by Megan Crane
I just had time to twist my hair back and throw on a pair of jeans and a sweater that I would normally wear only to work but looked like the sort of thing I imagined Naomi Watts might lounge about in on a rustic weekend. I applied a strategic layer of cover-up to approximate the flush of health. I was arranging my magazines into piles—with the more intellectual ones on top, of course, and the weeks of US Weekly hidden below—when my buzzer went off.
As Linus reacted with his usual hysteria, I had a moment to consider just not letting her in. She couldn’t actually make me open the door to her, after all.
Maybe I wanted to talk to her more than I wanted to admit to myself. I pressed the DOOR button.
Helen swept into my apartment moments later looking like an advertisement for Banana Republic’s snazzy winter line. Those who were naturally slim, after all, looked adorable in puffy white winter coats with bulky scarves. It was the rest of us who looked blown up to five times our natural size, as if we were auditioning for the role of the Sta-Puft Marshmallow Man’s girlfriend, not that I’d wanted to wear that coat. I tried not to hold it against her, but failed.
Once inside, Helen patted the very top of Linus’s head in a manner that indicated that a) she didn’t like dogs, b) she specifically didn’t like my dog, c) she suspected Linus might attack her, and d) she would very much like to wash her hands. If it was calculated to get under my skin, it worked.
I watched Helen take in my apartment and tried to imagine the place through her eyes. The same rescued furniture and posters on the wall—although I had actually framed all the posters a few summers ago, after deciding that I could probably upgrade my walls from frat boy chic to something a bit more in line with what I felt my tastes ought to be. I’d only gotten as far as early dorm room, I noticed, having been sidetracked by laziness. Aside from the posters, wherever there was room, there were books. Stacks and stacks of books. Books crammed into mismatched shelves and towers of books up to the ceiling. I liked my books.
I was a sucker for libraries and book collections of any kind, in fact. Give me shelves piled high with books and I was set for days at a time. My favorite private library was the gorgeous little den in Henry’s house, the one I’d spent some quality time in while Nate crashed out in front of ESPN. Henry’s library, of course, was probably for show. No self-respecting member of the New England elite would dream of living in a home without an ostentatious display of intellect. But that didn’t mean Henry had read any of the books himself. Nor did it detract from the gorgeous chocolate leather couches arrayed around the fireplace.
My apartment, needless to say, was not on par with Henry’s house.
“Wow,” Helen said after a moment, pursing her lips slightly and nodding to herself as she settled on the edge of my couch, her back perfectly straight. “I can’t remember the last time I was over here, and it looks exactly the same. Didn’t we have that Picasso poster on the wall at BU?”
She might as well have said, You are still eighteen years old and a fool. My taking Nate was no more than you deserved.
Maybe because what she might as well have said was echoing in my ears, it cleared my head of embarrassment and led me straight into my anger. My deep, cleansing, articulate anger.
“Why are you here?” I demanded without preamble. “Why do you keep calling me, and chasing me into bathrooms, and appearing at my door? Are you stalking me?”
That knocked the little holier-than-thou smile off her face.
“Of course I’m not stalking you!”
“And yet here you are.” I opened my hands wide. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”
“I wanted to clear the air,” Helen said. She let out an affronted sound. “That was all. Trust you to take a nice gesture and turn it into something awful.”
“Which nice gesture is this, now?” I pretended not to understand. “The one when you were running around behind my back with Nate? Or the face-sucking that I walked in on?”
Helen crossed her arms beneath her chest and visibly bit back what I’d bet would have been a nasty comment. We looked at each other, while Linus rolled around on the floor between us, joyful and completely oblivious to the tension.
“You know, I understand that you’re upset,” Helen said coolly. “But I wasn’t dating you. I didn’t cheat on you.”
I opened my mouth, and then shut it again.
Much as it hurt me to admit it, Helen had a point.
I just wanted Nate back. I wanted explanations and apologies from Helen. It turned out that she was the one I was really mad at.
On a philosophical level, I found this appalling. Way back in my college days, I’d concluded that there was nothing more pathetic and wrongheaded than a woman who opted to reserve her ire for the Other Woman. Not her misbehaving partner, who was the one doing the betraying, but the Other Woman, who had presumably never made any promises to the woman, or anyway, none like the ones the partner had made. We used to sit and watch daytime television on Amy Lee’s crappy little set, rolling our eyes at all the betrayed girlfriends who catapulted themselves up and over the cheating body of their man to pummel the woman he’d cheated with. What was that all about, we demanded, waving fistfuls of SnackWells in the air. What does she have to do with the primary relationship? She was just a symptom. He was the problem.
And yet, all these years later, there I was doing the same old tired thing. I hardly knew what to make of myself.
Except the fact that the Other Woman in this scenario wasn’t some faceless creature—she was my friend. Or I’d thought she was my friend. So while it was possible I was betraying the sisterhood by wanting to forgive Nate, I was angry with Helen all on her own merits.
“You’re right,” I snapped at her. “We weren’t dating. But, correct me if I’m wrong here, you and I were supposed to be friends. Friends don’t steal each other’s boyfriends. It’s like the number-one cardinal rule.”
“You and Nate were never going to work out,” Helen said dismissively. “It would have been like Lisa all over again. He would have dated you forever but believe me, nothing would’ve come of it. At least you found out what he was up to. You should thank me for that.”
“Thank you?” I pressed my fingers against my temples because I couldn’t process what she’d just said. It was too astounding. I plowed forward. “You knew how much I liked him! You knew how excited I was about him! And you decided that meant you should hang all over him for the rest of the summer!”
“I did you a favor!” Helen retorted. “You’re supposed to be my friend, Gus. I can’t believe how resistant you are to even the possibility that I might be happy!”
I blinked at her. “What am I supposed to say to that? Do you want me to apologize that I’m not more supportive of the new relationship you have because you stole it from me?”
“Look,” she said, “I’m sorry for my part in this. I just wanted to let you know that. Even though, once you get over being mad about stuff, I think you’ll agree that this is for the best.”
Why did they both keep saying that to me?
“I’m glad you think so,” I replied. “But right now I’m pretty sure that’s never going to happen.”
“I know Nate,” Helen said with a shrug. Then she smiled at me, a big, wide smile. It was alarming, to say the least. “And speaking of Nate, I’m thrilled that you and he are able to be friends again. I know he’s relieved. He never meant to hurt you, Gus. And I’m just so pleased that you can look past your anger with him and remember the years of friendship—”
As was becoming usual around Helen, I found it hard to believe that what was happening was actually happening. And yet . . .
“—Because really what matters here is the friendship. We all need to make sure that no one forgets that, you know?” She seemed to want a response.
“Of course,” I murmured. “Friendship is what counts. As I believe I’ve been trying to point out to you.”
“I knew you’d understand!” she cried.
I’m not sure when it dawned on me that she was doing damage control.
All I knew was that at some point, the more she used the word friend, the more I became certain that anyone who was genuinely interested in encouraging a healing sort of friendship between her current boyfriend and his ex would not haul her ass across town on a weekend to share this interest with said ex. In fact, there was only one reason I could imagine for anyone to invest this much energy in a friendship between two other people, and that reason had nothing to do with the goodness of Helen’s heart or her finer motives. It did, however, have a lot to do with that look I’d seen on Nate’s face the night before. As if there was something only we knew. Helen must have seen more of that exchange than I’d realized. It must have worried her.
Hallelujah.
Finally—finally!—Helen had overplayed her hand.
I couldn’t help myself.
I gloated.
Because there was one thing I knew about dirty, underhanded girl politics, whether it involved that girl or not: nobody wanted another woman to be friends with her boyfriend to this degree, unless she was very worried indeed that friends wasn’t what her boyfriend had in mind at all.
Which meant something glorious.
Nate still had feelings for me!
Nate still wanted me!
Enough, at least, to get Helen all up in a tizzy.
Gloating felt good. It felt, in fact, like summer in the middle of November gray. I let myself bask in it.
“I really hope you understand,” she said at last, studying my expression as she wound down. “I just want what’s best for everyone.”
“Believe me,” I told her, unable to hide my smile. “I understand you perfectly.”
chapter ten
I would have liked nothing more than to spend the next week or so going over Helen’s every word, movement, and facial expression with Amy Lee and Georgia, but I was foiled by the national holiday.
The fact that it was Thanksgiving week meant that Georgia was pulling twenty-three-and-a-half-hour shifts at the office in order to get some time off to see her mother, which was obviously nonnegotiable. She was also, she told me in hushed tones, planning to keep seeing Jethro or Jamie or whatever his name was, whom she’d met at the Park Plaza. I could tell by the way she told me that he was already getting slippery, some three days after they’d first met.
Thanksgiving week also meant that Amy Lee was consumed with her usual holiday rage over her mother-in-law’s historic inability to say what she wanted, which inevitably resulted in her not getting it, which led directly to tears and recriminations when Amy Lee just wanted to eat turkey. Neither one of them had time to parse Helen’s visit for clues. I had to pretend to be gracious about it.
The fact that it was Thanksgiving week also meant that I would have to wait until December—next week, sure, but it felt like forever—to see Nate at one of the many holiday parties I knew were coming. He couldn’t actually call me, of course, not after everything that had happened, so I had to try to be patient and wait for a party. Once there, I was gleefully sure, things would fall back into place, Helen could chase someone else’s boyfriend, and everything would be fine again.
I barely slept Tuesday night, because I had to go home and issue the usual holiday press releases about my life to my family. It wasn’t that I felt I had to lie to them about anything—I’d simply learned over long years that it was better to wrap up the bullet points of my existence into easily digested sound bites. The more positive, the better. I usually spent most of November crafting the appropriate little nuggets of information to share when I headed home. Thanks to Nate, Helen, and Henry in equal measure, I’d left the crafting until too late, and had to cram it all in at the very last minute.
Which was another way of saying I had some wicked insomnia Tuesday night as I lay awake, coming up with perky nuggets to fling around the Thanksgiving table.
Examples: Work is great! I’m so lucky to have such an advanced position so early in my career. Minerva’s a dream to work for—I have complete autonomy to conduct whatever research I want and to organize the collection the way I like. Or, because I hadn’t told them about dating Nate in the first place, so I hadn’t told them about his defection, either: No, I’m not seeing anyone special, but you know I have other things on my mind. Minerva’s thinking of expanding the entire library . . .
Toward dawn, I gave up my frustrated attempts to sleep and moved into the living room, where I sat with a comforter wrapped around me and channel-surfed until the clock hit nine and I could take Linus to the kennel. My sister had requested that Linus not join the family this year, since her youngest son was working on a fear of dogs—possibly the fear Linus had instilled in him the previous year with his version of “kisses.” I’d reluctantly agreed, since Linus was a walking failure of obedience classes. He was also kind of psychic—wherever you least wanted him to go (like the baby’s face), that was where he would head immediately. Like some kind of hairy homing missile.
Getting Linus to the kennel was a process. It involved tricking him into thinking he was going on an innocent morning walk, and then coercing him through the door to the vet’s office with various bribes: bacon, pleading, and assorted dog biscuits. Or anyway, that was the plan.
Linus was no fool. He was having none of it.
He took one look at the vet’s front door and hurled himself onto the ground where, every five seconds or so, he would twitch impressively as if undergoing electroshock therapy. No amount of tugging on his choke collar could move him—unless I wanted to actually hurt him, which I really didn’t.
At least not at first.
“Come on, Linus,” I tried to croon, as suspicious citizens hurried by on their way to work, no doubt planning to call the ASPCA from the next block to report the obvious cruelty I was inflicting upon my poor, defenseless dog.
Yeah, right. I glared down at him. His gray-and-tan fur stuck out in all directions, making him look like a surly, canine Einstein. Linus was so ugly that he became cute—or at least, I’d always thought so—but one thing he wasn’t was defenseless. I could see that cunning, defiant look in his eyes even if no one else could.
After about a half hour of this nonsense, when I was just about ready to hire the nearby, bemused homeless guy to lift Linus up and cart him inside for me, Linus condescended to rise from his protest position—which was completely prone, across the sidewalk, feigning death. And not because of anything I did, but because he was probably either cold or bored. I dragged him inside—ignoring his jaunty little trot, which was his version of flipping me the doggy bird—and filled out the necessary paperwork.
“Oh no,” I assured the anxious-looking receptionist. “He’s actually fine. That wasn’t a seizure. He just likes to act up.”
“Dogs aren’t people, you know,” she told me with a sniff. “They don’t actually perform unless trained to do so.”
You must be a bird person, I thought, or possibly a fish person, whoever they are. I showed her my teeth in an approximation of a smile.
“You don’t know Linus,” I told her.
“I know dogs,” she retorted, crossing her arms over her scrubs. “They don’t have agendas. They’re pets.”
I wanted to vent my spleen in the worst way possible, but I was already late for work, so I was forced to smile instead, and fume about her all the way to the Museum, where Minerva insisted upon celebrating her Puritan ancestors by dressing in period costume and forcing me to eat “harvest stew.” (About which I refused to think, as I had some serious concerns about the ingredients.) Afterward, she
served pumpkin muffins from the local bakery, which were at least edible.
After work, I raced home and commenced shoving things into a bag. Jeans—but only the pair without any tears or distressed patches, as my mother had made her feelings plain about torn clothing back in the eighties. (Not a fashion choice she’d supported, let’s just say.) I piled in a few sweaters and was digging into the terrifying back of my closet for my ancient pair of Timberland boots when my buzzer rang. Early, as usual.
Narrowly avoiding death when an entire pile of bags tottered over and rained down on me, I lurched to my feet and through the living room toward the door.
“Yes?” I asked through the intercom. I braced myself as I pressed the LISTEN button.
“DOUBLE PARKED!” my father roared, knocking me back a few feet. I suspected that he didn’t quite believe in the concept of intercoms, and that was why he always bellowed into mine. But I knew better than to make him wait too long, and hurried downstairs just as soon as I wrestled the zipper shut on my duffel.
“We’ll catch up after I make it out of the city,” Dad said after the obligatory cheek-kissing. “You wouldn’t believe the traffic. Boston is a parking lot as far as I can tell.” He frowned at my doorway. “Can’t believe you still live in this place.”
As this was a variation on the same theme he trotted out every time he was forced to taxi me about for holiday get-togethers, I only smiled and directed my attention out the window at the dark night settling all around us.
I ordered myself to relax. It was marginally successful.
Despite the dorm room decor of my apartment and my constant envy of Georgia’s wardrobe, I thought as my father navigated the holiday traffic headed north out of the city, I had just about everything the average woman on the cusp of thirty could want. I lived where I wanted to live, had a job I loved, the two best friends in the world, a larger social circle that meant lots of invitations, and a romantic situation that, while complicated, was looking up. At least I hoped it was. As far as I could tell, I was back on track to having it all.