By the Book

by Amanda Sellet

  Lydia pressed her lips together in an angry line, nostrils flaring. I suspected she was counting in her head. “Can you at least tell us what happened?” she said in a more measured tone.

  “Fine.” Arden bowed her head. “I’ll give you the short version. You know at Mary’s birthday, how everyone was so brave, laying all their feelings on the line?”

  I gave a reluctant nod, not sure I would have characterized the evening in quite that manner.

  “It made me realize it was time to talk to Miles about some things, so I decided to do what Mary said, and last weekend I drove to the conference center where he was having his tournament.”

  “I said that?” I pressed a hand to my chest.

  “Like the lady in the book,” Arden reminded me. “The one who goes to surprise her husband, but then he thinks she’s someone else?”

  My stomach landed in my shoes. The last thing I’d intended was for Arden to use The Tenant of Wildfell Hall as a blueprint for her own life. Even by Brontë standards, that plot was over the top.

  “And?” Lydia prompted. “Did he know it was you?”

  “Yeah. Only he wasn’t very excited to see me—especially after I let it slip why I was there. He wasn’t happy about me not trusting him. Or the part where I was trying to trick him.”

  “What happened then?” Terry asked.

  “He had to go to his next session.” Arden bit her lip. “I felt bad because he was obviously upset, and he didn’t exactly get to look over his note cards.”

  “Boo-freaking-hoo,” Lydia cut in.

  “Miles said he’d call me later,” Arden offered. I couldn’t tell whether she meant it as a defense of his behavior or was simply relating the next step in the story. “So I went home and tried not to completely fall apart.”

  “Why didn’t you text me?” asked Lydia. “I would have come over!”

  “Because I was hoping everything would be okay. I figured I could tell you when there was a happy ending.” Arden blinked hard. Caught up in the blow-by-blow, I’d forgotten we already knew how this story finished.

  “Did he call?” Lydia pressed.

  “Yeah. The next day. That’s when he said it was too much, and he couldn’t keep me happy and fulfill his other quote-unquote obligations, so maybe we should take some time apart.”

  “But that’s not the same as breaking up,” Lydia said eagerly. “It’s temporary.”

  Arden pressed her palm to her stomach, inhaling in a series of staccato breaths, each one accompanied by a tiny squeak.

  “Are you hyperventilating?” Terry asked.

  She shook her head, lips fluttering as she released a long exhale. “Lamaze breathing.”

  A nearby chaperone jerked her head in our direction. Oblivious, Arden continued her respiratory exercises. Lydia gently steered her toward a deserted corner.

  “What are you doing?” Arden gasped between breaths.

  “Going where none of the teachers will assume you’re in the middle of a Lifetime movie.” Satisfied we were out of earshot of any adults, Lydia crossed her arms. “Okay. Go ahead.”

  “I lasted almost three days, and then I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I called him back and told him to go ahead and do it if he was going to break up with me.” Arden paused. “That was . . . a pretty long call. I was a tad emotional.”

  “Because you’re not an android,” Lydia said at once.

  “Tell that to Miles,” Arden sniffed. “He said he couldn’t handle the drama.” She shrugged. “That was that.”

  Terry’s mouth moved as she counted under her breath. “So you broke up with him on Wednesday?”

  Arden lowered her chin in a shaky nod. “I thought he might change his mind. But he hasn’t.”

  There was a beat of silence before Lydia grabbed her by the arm. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll put on pajamas and eat junk food and you can scream and jump up and down, because I freaking love your drama—”

  “No!” Arden pulled away. “You don’t understand. This”—she gestured at the crowded gym—“is the only thing keeping me going. What does it say on my list? The Big Dance. Not Breakups and Ugly Crying!” Her hands twisted. “I can’t lose Winter Formal on top of everything else.”

  The four of us stood there in fraught silence until Terry said, “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I don’t want to end up like that freaky lady Mary told us about who got dumped at the altar and spent the rest of her life staring at a rotten wedding cake.”

  “Miss Havisham,” I supplied.

  “If that’s what you want.” Lydia’s voice was heavy with reluctance.

  “It’s not like I’m completely alone, right? I still have you guys.” Arden lifted her chin. “But I’m not going to get sappy right now, because this is a party.” Squaring her shoulders, she beckoned to a guy in combat boots and mad scientist glasses. “Hey, Michael. Do you want to dance?”

  “Totally.” He held out a hand to Arden, and the two of them disappeared into the crowd.

  “Wow,” said Terry.

  “She’s got skills,” Lydia agreed. Catching sight of Pittaya threading his way toward us through the throngs of people, she started in that direction. “See you on the dance floor,” she tossed over her shoulder in parting.

  Terry and I exchanged sheepish smiles. So this was how it felt to be a wallflower, another circumstance I’d read about but never experienced for myself.

  “Do you want to sit down?” I indicated the scattering of small round tables and folding chairs, which were meant to approximate a Parisian bistro (the paper napkins had pictures of croissants).

  Terry turned to follow me, coming to an abrupt halt when a boy I vaguely recognized from my English class stepped in front of her with a hopeful smile. Terry sent a questioning look my way; I shrugged helplessly. If there was a graceful way to decline such an invitation, I had no idea what it was.

  As my last companion joined the swaying mob, I set off in search of a less obtrusive place to be alone. Skirting the edge of the dance floor, I passed a line of bored-looking teacher chaperones. At the other end of the gym there was a long table draped in blue plastic, topped with a smattering of glittery snowflakes and a mostly empty punch bowl. I picked up a paper cup, wincing as the sugary flavor hit my tongue. The tragic fate of Arden and Miles was still sending shock waves through my system, and this wasn’t going to do my already unsettled stomach any favors.

  “Is it that vinegar stuff?” asked a familiar voice.

  I spun to face Alex Ritter. “What?”

  He nodded at the cup in my hand. “You’re giving it a really nasty look.”

  “It’s not about the punch. Though it is pretty gross.” I tossed the half-full cup into the nearest garbage can.

  “So how did it work out?” He waggled his fingers at me. “Your scheme?”

  “Not so great. I mean, your advice was fine, but there were unforeseen complications.” To put it mildly.

  “You’re here alone?” It was hard to pinpoint his tone. Not surprised, but not entirely blasé either.

  “Sort of, but not really.” I frowned as a new thought crossed my mind. “Who did you come with?”

  “Apparently I should have asked Phoebe, since the two of us are so close.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Of course they’d told him; the whole cast and crew of Othello was probably laughing at my expense, not to mention their friends and extended family. After an agonizing few seconds, I managed to look him in the eye. Or rather, the chin. “I felt bad for you. I thought you’d been cuckolded.”

  “That sounds painful.”

  I opened my mouth.

  “I know what it means, Merrily. And I appreciate your concern.”

  “It’s all so confusing,” I said heavily.

  “My family tree?”

  “People. Relationships.” As so often happened in his company, my words leaped ahead of my brain. “Why do couples break up?”

  “In my vast experience, you mean?” He sh
rugged. “Lots of reasons. A person changes. Or loses interest. Or meets someone else.”

  “But doesn’t that mean they should never have been together in the first place, and the whole thing was a mistake?”

  He regarded me thoughtfully, head tipped to one side. “You know, my mother is a real estate agent.”

  “Okay.”

  “She says the only way you learn what you really want in a house is by living in a few that miss the mark—no en suite master bath, or a detached garage. That’s how you know what to look for the next time around.”

  I blinked at him. “That’s your metaphor for love? Buying and selling houses?”

  Alex shrugged. “It’s more realistic than thinking the first person you date is going to be your soulmate.”

  However reasonable on its face, this sounded suspiciously like a justification for playing the field. Not to mention the high probability of personal unhappiness. “I think it would be less painful if everyone waited until they were really, really settled in life, like maybe in their thirties, to get into a serious relationship. Just to minimize the odds of heartbreak.”

  “But you’d miss out on so much.” He fixed me with one of his patented stares: half smolder, half amusement.

  “Like what?”

  “Meeting new people. Hearing their hot takes on relationships. Dancing.” He held out a hand, palm up. “Shall we?”

  I frowned. “Are you being serious right now?”

  “I never joke about dancing.”

  I cast a desperate look at the maelstrom of bodies. If I said no, he’d think I was a coward. But if I said yes . . . I had no idea what would happen. If only my friends were here to advise me.

  My friends! What if they looked over and saw me swaying in Alex Ritter’s arms?

  “I can’t.” The words were aimed at my feet. When I risked a glance at Alex, he lowered his chin as if reaching a decision.

  “Come on.” Taking my hand, he led me through the crowd, carving a winding path toward the far end of the gym.

  When we reached the exit, I hesitated. “Where are we going?”

  He gave me one of his rakish grins. “There’s only one way to find out, Merrily.”

  I didn’t let myself think about the fact that he’d probably used that same smile on dozens of girls before me, or that I’d read far too many cautionary tales to be taken in by such an obvious lure. Alex leaned against the door, and I followed him into the darkened hall.

  Dear Diary,

  Why do people in books always let themselves do things they know they’ll regret? It’s like they’ve never heard of self-control. I just want to yell at the page, Stop! Before it’s too late!

  M.P.M.

  Chapter 25

  He backed past the glass-walled trophy case, tugging me gently in his wake. The sounds of the dance were muffled, like the distant thump of a clothes dryer.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  I said nothing, unwilling to expose my ignorance by asking, For what?

  “It’s easy.” He stepped nearer, placing one of my hands on his shoulder while his other arm circled my waist. “Just follow my lead.”

  My full attention was on the feel of his palm against my back, so it came as something of a shock when he started counting, one-two-three, one-two-three, stepping forward on the second one. I had no choice but to move with him, stumbling slightly in my heels. Alex tightened his grip to steady me.

  “You know how to dance.” It came out slightly breathless, as we rounded the corner at the far end of the hall. Really dance, I meant. With a partner. Not like the scrum I’d witnessed in the gym. At the same time part of me thought, Of course he can dance. Alex could probably work up a decent sonnet or arrange flowers, too—anything that fell in the broader wooing category.

  “My sisters made me take lessons with them at the rec center. There weren’t enough guys signed up for the class.” He pulled me to a stop. “I can just about fake my way through a waltz.”

  I blurted the first piece of information that popped into my head. “It used to be considered scandalous—the waltz.”

  “You sure you’re not thinking of the Lambada?”

  I shook my head. “Back then the dances had a lot less contact.” My hand sketched the distance between our bodies, until I realized what I was doing and dropped my arms to my sides.

  “I wonder what they would have said about the junior high sway.”

  Seeing the blankness of my expression (my old school had not gone in for dances), he drew my hands up to his neck. Placing his palms at my waist, he pulled me closer.

  “Nice dress, Merrily.” His gaze was warm across the bare skin at my shoulders and neck.

  I pretended to be fascinated with something behind him, though the only thing on the wall was a tattered poster about the importance of hand-washing during cold and flu season. “We just rock back and forth?”

  “Yep. It’s like a hug set to music.” He crossed his arms behind me, narrowing the gap between us even further.

  “This is a lot closer than a waltz.” My voice sounded as wobbly as our side-to-side movements.

  “Shocking,” he agreed as his cheek came to rest against mine.

  “My sisters let me come to their stage combat class,” I said, when the silence was too much.

  He leaned away far enough to look at my face. “Is that your way of telling me to back off?”

  “No. It’s just an anecdote. About sisters.”

  Although we were no longer dancing, neither of us moved away. At this distance, he hardly had to raise his voice above a whisper. “You know, if your sister marries my sister, we’ll be related.”

  “I already have a brother. One is plenty.”

  He gave an exaggerated sigh. “And here I was dreaming of family holidays. Group photos. Summer vacations.” I rolled my eyes, which only seemed to encourage him. “You and me, Merrily. Roasting chestnuts in our matching holiday sweaters.”

  “Have you ever actually roasted a chestnut? They’re impossible to peel and you end up stabbing yourself in the cuticle about a hundred times. It’s a nightmare.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched. “So much for that fantasy.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “I can be a little bit of a wet blanket sometimes.”

  When he didn’t respond, I took a breath, thinking maybe I should explain what I meant—and then his mouth touched mine.

  My eyes flew open. He was already pulling away, the contact so fleeting it was over as soon as it began. “Why did you do that?”

  He seemed bemused by the question. “You tell me, Merrily.”

  “Um, shock value?” I racked my brains for another possibility. “Or maybe because I was being pathetic, and you wanted to change the subject?”

  Alex smoothed the hair back from his forehead. “I can’t say I gave it that much thought.”

  “So it was like an accident.”

  “I didn’t trip and land on your mouth, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “An impulse, then,” I suggested. “Like walking past a bakery and thinking, ‘Hey, I could go for a doughnut’?”

  “Are you calling yourself a doughnut, Merrily?”

  I was too busy wondering which kind I would be to answer. Apple fritter? Jelly-filled? No, wait: an old-fashioned.

  “You’re frowning, Merrily. Was that . . . not okay?”

  “Hmm? Oh. No, it was fine.” Except I wished he’d given me a little notice, so I could have concentrated. The whole experience had been so abbreviated that when I tried to summon the memory, all that came to mind was a hint of softness, followed by a mild heart attack.

  “Fine?” he repeated.

  I lifted a hand to rub the lower half of my face before remembering my lipstick. “You know what I mean.”

  “I don’t actually.”

  “I wasn’t offended,” I assured him, since that seemed to be his primary concern.

  “Uh-huh. So it was ‘fine’ and also inoffensive?” />
  “I’m not saying it was bad,” I clarified. “Just different. From what I expected. Not that I expected you to—you know. But if I had, I would have thought it would be more, you know.” I broke off, searching for the right word. “Elaborate.”

  Without breaking eye contact, he raised my hand to his lips and placed a kiss above the knuckles. “More like that, maybe?”

  I swallowed. “Maybe.”

  Turning my hand over, he pressed his mouth to the center of my palm. “Or this?”

  I gave a microscopic shrug, not trusting myself to speak.

  “What about this?” he murmured, brushing a kiss against my cheek. “Is that how they do it in your books?” He dipped his head, breathing a feather-light kiss at the base of my neck.

  I was too busy enjoying the feel of his slightly roughened skin against my throat to reply. He pulled back, watching me. I got the distinct impression he wouldn’t go on until I answered.

  “They don’t go into a lot of detail. You have to read between the lines.”

  “For example?” He was watching me with an expectant air. It occurred to me that Alex often looked at me that way, as if I might at any moment say something delightful and surprising.

  “Like two characters go on a carriage ride and end up taking a detour through the woods. She lets him kiss her and the next chapter she’s having a baby and naming it Sorrow.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Tip of the iceberg. She ends up stabbing the guy later.”

  His hand came to rest on my shoulder, thumb lightly brushing my collarbone. “The good news is you can’t actually get pregnant from kissing.”

  “I know that.”

  “Just making sure. I wouldn’t want you to shank me.”

  I glanced down the darkened hallway. The music from the dance was faint as a lullaby.

  “Should we go back?” he asked, following the direction of my gaze.

  “Why?” I was frowning up at him as though he’d proposed a barefoot walk over broken glass. My reaction seemed to please him. Bending forward, he brushed his lips against my earlobe, making me shiver.

  The entire situation felt dream-like, free from the rules of ordinary life, so I let myself act without thinking, stretching up on my toes to kiss his neck, and then his ear. His hands tightened at my waist, which I took to mean I was doing it right.