Once and for All

by Sarah Dessen

  I laughed. “That seems kind of extreme.”

  “You don’t know my guys,” he said. “We’ve been mocking each other since we were in diapers. It’s like an art form. I’m never going to live this down.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “We have this thing called striking a deal,” he said, rubbing his free hand over his face. “Like an exchange program for embarrassment. You pick one to trump another. I was willing to do just about anything.”

  “Obviously.”

  “So,” he continued, “I agreed to have a Lexi Navigator song as my ringtone until graduation. And if anyone asks about it—and of course, they do—I have to tell them I’m her number one fan and show this picture.”

  With that, he turned on his phone again, typing in a passcode. A few swipes and there it was: Ethan, in a BROWNWOOD LACROSSE T-shirt, next to Lexi Navigator, who was wearing a red leather bodysuit and devil horns, her face covered in glitter. You gotta live, indeed.

  “And this is better than the world knowing you cried at her song?” I said, clarifying.

  “Of course it is!” he said. “This way I just look quirky. With the tears, possibly mentally unstable.”

  “You sure about that?” I asked, looking at the picture again.

  He made a face. “Anyway, the deal is this: if I ever don’t answer by saying I’m a big fan and showing the picture and they hear about it, they’ll post the video and kill me with shame. We shook on it.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “And these are your friends?”

  He flipped to the next picture, of all of them around Lexi Navigator. “My best friends. Believe it or not.”

  “I believe it,” I said, leaning against him as he moved to another picture of their group, this time in the limo. All cute, athletic boys, clean-cut and grinning. Jilly would have been in heaven. “But I have a question.”

  “She smelled great,” he said. “Everyone asks that.”

  “Not my question,” I replied.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “The deal is you have to say you heart Lexi and show the picture when people ask about the ringtone, correct?”

  “Yup. Until graduation.”

  “But when I asked,” I continued, “you told me the real story. Why?”

  He put the pie pan aside and turned to face me, now wrapping both of his hands around mine. “Lulu. I’m pretty much having the best night of my life. Why would I tell you anything but the truth?”

  I felt my face get warm, hearing this. It wasn’t the nickname, or the assurance that I wasn’t the only one who felt this night was special, although I’d turn over these things again and again later, remembering. Instead, it was this last question, the inverse of how I knew I, myself, felt concerning just about everyone else in the world. For safety’s sake, we learn to be less honest at the beginnings of things, not more. But Ethan was different. With him and me, it was always about the truth. Why would I tell you anything but? It was the closest thing to “I love you” a boy had ever said to me. Maybe it meant even more.

  CHAPTER

  11

  IF YOU’D asked me, it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. But of course, nobody had asked me.

  “Is Ambrose here?”

  I looked up from my laptop, where I’d been studying the seating arrangements for that weekend’s wedding. A pretty girl in shorts and a button-down shirt, her red hair pulled back in a headband, was standing just inside the main door of the office, a picnic basket over one arm.

  “Um,” I said, looking toward the back room. He wasn’t there; he’d left a few minutes earlier with another girl, whom he’d introduced to me as Hajar. “He’s actually at lunch.”

  “Oh.” Her disappointment was immediate and obvious. “Do you know where he went?”

  I shook my head. “Sorry.”

  She twisted her mouth, either pouting or thinking or both. Then she set the basket down, pulling out her phone, and quickly typed in a message. A moment later, I heard a ping. “Oh,” she said. “He says he’s in a meeting?”

  The fact this was phrased as a question suggested I was supposed to dispute it, or at least give an answer. Instead, I just shrugged, smiling, and went back to my tables.

  I heard her type something else. Then she said, “Well, I guess you can do sandwiches for dinner, too, right?”

  I was not sure why I was still involved in this exchange. Glancing up, I saw she was watching me, again expecting a response. “Guess so.”

  At this, she smiled, like I’d said much more than these two words. “Okay if I leave a quick note?” she asked, picking up a Natalie Barrett Weddings pad from the table between us. This time she didn’t wait for an answer. She just started writing.

  Too many tables at this wedding, I thought to myself as I went back to my work. At least it was a sit-down dinner, so we wouldn’t be directing traffic at a buffet.

  “If you could give this to him,” the girl said, forcing me to look up again, “that would be great.” She was holding out a piece of paper, folded into a neat square.

  I put it on the table, above my own papers. “Sure thing.”

  “Thanks so much!” A clink, then a creak, as she hoisted the basket again and started for the door. Once outside, she slid on a pair of sunglasses before walking away.

  I filled in another table with names, all the while aware of the folded note nearby, AMBROSE written on the top in a curling, girlish hand. I had the oddest urge to open and read it, although I had no idea why. His love life was none of my business or concern. But it was annoying to have to run interference for him while he was off having lunch and I was still working.

  That said, I had to admit (but would not have aloud, not to anyone) that having Ambrose as a co-worker wasn’t actually all that bad. Sure, there was his tendency to break things—a stapler and tape measure had suffered the same fate as the tape dispenser in his short employ—as well as the constant chatter that now filled the time I used to spend organizing place cards in silence. But in truth, he was funny, and I often had to bite back my own laughs as he prattled on about his various misadventures while we sat working side by side. Like, perhaps, scheduling two lunches at once. I couldn’t wait to hear about that one.

  About twenty minutes later, stomach grumbling, I took my own break, walking over to the coffee shop for an egg salad bagel. The line was long, and I ended up back by Phone Lady, who was set up at the window counter.

  “. . . so I said, you don’t have to tell me about health concerns,” she was saying, her voice carrying as always. “I’m a cancer survivor! Four squamous cells in two years scraped off my shoulders and back. And I still managed to pay my rent and bills.”

  A pause, but a short one. Whoever Phone Lady was always talking to, they never seemed to get much of a word in.

  “I never wanted a tenant anyway. We renovated that garage apartment for Martin, so he’d have a place for his pinball machines and model trains. That’s how good I was to him! And you know how that turned out.”

  Ahead of me, a woman in a black business suit, an ID badge of some sort clipped to her jacket, exhaled loudly. I wanted to tell her to save her breath. I’d heard people outright tell Phone Lady to hush and she barely batted an eye.

  “I know my rights as a landlord,” she continued now. “And I’m not afraid to evict, no sir. But it’s just so unfortunate. I thought having someone in that apartment would be a good thing. Just my luck. I don’t get good things, I guess.”

  Hearing this, I craned my neck to see how many people were still ahead of me. I could handle Phone Lady’s complaining, her detailed stories of the slights of co-workers and relatives, even the long-winded stories about her cats’ health issues. But the sad stuff and self-pity just wasn’t worth an egg salad sandwich to me. I had enough of that in my own head.

  Luckily, the busi
nesswoman and guy behind her had simple orders, so soon enough I was on my way. As I pushed out the door, holding it for a man carrying a baby, Phone Lady was saying something about having joined a dating website. Better him than me, I thought. The stories just went on and on, whether or not anyone was there to listen.

  I’d planned to bring my food back to the office to eat. On my way, though, I saw Ira, tied up by a bench in a shady spot right next to the stationery store, a blue bandana around his neck. Clearly, Ambrose had discovered that the couple that owned the store, Emily and Florence, were huge animal lovers. I was actually surprised he wasn’t already just hanging out inside. When Ira saw me, he sat up, wagging his tail.

  “Hey, bud,” I said. He responded by wiggling harder, his front end now joining in, going the opposite direction. “You thirsty?”

  He wasn’t. His water bowl, a custom job with his name on it—something I just knew a girl had purchased for Ambrose—was full. Still, when I took a seat and untwisted my own bottle, I poured a bit in, topping him off. Obligingly, he drank. Then, after sniffing at my sandwich from a distance, his long whiskers twitching, he turned in a circle and lay at my feet, his head on my shoe. Again, I was not a dog person. Or an animal person. But it seemed rude to move, so I didn’t.

  A moment later, my phone rang. Even without the caller ID I would have known it was Jilly, based only on the noise in the background—children’s voices, engaged in some sort of argument, a baby wailing. “Hello?” I said.

  “Hang on,” she replied. Then: “Everyone HUSH I am on the PHONE or NO ICE CREAM for ANYONE.”

  The noise volume dropped noticeably, although I could still hear Bean, sputtering.

  “Hey,” Jilly said to me. “What are you doing?”

  When I heard from Jilly while she was in the throes of sibling caregiver duty and I was doing something alone, peacefully, I was always self-conscious about it. “Working,” I said. “And eating lunch. What’s up?”

  The phone was pierced by a bloodcurdling shriek, which she ignored, saying, “Oh, the regular. Shuttling between food trucks and lessons, play dates and diaper changes.”

  “You just passed the ice cream place,” I heard Crawford say in his flat monotone.

  “Shit,” she said. The girls howled in protest, saying something about bad words. “Oh, like you haven’t heard it before. And there are other ice cream places.”

  “Not like that one.” Crawford again.

  “Can you please shut up for one second and let me talk to Louna?” she snapped. Silence. Temporarily. “Okay, quickly: I left it with Devon that we’d meet him and his buddy tonight at À la Carte for dinner at seven thirty.”

  “Devon?” I asked. “Who’s that?”

  “The mock UN guy I met at the student government convention. I told you.” She hadn’t. But Jilly was always talking to different guys, so I wasn’t exactly shocked that one had slipped her mind. “Remember? They’re civilized dinner people. He had on a sport jacket!”

  Which was the equivalent of her kryptonite. But not mine, and I hadn’t agreed to anything even resembling this. “Jilly. I don’t want to have dinner with strangers.”

  “And you don’t want to go dancing with strangers. Or go to a party with strangers. You don’t want to do anything with anyone.”

  “How did we go from strangers to anyone?”

  “Everyone will be a stranger as long as you insist on never meeting people! What happened to making memories?”

  I sighed, looking down at Ira, who was drooling on the pavement beside my foot. “Why do all our memories have to involve people I don’t know?”

  “Because,” she said, as Bean hollered again, “this is the summer for you to get used to meeting guys again. You have to get these first few bumpy awful dates out of the way. Swine before pearls, and all that.”

  “And when, exactly, will the pearls arrive?”

  “In the fall at college, probably. But if you’ve already done this, the awkward hard part, meeting them will be easier.”

  “So you’re saying I should head into dinner tonight expecting disaster.”

  “Well, that’s a bit strong. More likely a lack of chemistry, or just boredom. But just consider the numbers. With Ethan, you hit the lottery your first shot. It takes a few tries, just based on odds, before you can expect to win again.”

  This was just the kind of twisted Jilly logic that always sucked me in, the type that sounded outright crazy . . . until it didn’t. “Fine,” I said. “Have you seen the guy I’m supposed to be paired up with, or is he purely a theoretical?”

  “I have actually laid eyes on him. His name is Tyler. He had on a sport coat, too, for what it’s worth.”

  Which was nothing, as I saw enough formal wear. In my mind, though, I pictured rolling dice, slowly warming to the idea of aiming to gather losses rather than worrying about winning. If I really was cynical girl, then this was my kryptonite. “Okay. I’ll see you at seven thirty.”

  “All right!” she crowed, and I heard her beep the horn as punctuation. “That’s my girl. I gotta go. Love ya!”

  “Love ya back,” I replied, although I was pretty sure she didn’t hear me. As I put down my phone, I had a flash of the jughead guy at the party: in her thinking, strike one. How many more before I’d earned a decent hit? I guessed I would find out.

  Just as I thought this, I saw the girl with the picnic basket coming back across the courtyard. At the exact same time—how was this possible?—Ambrose and Hajar were approaching via the opposite entrance. They were holding hands, each of them carrying a cup from Lotus Sushi. Ira and I were in the middle, the dead center point where these two parties would collide. I felt my stomach clench. Ira started barking.

  “Ira!” Ambrose called out, seeing only the dog. Ira barked again, excited, while I made a point of looking directly at the girl with the basket, willing Ambrose to follow my gaze. Finally he did, suddenly slowing his pace, as if he could put off this confrontation with space alone. Nope.

  “Ambrose?” I heard basket girl say, from my left-hand side.

  “Jenna!” he replied, from my right. Beside him, Hajar, in a red maxi dress and sandals, gave a tentative smile. “You’re here!”

  “I brought you lunch,” she said, not smiling at all. “Like we discussed last night?”

  Now Hajar’s face changed. She looked at Ambrose. “I thought you stayed in last night.”

  “I did,” he said quickly. Jenna put a hand on her hip, physically contesting this. “With Jenna. Actually.”

  Now everyone looked tense. Except for Ira, who was wagging away, trying to get to Ambrose.

  “I’m going back to work,” I said delicately, moving to step around the dog.

  “I should, too,” Ambrose said immediately. “The boss is a real bear about lunch breaks.”

  He wasn’t getting away that easily, though. “Were you really with this girl last night?” asked Hajar as I slipped past her. Ira, having no luck with Ambrose, tried to follow, his nose bumping my leg. “You lied to me?”

  “I didn’t lie,” he said. “The plan was to hang at her house and watch a movie. And—”

  “He stayed until three a.m.,” Jenna finished. “Him and his dog.”

  Hajar looked at Jenna. “Well, did he tell you we were together this weekend? He went out to eat with my entire family.”

  Clearly, this was news to Jenna, who responded with, “So you’d already done that when we met on Monday at the movie theater?”

  I was clear of this threesome now, free to go. I felt bad for Ira, though, his stretched-out leash still tangled around one of Jenna’s ankles, looking from the girls back to Ambrose like a confused child.

  “Monday?” Hajar demanded. “You said you had to stay home with your sister.”

  “Who then decided she wanted to go to a movie,” Ambrose said quickly. Glares at him f
rom both directions. “Ladies, I did go to the movies Monday and I stayed in last night. I haven’t been untruthful to anyone here.”

  “Oh, so you don’t lie,” Jenna said. “You just don’t tell the whole truth.”

  “Is there a difference?” Hajar asked.

  “Well, if we’re splitting hairs,” Ambrose said, “then yes. It’s vast, actually.”

  “Vast?” Jenna repeated, whether because she didn’t get the sentiment or the word itself, I wasn’t sure. Hajar, over the semantics, just loosened the top of her drink and threw the contents at Ambrose, then walked away.

  Whoa, I thought as Ira dove for the ice cubes. Jenna unwound his leash from her foot, then shifted the basket to the other arm.

  “Well,” Ambrose said, rather magnanimously, smiling at her, “and then there were two.”

  “You’re an asshole,” she replied. Then she walked away as well.

  In the silence that followed, I wished more than ever that I’d abandoned this scene when I had the chance. I was embarrassed enough; I couldn’t imagine how Ambrose felt. But as he crouched down in front of Ira, shirt stained wet with cola, and scratched his ears, he appeared largely unaffected, as if this kind of thing happened all the time.

  “She left you a note,” I told him, just to say something. “Jenna. Before, when she came by.”

  “Oh, thanks.” He stood again, then checked Ira’s bowl. “But I’m pretty sure whatever it says no longer pertains.”

  I nodded, then started toward the office. A moment later, he fell into step behind me. I said, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.” So agreeable. I was beginning to think this was a regular occurrence.

  “Why do you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  I stopped and faced him, shielding my eyes with one hand. “Juggle two girls at once. It clearly won’t work, at least not for long. And you can’t enjoy getting busted.”