By the Book

by Amanda Sellet

  I stepped back just far enough to see his face, my palms resting on either side of his shirt buttons. “Alex.”

  “Merrily.”

  We looked at each other for a long moment, not quite smiling. When he kissed me again, I wrapped my hands around the back of his neck, both to hold him in place and because I’d secretly wanted to touch his hair forever. It was silkier than I’d imagined, the texture softer than mine.

  Aha, said a distant part of my brain. So this is why people make a big deal out of kissing. It was like the first sip of a milkshake, dizzyingly sweet and delicious in a way that made you want to keep drinking forever.

  We were both breathing unevenly when we broke apart. He leaned his forehead against mine.

  “Is it always like that?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like if I kissed someone else—”

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  “Good.”

  “It was, wasn’t it? Good, I mean.”

  “It was fine.”

  “Fine?” I repeated, outraged. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not at all. Why, did you have any doubt? I knew the two of us would be a solid B-plus.”

  I shoved his shoulder.

  “Ow.” He rubbed that spot. “You have to leave something to aspire to, Merrily. For next time.”

  I didn’t have long to wonder if he was speaking hypothetically, of some future occasion that might never arise. When he kissed me again my lips were slightly parted, which led to the revelation that French kissing was neither slimy nor gross.

  This discovery was so absorbing I didn’t hear the gym doors clank, or the footsteps heading in our direction. It wasn’t until a voice called my name—not, I suspected, for the first time—that the world came crashing back into focus.

  Dear Diary,

  I used to think the term pathetic fallacy referred to a poorly constructed argument, but it’s actually about the weather, and making it seem like nature has human emotions. Which is why it’s always stormy in Wuthering Heights, because even the wind and the rain are caught up in the tempest of dysfunctional behavior.

  M.P.M.

  Chapter 26

  Arden was the first to reach us. She yanked me away from Alex. “Are you okay?”

  No. No, no, no. It was the only word my brain could form. My lips must have moved, because Arden rounded on Alex.

  “How dare you?” Wrapping an arm around my shoulders, she pulled me to her side. I felt like a mannequin, stiff and unwieldy.

  Alex rubbed his forehead. “I’m not sure what you think is happening here. Mary—”

  “Don’t even think about it.” Lydia shoved between us.

  Alex leaned sideways, trying to catch my eye. I knew he was waiting for me to explain. But what could I say? It just happened. Part of me hoped if I stayed very quiet, everyone would forget I was there.

  Unfortunately, they were all staring at me. I put a hand to my cheek, certain it must have hardened like clay inside a kiln from the heat of my embarrassment.

  “It’s okay, Mary.” Arden stroked my shoulder. “We’re here now. You’re safe.”

  “Mary,” Alex began, and I cringed at the entreaty in his voice.

  “She doesn’t have to talk to you.” Arden waved a hand in his face.

  “I think she does, actually. Mary,” he said again.

  Forcing my eyes open, I took a deep breath. “It’s not . . . ah mmm.” I bit my bottom lip and was briefly lost in the memory of what that mouth had been doing mere moments ago.

  “You don’t have to explain,” Arden said soothingly. “We know how men are. Especially him.”

  My mouth opened. It was imperative to tell them it wasn’t his fault, that what they’d seen had not been a case of the hardened seducer leading the naive young maiden astray. But I couldn’t make the words come out.

  “Stockholm syndrome.” Terry’s voice was heavy with sympathy.

  Lydia glared at Alex. “It’s lucky we got here in time.”

  There was an agonizing half minute during which I might yet have spoken up, telling my friends the truth. And then my time ran out. Alex raked a hand through his hair. With a last disbelieving look at me, he shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away.

  “And don’t come back,” Arden yelled after him.

  The only response was the heavy door to the outside slamming shut behind him.

  Arden wrapped her arms around me. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that. We shouldn’t have left you alone.”

  To my horror, I felt my eyes well with tears. My friends surrounded me, murmuring reassuring words, but their kindness only made me feel worse.

  Gently, Arden turned me in the direction of the doors. “Let’s get you home.”

  “I’m going to grab our coats,” said Lydia, still scowling ferociously.

  “I’ll let Cam know we found her.” Terry turned to follow Lydia.

  “Cam?” A fresh wave of horror washed over me. “Don’t tell her about the . . . other part.”

  My teeth chattered as we stepped into the parking lot.

  Arden squeezed my shoulder. “We’re almost there.”

  “But the dance . . . you don’t want to leave. And Pittaya?”

  “Lydia can catch up with him later. Or he can suck it up. I don’t really care.”

  When we reached her car, Arden opened the back door, closing it behind me before hurrying around to the driver’s side. She glanced at me in the rearview mirror as she fiddled with the temperature controls. Terry and Lydia arrived a few minutes later, handing us our coats as they climbed inside. They looked from me to Arden, waiting for a cue. I turned my face to the window.

  As we left the lighted parking lot, the air seemed to grow heavier, weighing me down. What was I doing? It was like I’d stumbled into an alternate life where everything I did was backwards and wrong.

  Arden angled a vent so the hot air hit me full in the face. “Are you warm enough?”

  I nodded, though in truth I was flushed and perspiring. Could regret make you sweat?

  Lydia twisted in her seat to look at me. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

  Arden flicked on her turn signal with more than necessary force. “I bet he found out it was your fault Terry wouldn’t go out with him, so he decided to target you next. Men are the worst. They shouldn’t even be allowed out of the house.”

  Had it really been an elaborate revenge plot? Everything in me rebelled at the thought. “No,” I whispered. Even to me, it sounded weak.

  A light rain had begun to fall, mixed with sleet; Arden switched on the wipers. “You don’t have to make excuses for him,” she said. “That’s how they get away with all their crap. ‘Oh, he didn’t mean it. He’s just so busy and important, and you’re too silly to understand the pressure, wait quietly and maybe he’ll remember that you exist if he has an extra five minutes to spare!’”

  She was breathing heavily when she finished. Lydia stared at her, eyes narrowed, before speaking. “Pull over.”

  “What?” Arden checked her mirrors. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want to argue with you while you’re driving.”

  Frowning, Arden steered the car to an empty stretch of curb a few blocks from my house. As soon as she was parked, she turned to Lydia. “Why would you argue with me? I’m not the bad guy. I think we all know who that is. Starts with an A, ends with an X.” She made a slashing motion with her finger.

  “Are you sure? Because it sounded like you were talking about Miles just now.”

  “All guys are the same,” Arden retorted. “Ask Mary.”

  Lydia shook her head. “This has always been about Miles, and you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your obsession with getting everyone coupled up, because romance is so great! Dating, dating, dating, guys, guys, guys.” Lydia fluttered her fingers. “No wonder M
ary fell for Alex’s BS. What if we hadn’t found her in time, and something even worse happened, just because you didn’t want to deal with the fact that your relationship was over!”

  “Excuse me? What have I been doing for the last two days?”

  “It’s been going on a lot longer than that.” Lydia set her jaw. “You didn’t want to admit it, because you couldn’t stand the idea of not having a boyfriend. What could be worse than being single!”

  “That’s not why—”

  “And now you’re miserable, and you wasted two years of your life, and for what?”

  “I didn’t waste my life.” Arden’s voice quavered. “We were happy for a really long time.”

  “Until you weren’t, which you refused to acknowledge, so instead you created this big distraction.” Lydia circled a hand in the air, taking in the four of us. “Way to model healthy lifestyle choices.”

  A choking sound emerged from Arden’s throat. “Thanks for the judgment. I really needed that tonight.”

  “I’m just saying, did you ever stop to ask yourself if you still wanted to be with Miles, instead of putting up with his crap? Maybe you should have dumped him.”

  “You would have liked that, wouldn’t you?” Arden said bitterly.

  Lydia squinted at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ve always resented Miles. You never liked it when I spent time with him instead of you. Do you know how hard I had to work to keep you from getting jealous? Like I needed the extra stress!”

  I caused this, I thought, ribs tightening like a vise. If the argument escalated much further, their friendship might never recover, and how would I live with myself then?

  “It was me,” I said, before either of them could accuse the other of something worse. “This whole thing is my fault.”

  “No, it’s not.” Arden rubbed her eyes. “This started way before we met you.”

  “I mean with Alex.”

  Lydia’s mouth compressed into an angry line. “You physically overpowered him and forced him to stick his tongue down your throat?”

  “He asked me to dance, but that was just being nice. Since I was alone.”

  “Some guys can smell weakness,” Lydia said. “They always go after the vulnerable ones.”

  “Why were you in the hall?” Terry asked quietly.

  “He thought I was shy about dancing in public.”

  “And then?” Lydia said in her courtroom voice.

  “We just kind of . . . kissed.”

  Lydia didn’t hide her skepticism. “Out of the blue, Alex Ritter asked you to dance and kissed you and you decided, why not?”

  “We talked once or twice. Before tonight.”

  Arden frowned. “You never mentioned that.”

  I looked at my hands, knotted in my lap. “I wasn’t sure what to say. It felt awkward.”

  “Talking to Alex?” Lydia asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Talking to us.” Arden’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. “But we trusted you, Mary. I trusted you.” She broke off, shaking her head. “I broke up with Miles because of what you said. And the whole time, you were seeing Alex Ritter behind our backs?”

  “I didn’t mean to,” I said miserably.

  Excuses crowded my brain. I didn’t realize! I was too naive to understand what it meant when he teased me, or touched my hair, or stood close enough to whisper in my ear! But it was too late to play the ingénue, when I’d been pretending to know it all. Nor could I stomach another half-truth. Every time I’d kept Alex a secret, I’d deceived all of us—myself included.

  “He had lipstick on his neck.” Terry didn’t present the information as a gotcha, but it was damning nonetheless. “Forensic evidence,” she added, sounding almost apologetic.

  “I don’t believe this,” Lydia said.

  “I’m sorry.” Choking on a sob, I threw open the car door and ran.

  Dear Diary,

  Whenever I heard the phrase dark night of the soul, I used to imagine Christmas Eve, when you’re too excited to sleep.

  Now I know better.

  M.P.M.

  Chapter 27

  I cut through a side yard, heels sinking into the wet grass. The street, when I darted across it, was slick with sleet, but I managed to stay upright long enough to reach my house. Shivering, I hurried up the steps and through the front door.

  I stood on the rug in the entryway, arms limp at my sides, aware of nothing but my own misery and the hot streaks coursing down my cheeks. After several minutes of this, the increasingly urgent need for a tissue forced me to move. I’d taken a few steps toward the downstairs bathroom when I noticed the soft jazz wafting from the living room. A glance in that direction revealed flickering candlelight, empty wineglasses—and my parents.

  I stared at them in horror. They looked back at me with equal dismay. On top of everything else, I’d interrupted date night.

  “What’s wrong?” Mom asked, pulling her legs from my father’s lap and leaping to her feet. She crossed the room to wrap an arm around me.

  “Nothing,” I said thickly, wiping my nose and cheeks with the back of my hand. “It’s raining.”

  They exchanged a look, silently debating whether to call me on the world’s most transparent falsehood.

  “Come sit down,” Dad said, patting the couch cushion.

  “That’s okay.” I tried to sound stoic. “I just want to go to bed.”

  Mom led me to the couch. “What happened?”

  I shrugged as I settled between them. It was easier not to cry if I kept my mouth closed.

  “Mary.” She lifted my chin to get a better look at my face. “You’re worrying us.”

  “I did something ba-ad.” A hiccupping sob split the last word before I managed to clamp my lips together. Mom’s hand tightened on my shoulder. I caught a flicker of panic in her eyes before she schooled her expression.

  “Talk to us,” Mom said. Dad pulled the afghan off the back of the couch and draped it around my shoulders, as if that would help.

  Strangely, it did. I let out a shuddering breath. “I was at the dance,” I began, not sure how much backstory to give them. “And there was this guy—Alex.”

  Dad scratched his chin. “The one you spoke to at Trivia Night?”

  I blinked at him in surprise before nodding.

  “Handsome fellow,” he observed. For a second I lost control of my face, mouth wobbling as my eyes wrinkled into teary slits.

  “Why don’t you make us some tea?” Mom suggested, patting Dad’s knee.

  He looked from her to me. “That might be for the best.”

  Mom waited until the kitchen door swung closed behind him. “First of all,” she said, pressing my limp hand between both of hers, “there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  I gave a sputter of disbelief.

  “The early stirrings of love can be confusing, particularly in their physical manifestations. But as long as both partners share a mutual respect and consideration . . . ” She trailed off, jaw tightening. “It was, wasn’t it?”

  She’d lost me. “What?”

  “A joint decision.” She enunciated the words carefully, watching my face. “You didn’t feel compelled, or coerced, to do anything you weren’t ready for?”

  I stared back at her with mounting dread. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about whatever you want to talk about. In a spirit of openness and acceptance.”

  “I kissed him, Mom. That’s it.”

  “Oh, thank God.” She covered her eyes with one hand. “You’re much too young. I was trying to be broad-minded, but I don’t think either of us is ready for that.” Leaning forward, she yelled, “You can come back. It’s not about sex.”

  I closed my eyes as the last word reverberated through the house.

  Dad stuck his head through the doorway. “It’s not?”

  “Just a kiss,” Mom assured him.

  The kettle whistled
. “I’ll be right there,” Dad promised, ducking back into the kitchen.

  Mom patted my hand. “We’ve been meaning to have the Talk with you, but to be honest we assumed we’d have more time. Or that you’d ask one of your sisters,” she added hopefully.

  “It’s not about that. I mean, it is, but it’s not.” Could I even form a sentence anymore? I closed my eyes to stop another gush of tears.

  Dad bustled into the room, setting a steaming mug on the coffee table in front of me before handing one to Mom. “What did I miss?”

  “It is and also isn’t about the kiss,” Mom recapped.

  I wrapped my hands around the hot mug, pulling it close to my face. The steam eased some of the stiffness. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

  “Because?” Dad said leadingly.

  “Because I told everyone he was a bad person. But now I think maybe—” I drew a ragged breath, “I’m the bad one.”

  Once I started talking, the words poured out. From Alex liking Terry and how I’d kept them apart, somehow kicking off three wonderful friendships, to our vexed efforts in the dating arena, including the misguided setup with Jeff.

  “Your friends encouraged you to pursue your sister’s boyfriend?” Dad interrupted.

  “That was before we realized. And now I think maybe Terry likes Cam too. And Miles and Arden broke up because of something I said! It’s a catastrophe.”

  “It is a bit melodramatic,” Dad agreed, which did not strike me as a helpful observation.

  The tears flowed anew. “I ruined everything. They’ll never want to be friends with me again.”

  Mom’s brows drew together. “Because you kissed the boy your friend wasn’t dating?”

  “No! Because it makes everything I ever told them look like a tissue of lies!” Part of me hoped they would argue the point, but that wasn’t my parents’ style. They took their time mulling my words, making contemplative sounds—a lingering hmm in Mom’s case; head scratching for Dad.

  “Can’t you tell your friends what happened?” Dad asked at last.