?” I burst out. I don’t want to have this conversation here, in the hallway outside the gym, with the entire student body milling around us, but I have to know.
Ally looks at me, then at Murphy, her entire face a question mark. “Murphy broke up with Taylor. Last night.” She looks between us again, searching. “How did you not know this?”
I feel my face turning bright red, and I know Ally is already starting to be suspicious, so I tell them I forgot something in my locker and make a break for it. It only takes about five seconds to get lost in the crowd. From time to time, I shoot a look over my shoulder to see if Murphy is following me. I hope he isn’t, because then Ally would definitely know something was up. But when I look back and don’t see him, I’m disappointed, because I want to pull him into a deserted classroom and talk. Or not talk.
I can’t sleep. Murphy is free. There’s nothing standing between us now. Well, there’s no one standing between us. Which means, of course, that I need to figure out what to do. Murphy is still my best friend. I’m still feeling a little guilty Taylor is hurt. I’m still going to NYU, and Murphy is still staying here.
But suddenly all these barriers don’t mean as much as they did before. Now, all I can think about is being with him. Laughing with him, kissing him, making love to him. My heart is racing. I am so happy just at the thought of being with him, I feel like I’m going to burst. I can’t contain it for one more second. I have to go to him. I have to tell him.
I glance at the clock. It’s after midnight on a Thursday. I pick up the phone, but almost immediately put it back in its cradle. There’s no way I can call him. First of all, the last time Cecile slept through a ringing phone in her house was the night Roger died. She never confirmed Murphy had snuck out of the house that night, but afterward, every time Murphy tried to steal the portable from her room, Cecile was wide awake and waiting for him. As much as Cecile and I have bonded, she is still one frightening woman. If I call her house in the middle of the night, my house had better be on fire. Even then, I think she would be displeased with my judgment to call her son instead of the fire department.
Still, I can’t wait to talk to him. I can’t sleep, or stop thinking, or even breathe until I get the words out. I launch out of bed and dress as quietly as possible in sweatpants and a hoodie. Then I change my mind and put on jeans. I’m about to go tell Murphy Leblanc, my best friend since seventh grade, my friend since kindergarten, that I love him. The moment calls for more than sweats. Although we are talking about the guy who once held me down and farted on my head until I threatened to throw up on him. So I keep the hoodie.
I creep past Coral’s room; she is home for the summer only because her recent break-up left her without a place to stay. I’m more worried about her waking up than my mom. My dad is in New York this week, and my mom’s bipolar meds make her sleep like the dead. I know Coral won’t stop me, but seeing her will be my reality check. I don’t want to think about reality right now. I just want to be happy.
I decide not to drive. I don’t want the sound of the engine starting to alarm Coral—and Blue rolling into the driveway would definitely wake Cecile. Plus, the walk will give me a chance to work out exactly what I’m going to say. Unfortunately, it also gives all the doubts I’ve been pondering for a week a chance to creep in. I stop in the middle of the road. I have a scholarship to NYU. Murphy’s not going to come to New York. But he could, right? Or, if he wants some time to think about it, we can do long-distance for a while. It’s not like we don’t have plenty of experience talking on the phone. We live in the same town, see each other almost every day, and we still manage to fill up hours every night with phone chatter. It could work. I mean, we love each other. What’s more important than that? I keep walking.
I stop again. What if I wake up the Leblancs? Or what if they discover me trying to sneak into the house? What if I can’t wake Murphy? It’s a risk I have to take. I have to try to see him right now, before I chicken out. I keep walking.
Right before I get to Murphy’s driveway, I stop again. What if I misunderstood? Prom night is kind of hazy, and maybe Murphy was just drunk and trying to get laid. I mean, he didn’t tell me he broke up with Taylor. Why wouldn’t he tell me that? But I remember the look in his eye when he danced with me at prom, when he whispered in my ear that I was beautiful out in the rain, when he picked me up outside his barber shop, when he put his hand over mine on the way to baseball practice. I keep walking, and this time I don’t stop until I get to Murphy’s house.
I tiptoe down the gravel driveway, sending up a thank you that his bedroom is on the ground floor of the big brick house. His window is slightly open, and I press my ear against the screen. It occurs to me, somewhat irrationally, that Taylor could be in there with him. Maybe she had to see him in the middle of the night, too, to try to get him back. Maybe it worked. But I don’t hear anything but the fan Murphy needs to have on in order to sleep.
“Murph,” I whisper, barely audible. I try again, a little louder. “Murphy.” Nothing. I wonder if I should throw stones or something, like Danny used to. Like he still does sometimes, when he has nightmares and can’t sleep. I think of Danny. What is he going to think
of all this? Will he approve of his friends getting naked and falling in love? Or will he think it a disaster, like I did up until tonight? I decide against throwing stones, mostly because I would feel like an asshole throwing stones when his window is within arm’s reach. I give a light knock on the sill and hear an immediate rustling of sheets. My heart is pounding so hard I temporarily can’t hear or speak as Murphy’s face appears in the window. On the way over, I imagined the conversation would go something like this:
“Ruby. What the fuck?” he would say. (He’s very grumpy when he gets woken up.)
“I need to talk to you,” I would whisper.
“Now? Are you insane, woman?” he would demand.
“No, tomorrow. I just thought I would deliver an in-person twenty-four-hour notice,” I would start to yell.
Then he would meet me at the side porch entrance and we would have a very awkward conversation about our feelings for each other.
Instead, without saying a word, Murphy lifts his screen, reaches down, grabs me under my armpits, and pulls. He knows why I’m here, in the middle of the night, and it’s certainly not to deliver bad news. I use his force to help me scale the short climb and topple into his room. Thankfully his bed is pushed up against the window, like mine, or my leg or arm or face would be broken.
He kisses me, and before I know it my shirt is off, and then his shorts are off, and then everything is off. His mouth moves all over my skin, and I bite my fist to keep from moaning too loudly. I kiss him everywhere, too, and he lets a groan escape. He fumbles through his nightstand for a condom, and I realize this is the first time we’ll have had sex completely sober. But I don’t feel sober. I feel high, like I’m flying. He enters me, his arms framing my head, his hands in my hair. We lock eyes as we make love. Making love. I’m not a virgin, but this is a first.
