“You’re right,” I said. “Most of what I know about friends I learned from you guys.”
Dear Diary,
Jasper, if you’re reading my diary again, I have one word for you: thanks.
M.P.M.
Chapter 31
“Mary!” Doug cried as I walked through the door of Tome Raider that afternoon. “And you’re not alone!”
I was too incandescent with relief to mind being exposed as a pathetic loner. If the shoe fit, and all that.
Arden shrugged out of her coat, draping it over the back of a chair. “What’s on the menu, D?”
“Snow Queen meringues. A fluffy outside with glassy shards of spun sugar in the middle.”
Terry’s hand shot up. “Make mine a double.”
Doug paused on his way to the kitchen. “Did you bring posters for the show, Mary?”
“Uh, yeah.” My cheeks reddened as I extracted the flyers for Othello from my backpack. “You’re all invited to the dress rehearsal on Thursday. It’s friends and family night.”
“How cool.” Arden grabbed a flyer from the stack. “Very VIP.”
“It will be,” I agreed. “Doug’s doing the refreshments.”
“I’m trying something new,” he chimed in, returning from the kitchen with a plate of meringues. “I call them Desdemona’s Pillows. But just between us it’s basically a pastelito.”
Terry reached for a meringue. “My mom makes those.”
“Really?” Doug rocked forward on the balls of his feet. “I don’t suppose she shares her recipes?”
“Yeah.” Terry held a hand in front of her mouth to hide the chewing. “Why not?”
“Great! Would she be willing to email me? I can give you my address.” He patted his pockets, searching for a writing implement.
“Or maybe she could stop by?” Arden suggested.
“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Doug demurred.
“We’ll set it up,” she assured him.
“If you’re sure it wouldn’t be too much trouble, that would be wonderful!” There was a definite spring in his step on the way back to the kitchen, Birkenstocks notwithstanding.
Arden watched the door close behind him. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“About the pastelitos?” It was hard for Terry to concentrate on other things when dessert was involved.
“About your mom. You’ve been saying she needs to get out more.” When Terry looked at her blankly, Arden jerked a thumb toward the kitchen door. “Why not him? He’s single, he’s like a big gentle bear, he can cook—she could do a lot worse.”
Lydia swiped at the corner of her mouth, brushing off meringue crumbs. “I thought we were getting out of the matchmaking business.”
Arden flashed her a look of bewilderment. “Why?”
“Because of . . . everything?” Lydia reminded her. “We can’t just assume people want to be fixed up.”
“Of course not,” Arden said easily. “We won’t assume anything. Terry can ask her mom first.” She bit into a meringue, catching the pieces that crumbled in her cupped hand. “Now that’s settled, let’s go back to that fateful night. What did we miss, Mary?”
“That’s not a very interesting story.” Picture me lying next to a pile of damp tissues: The End. “I’d rather hear about you guys.”
“I’ll go.” Lydia sat up a little straighter. “Pittaya’s a gentleman. Very nice hands. I might see him again. Not that I’m looking for anything serious.”
Arden took a deep breath, visibly restraining herself from demanding details. “Your sister slow danced with Jeff, to a fast song.”
“And I wasn’t jealous of either of them,” Terry assured me.
“That’s everything there is to know about us.” Arden inspected a meringue it as though all her attention was focused there, instead of on me, fooling exactly none of us. “Which leaves you, Mary. And your dance partner.”
“You guys don’t want to talk about that.” I hesitated. “Do you?”
The three of them exchanged looks. “Um, yeah,” Arden replied for the group. “Feel free to skip to the juicy part. What’s going on with you two?”
“Nothing.” It should have been a relief to report this with a clear conscience. Instead I felt a distinct hollowness in my stomach, despite the meringue I’d just inhaled.
“You ghosted on him too?” Lydia asked.
“It’s not like we had a relationship. He’s probably moved on by now.” I tried not to make it sound like a question. Lydia shook her head, meaning either no or I can’t believe how insipid you’re being right now.
“If I can quote Miles for a second, I’m noticing some inconsistencies in your logic.” Arden bit her lip. “It barely even hurt to say his name. Progress!” She allowed herself a small fist pump. “What I’m saying is, if he’s not a player, he’s not a player.”
“I think maybe he’s not.” This was a bittersweet admission, to say the least.
“Ipso facto, he’s into you,” Lydia summarized.
Arden wagged a finger at me. “I had my suspicions a long time ago, after Terry told us how he chatted you up at that party. But then I figured, ‘No, if he was hitting on Mary, she would know.’ Since you’re all about hidden agendas.”
“Ha,” I croaked, for lack of a more cogent response.
“You haven’t talked to him at all?” Terry asked.
“Are you saying I should?” I’d assumed cutting off contact with Alex would be a condition of restoring their faith in me. The punishment must fit the crime.
“We want you to do what you want to do,” Arden said evenly. “As long as it’s the right thing.”
“But I messed everything up,” I reminded her. “Think about your list, and all the work you put into it!”
She placed a hand over her phone, which was resting face down on the table. “Actually, you didn’t go that far off course.”
With exaggerated slowness, Lydia turned to frown at her. “Say what?”
“First kiss,” Arden whispered.
“How was that supposed to be a group outing?” Lydia demanded.
Terry looked thoughtful. “Maybe if it was spin-the-bottle.”
“I didn’t say we all had to be there watching,” Arden retorted. “It’s just one of the milestones of a high-school experience, so I jotted it down. For Mary. Just in case. Totally optional, obviously. She didn’t have to kiss anyone.”
“Which brings us to the real question.” Lydia sat back, arms crossed. “What do you want, Mary?”
My hands knotted under the table. “It doesn’t matter. That bridge is burned. As in, ashes and dust.”
“There’s only one way to find out.” Arden tapped the stack of Baardvaark flyers.
“Put on a thinly veiled dramatic reenactment of our story and see how he reacts?” I guessed, thinking of Hamlet.
Lydia frowned. “I’m pretty sure she means he’ll be at the play to see his sister. On Thursday.”
“Think of it as a do-over,” said Arden. “You say, ‘You know what, I’m kind of into this guy’ and we go, ‘Okay, interesting, tell us more.’ And we take it from there.”
I bowed my head. “Is that really how it would have been?”
“If someone said to you, ‘I have the hots for Alex Ritter,’ what would you say? ‘Ooh, that’s so freaky, I have no idea what you see in him?’ No,” Lydia continued, answering her own question. “You wouldn’t. Because we’re talking about Alex Ritter.”
“Actually, I did say that,” I reminded them. “To Terry. The first time we met.”
Arden patted my hand. “You’re special, Mary.”
Pushing her napkin to one side, Lydia leaned her elbows on the table. “What’s your move?”
“I don’t know.”
“What would a person in your books do?” Terry asked.
“One where they don’t all die,” Arden amended.
“I thought I was supposed to stop relying on books to figure things out.”
“Mary.” Arden’s tone was solemn. “You’re still you.”
“Don’t change yourself for a dude,” added Lydia.
“There is one thing,” I admitted. And it was pretty literary, in the WWJAD sense. “I’ve been writing him letters.”
“And?” Lydia circled a hand in the air. “What did he say?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
Terry sucked in a breath.
“I haven’t actually sent any of them. It was more for me—just to have a way to express things I was feeling.”
Arden nodded slowly. “A love letter. I like it. Old-school romantic.”
“It was really more of a long, detailed apology.” My wrist cramped at the memory. “Pages and pages.”
There was a brief silence.
“Yeah, no,” said Lydia. “That’s not going to work.”
“Think short apology, then straight to the sappy stuff,” Arden advised. “I don’t suppose you know calligraphy?” I shook my head.
“She’s still going to have to talk to him,” Lydia said. “Mano a mano.”
“That means hand to hand,” Terry told her.
“Huh. You get what I’m saying. The letter is like your deposition—”
“Only on beautiful stationery,” Arden cut in. “And maybe you should spritz it with a little perfume.”
“And send him something sweet with it, like cookies,” suggested Terry.
Lydia cleared her throat. “As I was saying, you can start with the letter, but you’ll still have to take the stand eventually.”
“And we’ll all cross our fingers the verdict goes your way.” Arden gave an exaggerated wink. “Because I’m pretty sure Mary checked off another item on my list.”
“Colossal screwup?” I guessed.
She shook her head. “First love-slash-crush. Because you really fell for him. Am I right?”
I nodded. Guilty as charged.
Dear Alex,
I know you don’t remember the first time we met. You talked to me backstage, but when we ran into each other a few days later, you had no idea who I was. Which is part of why I had a hard time trusting you. I was afraid you’d forget me again.
You know that day we were sitting in my backyard and the leaves were falling and you were telling me what it’s like to have a crush on someone? I get it now.
To tell you the truth, I knew then. I was just too much of a coward to admit what I was feeling. Which is why this letter will never be sent. And I’m the only one who’ll know that the times we had together were the closest my life has ever come to the kind of moments that could be in a book.
Love
Affectionately
Cordially
Yours Truly
Regards
Mary
Chapter 32
If ever an enterprise cried out for poetry, it was this one. Unfortunately, in our house all the romantic verse was stored on a bedside shelf in our parents’ room, which for many reasons discouraged casual browsing.
Two days and a dozen failed attempts later, I bent my steps toward the public library. Nodding a quick hello to the librarian on duty, I made a beeline for the Literature and Poetry section. There was no one else around. My finger traced the many-colored spines until I hit the word romantic. Pulling the heavy book from the shelf, I rested it on my knee. From my pocket, I withdrew the latest draft of my letter to Alex, using the flat of my hand to smooth it. It needed to be better. Perfect. Irresistible.
Time passed, and I kept turning pages. I didn’t want a poem that was obviously talking about getting it on. Nor did I want one of the really saccharine odes to rosebuds and cherubs (which were probably also about sex). It needed to be something that felt like me, and my feelings for Alex, in a non-cheesy way. I rolled my shoulders. Maybe the whole thing was hopeless. I’d tell my friends I’d tried, but it was no good.
Tucking the book under my arm, I climbed stiffly to my feet. I needed to walk around, drink some water, get the juices flowing. Preoccupied by my own thoughts, I was oblivious to my surroundings until I stumbled into the study area. It was packed with people of all ages, including a healthy sprinkling of faces I recognized from school. Apparently that was the kind of thing that happened when everyone had final exams the same week.
Since I had no desire to talk to anyone, particularly while in possession of a book of love poems, I kept my head down and hurried on. A pair of legs entered my field of vision. I looked up to avoid a collision.
“Oh,” I breathed, coming to an abrupt halt. “Oh, no!”
“Hello to you, too,” said Alex Ritter.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” I whispered, conscious of our audience. “It’s just—the timing.”
“Well, don’t let me keep you.” He stepped around me, heading for a table with a single empty chair, and three very pretty girls obviously awaiting his return.
“Oh,” I said again. “I see.” My gaze fell to the book of poetry in my hands. Talk about a wasted effort. How stupid of me to think he wouldn’t have found someone else by now.
“What?” Alex stopped with his back to me.
“Nothing.”
With obvious reluctance, he turned around. At the same moment, the letter slipped from my grip. I stood frozen with horror, watching it float through the air. Then Alex reached for it.
I lunged, plucking the page from the carpet and holding it out of his reach.
His eyes narrowed. “It’s obviously something.” Realizing he was trying to read the title of my book, I twisted aside. A white-haired woman cleared her throat, then pointed to the sign on her table: QUIET, PLEASE!
I took a tentative step to the left, sending a questioning look Alex’s way. He sighed but followed me into the cookbook section. When we reached the remotest end of the aisle, I pivoted to face him. My heart was beating so hard, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to speak.
“What?” he asked, arms crossed.
I glanced at the page half crumpled in my fist, then back at him. “It’s a letter.”
“Okay.” He shrugged angrily. “I wasn’t trying to read your mail.”
My toes curled inside my shoes as though gripping the end of a diving board. “It’s yours, actually.”
“You stole my mail?”
I closed my eyes. This was going so well. “It’s to you—from me.”
His gaze fell to the page in my hand. “Do I get to read it?”
“It’s not finished.” In fact, I suspected it might never be finished. I’d keep writing forever, never quite getting it right, until I was a withered crone, and he was a well-preserved movie star with a house on the Riviera and dozens of linen shirts in varying shades of blue.
“You said it was mine.” Uncrossing his arms, he held out a hand. “What does it say at the top?”
“‘Dear Alex,’” I admitted, unable to stop myself from glancing at the telltale words. “But that’s not—”
“Yes, it is.” He locked eyes with me, and even though he wasn’t doing the Smolder or any of his other signature looks, I melted. It felt like centuries since we’d been close enough for a staring contest. Before I could think better of it, I handed him the letter.
“Thank you,” he said stiffly, as though I’d passed him the pepper grinder at a dinner party. “You can read your love poems while I look this over.”
I choked, and not just because he’d spied the subject of my book. “You can’t read it now!”
“Why not?” His thumb stroked the edge of the page, where a translucent spot marred the white paper. “Is this grease?”
“It certainly is not.” I scoffed at the very idea.
“Then what is it?”
“I’d rather not say.”
His nose wrinkled. “Something worse than grease?”
I pressed my lips together, looking away. “They’re tear stains, okay?” Instantly, my face went up in flames.
“Why were you crying?” Alex asked, after a lengthy pause.
His brows rose.
“About everything. You. Me. My sister . . . s. My friends. The past. The present.”
“I get the idea,” he interrupted. “Is that all?”
I looked down. “I missed you. And I wanted to see you so much, but I knew it would never happen because I screwed up so badly. Ugh!” My foot stomped like a toddler’s. “That was supposed to be way more eloquent.” I gestured helplessly at the letter.
He looked at the page in his hands. “Maybe I better read it at home. If it’s a tearjerker.”
“You should definitely wait. I could make you a clean copy,” I offered, leaping at the chance of a reprieve. “This one’s really messy. I should fix it for you.”
“You’re just trying to steal my letter.”
“Look, that’s a blob of avocado,” I said desperately, pointing to another spot.
Alex blinked at me. “You were eating avocado while you wrote this?”
“Guacamole is my comfort food.”
“I like warm milk,” he confided. “With honey.”
“That’s—a really good one.”
“You sound surprised.”
I shook my head, wanting to smile but not sure I had the right. We were drifting toward a semblance of our old rapport. The desire to have him look at me in that teasing way again, to call me Merrily, was a physical ache.
“I’m sorry, Alex.” In the letter, I’d devoted three paragraphs to the subject, naming everything I’d done wrong. Standing here in front of him, the simplest words felt truest.
His jaw tightened. “What about your friends? Do they still think I’m the devil?”
“Not at all. I made a clean breast of it.” An uncomfortable silence ensued, during which we both studiously avoided glancing at my chest. “I told them everything, I mean.”
“They got a letter, too?”
The heat rushed back to my face. “Only you.” I took a deep breath. “You don’t owe me anything, obviously, and you’re probably still mad, but if you do read it, instead of ripping it up or setting it on fire, that would—I would be grateful.”
By the Book Page 26
