The Last Plus One

by Ophelia London

  “I got it from a book, most likely. That’s where I learn a lot of words.”

  “Fancy. No wonder they let you into this place.”

  “You haven’t read any books?”

  He tilted his head. “A few. Sometimes. I’m more of a science guy myself. Test tubes, microscopes.”

  “Let me guess. You’re going to discover a cure for cancer.”

  “Acne, I hope.” He rubbed his chin ruefully, to make fun of a zit that had popped up just this morning. “I thought once I hit eighteen and became a college man, these suckers would go away.”

  She giggled at that, and Tom felt a flush of triumph. He did it! He made a hot college girl laugh! ”Do you want some concealer?” she asked.

  “Tempting. But I’m not sure I want you to remember me as the guy who wears makeup.”

  “It could be an improvement over the other things I have to remember you by.”

  He made a face. “Yeah. I’m the guy in the corner.”

  “It’s pretty memorable.”

  “Note to self—maybe not the best pickup line.”

  “What else would you use?” The question held amusement and interest. Things were going awesomely. Time to get serious.

  “What’s your major?” He’d been practicing that one all summer.

  “Communications and media,” she said.

  He nodded. “I can see that.”

  “Really?”

  “You’ve got the face for TV and the wit for Oh No They Didn’t.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “It was meant as one.”

  “I have to go meet my roommate,” she blurted out.

  Nice job, Harrington. What had he done wrong? Mentally Tom kicked his own ass. Verbally, all he said was, “Oh.”

  “We made these plans a week ago,” she said, a simple explanation that didn’t make the sudden rejection feel any better.

  “It’s cool. Don’t worry about it.”

  He tried shrugging it off, but she bit her lip, and dammit, that made him more disappointed. “I’d invite you along, but…” She let that drift off, an obvious halfhearted attempt to include him. Which was nice of her. Maybe her roommate was a bitch, or some socially awkward geek. Maybe she was doing him a favor. Tom always tried to see the best in people.

  “I’m kind of tired, anyway.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Hanging out in corners gets exhausting.”

  She smiled, and right then Tom knew he’d give this girl a second chance. A third, fourth, hundredth. “Maybe I’ll see you around on campus?”

  “Sure. Definitely.” He smiled back. “I’m sure we’ll run into each other. Columbia isn’t that big.”

  Tom tagged along for a few more holes but then begged off, claiming that he needed to check on some patients and telling the rest of the groomsmen that he’d join them in Tyler’s suite to get ready for the ceremony. When he climbed into his truck, he caught sight of the dirty old blanket that he’d thrown over Claire—had it only been a few nights ago? Damn. He rubbed his forehead. Boom. She’d come back into his life like the Fourth of July fireworks show over Bar Harbor. Sparkle, color, and a whole lot of noise: that was Claire Portelli. The only question was, after the boom, what then? Like fireworks, did they dive into the water and fizzle? Did they stay mad at each other for another seven years? Because unlike Tyler and Laurel’s storybook relationship, Tom and Claire’s story had never been easy.

  Chapter 14

  It had been over twelve hours since he’d seen Claire. To Tom, that was eleven hours and forty-five minutes too long. He had to admit he’d missed her, especially now, for some reason. He was dressed in his tuxedo, surrounded by bustling assistants and assorted teary relatives of the bride and groom, and for the first time in his life he wanted to see a woman walk down the aisle.

  The fact that it wasn’t his bride, that it was Claire… Well, reality had packed it in and gone home for the weekend. He had to accept that he and Claire had gotten their heads filled with all the mushy love and romance in the air, the toasts about soul mates and eternal vows and all that. The other guys looked as miserable as he probably did, probably wondering what the hell they were doing here, dressed up in monkey suits when they could be on the beach, grilling some meat. They sure weren’t thinking about an impossible woman who had made his life hell and gotten under his skin.

  The nice church lady in a bright yellow dress told them when it was time to go into the church, and Tom felt a rush at the thought of seeing Claire. In his mind, she was standing in the church, like she had the night before at the rehearsal, in that lace dress that was demure and distracting all at once.

  But, of course, as soon as the groomsmen filed into the sanctuary, and he saw all the new people, the guests packed in pews like crabs in a basket, he remembered that the bridesmaids didn’t come until later, after the groom and his buddies got to sweat it out for a while. It was some kind of medieval ritual, to make sure the groom didn’t bounce or something. Tom wondered if everyone here knew that Tyler was one hundred percent devoted to Laurel Ramsey. Heck, he was practically levitating out of his shiny shoes until he could see his bride.

  Not that Tom was counting the minutes for the music to start. No, he was cool. He was looking at the flowers. He’d never paid attention to flowers before, but these had been picked out by Claire. He remembered Laurel telling him about the visit to the florist. Laurel had laughed about it, about how Claire had a “vision” for the bouquets and a “talent” for color.

  Tom eyed the arrangement at the front of the church. Coral blooms and velvet violet petals and tiny white buds like sea spray mixed all together. And these were Claire’s design. For the first time in his life, he was getting a funny feeling from flowers, there, in his chest. More floral bunches wrapped with ribbon perched on the ends of the pews, and Tom’s eyes followed the light blue carpet all the way to the doors.

  Somewhere, a harp started playing. This was it. It was starting. Tyler straightened his shoulders, the doors opened, and…

  Someone’s crappy kids walked in.

  The crowd loved the little girls with golden curls, the little boy in a seersucker suit walking Laurel and Tyler’s beagle mix Ronald down the aisle with a pillow tied to his back. But Tom felt the tightening in his chest again. Kids, dogs—of course they had an effect on him. Yes, he was a man, but he was a man with a heart. More than that, he was a veterinarian. He was supposed to love dogs and little girls with disobedient curls like Claire’s…

  The harp ended, then the organ started. Over the heads of the groomsmen and the reverend, hundred-year-old pipes blew some ceremonial tune that got Tyler to actually wipe his brow. Hawk reached over and patted his best friend’s shoulder, and Tom glued his eyes on the back of the church as a line of women in satin and lace glided through the archway.

  BOOM.

  Claire.

  BOOM.

  Claire with her wavy hair loosely wrapped up, cleverly hiding her now-faint head wound, holding a bouquet of coral and violet and white, the colors of his Maine shoreline, of ripe blueberries and wild sea spray and lobster shells. She was sparkle and noise and home.

  At some point, Tom was dimly aware of Laurel entering the church and Senator Ramsey placing her hand into Tyler’s. The man in a collar spoke and a Bible verse was read, and maybe someone sang a song? Tom wouldn’t remember. He was a man, and men didn’t pay attention to these kinds of unimportant wedding details.

  Sometime during the ceremony, Claire looked at him and he was eighteen again. They were in a dimly lit room with loud music and he was awkward and uncomfortable until he saw the woman who made him say stupid stuff about hanging out in corners.

  She was it.

  He’d always cared for her. Even when they’d been at each other’s throats. He’d give her chance after chance, just so they could get to this moment and he could stand here and look into her eyes.

  To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for wors
e, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.

  Tyler and Laurel repeated the traditional vows and Tom had to wonder if the words meant anything to them. They were a perfect couple, who, according to Laurel, had never gone to bed angry.

  What did people like that know about “for better for worse”? How could two people come to this place and swear before God and everyone that they’d stick it out if they hadn’t hated each other for years? It seemed impossible to Tom that anyone could say those words if they didn’t know, with a hundred percent absolute certainty, that they’d been through hell and they’d go through it again, just for this one person who they understood better than anyone else in the world.

  Of course Tyler and Laurel loved each other. Anyone could see it as they slid rings on each other’s fingers and kissed excitedly. They would be happy and live perfect, perky lives together. But how could they promise second chances when they’d never had to give each other a third or fourth chance?

  He waited his turn, and then it was him and Claire, her arm linking through his. This wasn’t the time for big conversations, but he leaned down and said in her ear, “You did a good job with the flowers.” She looked a little confused, a little pleased, not unlike the eighteen-year-old freshman he’d tried to pick up by claiming she’d stolen his corner.

  It was more than enough. For now.

  Chapter 15

  The wedding party waited in the vestibule of the tent to be announced. Mentally, Claire ticked off the events that were happening in the tent next door. At the DJ’s station. In the kitchen. Everything seemed to be running like clockwork, and if it didn’t, well, so what? Laurel and Tyler were married. They were blissfully in love and thrilled that everyone that they cared about was surrounding them.

  Because Claire had made it easy for them.

  No. She knocked that bitter, petty thought out of her mind. She wanted to arrange the perfect day for them, for Laurel. That was what best friends did.

  Claire took a deep breath and focused on the memory wall that Bits and Tyler’s mom had put together a few days ago. The photos of Tyler and Laurel as babies, teens, and then as a couple showed the perfect all-American Ken and Barbie. Claire’s attention was drawn to one on the far left. It was probably taken in the spring of their freshman year. There was Claire, whose curls still hadn’t adjusted to New York humidity. There was Laurel, in a sundress borrowed from Claire. And there was Tom.

  Laurel had a bright, hot-pink smile on, like she was the only one in the room that didn’t feel the tension between her roommate and her boyfriend. Of course she didn’t. Claire had never told her how it had all started.

  Laurel and Claire’s dorm room, freshman year

  “What do you think?” Laurel twirled in front of Claire, her polka-dot skirt flaring around as if this was a Shirley Temple movie.

  In the six weeks they’d lived together, Claire and Laurel had become best friends. Laurel was everything Teen Vogue had said she was: intelligent, philanthropic, funny, and Claire adored everything about her—everything except her horrible, horrible taste in clothes.

  Claire bit her lip. The red polka dots made Laurel look like a 1930s doll or a sixty-year-old Republican senator’s wife. After a lifetime of wearing private school uniforms and campaign outfits selected by political strategists, Laurel Ramsey had absolutely no fashion sense.

  Claire’s dilemma was real. How did a girl gently tell her new best friend and roommate that one should never—ever—wear red polka dots on a first date?

  “You’d look beautiful in a paper sack,” Claire said honestly, if incompletely.

  Laurel searched her roommate’s face. “Really? You’re always so cute and you make it look so easy. I always feel like I’m getting it wrong.”

  Guilt bubbled up in Claire’s throat. She had to say something. But Laurel had looked so optimistic and excited when she’d pulled this rayon nightmare out of her closet.

  “Well…” Claire thought quickly. “Do you know where he’s taking you? You want to make sure the outfit fits the location.” She said a silent prayer this was an active date—the batting cages or a sporting event of some kind. Then she could make the argument that the dress and (my God) white patent leather Mary Janes weren’t the best idea.

  Laurel named a new American cuisine restaurant that Claire had read about in the Times magazine before raising her eyebrows at Claire. “So what about you—have you seen the cute guy from the mixer yet?”

  The guy in the corner. She’d told Laurel about him during a late night gabfest fueled by Red Bull and chocolate chip cookie dough. They hadn’t talked long, but he’d been the only guy at Columbia that she’d been interested in so far, and she knew nothing about him except he was probably a science major of some kind.

  “I told you, wear something slutty and hang out in front of the science buildings,” Laurel said, which made Claire laugh.

  “I’m not going to stalk him.”

  “It’s not stalking someone to make yourself strategically available for discovery.” Laurel winked at Claire and turned back toward the full-length mirror the girls had duct-taped on the closet door. “So yea or nay on the dress? Tell me honestly. With Janine in California, I need you to be my voice of reason.”

  It was a huge honor to be not only Laurel Ramsey’s friend but to be her substitute sister. Claire took a deep breath and said, “We can do better.” She started pulling some options out of the closet. She didn’t have much, but what she did have was a thousand times trendier than rayon polka dots, and thankfully they were about the same size.

  “Maybe you can help me with my hair, too?” Laurel threaded her fingers through lackluster dishwater-blond locks. “You’re so lucky your mom is a stylist.”

  Lucky? Cyndi Portelli was a single mom working days at the Hair Cuttery and picking up extra shifts at the mall during the holidays to get the store discounts to buy Claire and her sister clothes for the year.

  “I guess,” Claire murmured, thinking of the Ramsey political dynasty and how Laurel hadn’t memorized the names of the staff of the financial aid office like Claire. She laid three outfits on Laurel’s bed. They weren’t the fanciest labels, but Claire had learned a lot from reading fashion magazines at the Hair Cuttery and then working at the mall herself once she turned sixteen.

  “Wow.” Laurel immediately gravitated to the blue dress. “You remind me of Diana Cooper.”

  Claire’s mouth dropped open. “You know Diana Cooper?” The legendary editor of Couture magazine had been an idol of Claire’s for as long as she could remember.

  Laurel nodded. “She rescues poodles.”

  Claire wasn’t sure why that would explain any relationship between the two.

  Laurel got an excited gleam in her eye. “Oh, I know! You should intern for her! You guys would get along perfectly!”

  Claire put her hand on her chest. Diana Cooper. Couture magazine. This couldn’t be real. But Laurel misinterpreted her shock.

  “I’m so dumb. Of course, you want to go back home to Pennsylvania in the summer.”

  “No!” Claire and Laurel were both shocked at how vehemently that came out. “I mean, I would love to intern for any magazine. I’m not going back home.”

  “Ever?” Laurel asked with a disbelieving smile.

  Claire couldn’t explain to Laurel what it was like. The stifling small town. The dead ends. The zero growth. At fourteen, Claire had set her sights on New York and never looked back. This was where things would happen for her, where she could reach a potential that Cushion, Pennsylvania would never allow.

  “I’m staying in New York,” Claire affirmed. “Until all my dreams come true.”

  With Claire’s hot rollers in her hair, Laurel was shimmying into Claire’s navy tank dress when she saw the time on her watch. “Can you do me another favor? My date’s supposed to be here in fifteen minutes. Could you go let him in downstairs?”

  Given that most college men weren’t the most pun
ctual of people, Claire grabbed a book to read while she waited and trotted down the three flights of stairs toward the main entry of their dorm, and was almost there when she passed the dorm lounge and her heart jumped. As if by magic, Cute Science Major Mixer guy was there. Here.

  Claire had no makeup on. She wore a Columbia sweatshirt and nearly threadbare running tights, but she wasn’t letting this moment pass her by.

  “Excuse me, have you paid for that corner?”

  Science guy looked up in surprise. Then a slow smile spread across his face. “I’m renting it by the hour.”

  “Sounds like a bad financial decision.”

  “I’ll tell my accountant to look into it.” They stood looking at each other with goofy smiles.

  Claire finally remembered where she was. “So.”

  “So.”

  “Have you cured cancer yet?”

  He held up two fingers an inch apart. “I’m this close.”

  “Slacker.”

  His grin widened and he gestured at the book in her hand. “Must be nice to have so much free time to read while the rest of us are lengthening life spans.”

  “I’m just glad to see they’ve let you out of the lab. Been wondering where you’ve been hiding.”

  His eyebrow quirked. “You’ve been wondering about me?”

  Claire was thrown off for a moment. She didn’t have a ton of experience with guys—her only two boyfriends in high school had sort of happened accidentally. They’d been around a lot, they were nice enough, didn’t make her gag, so why not? Neither of them had gotten her as fluttery as this boy. Her palms were sweaty, and a little curlicue of nausea swirled in her gut. Should she tell the truth? Tell him how much she liked him?

  She couldn’t. She didn’t even know his name. What if he didn’t like her? What if he laughed at her?

  “I’ve just noticed a lot of empty corners around campus. Cobwebs, dust bunnies. You might want to avoid those.”