The Truth About Happily Ever After

by Karole Cozzo

  “Absolutely.”

  “You ready for this? You’re not going to actually stay on the blanket, are you?”

  “Hell, no!” I assure him. “That would be a waste of a ticket.”

  As the front man of the band, Chris Martin pretty much demands audience interaction and enthusiasm. There are usually elaborate stage layouts that bring him right out into the crowd, so concertgoers can absorb that infectious energy and beaming smile of his. You don’t sit at a Coldplay concert.

  And right on cue, the colorful lights start twisting in the air, bathing the hill with beams of pink, purple, and orange; the mic checks go into high gear; and rhythmic pulsations start pouring from the speakers. On the large screen above the stage, the members of the band come sauntering into view, and the crowd goes nuts, everyone jumping to their feet at once. Miller grabs my hand to pull me up, and it’s the last time that night my butt sees the blanket.

  We dance, we sing, we scream. Apparently my fake ID works here, too, and we take turns grabbing the occasional draft beer from the stand at the top of the hill. As I sip mine, it becomes easier and easier to become part of the collective vibe of the amphitheater and feel like I’m one with the crowd. The mood is euphoric yet chill, a pervasive cloud of dense smoke hovering over us. Even if I don’t actually see a single person smoking.

  Anytime my energy starts to drop off, Miller refuses to let it, throwing his arm around my shoulders and belting out lyrics in my ear, appearing before me and doing some goofy dance or playing air guitar. I inevitably smile and find myself joining him again.

  And when the sun has finally descended below the stage and a few stars have come faintly into view, I hear the opening strains of “Adventure of a Lifetime.” It’s the faster stuff, the stuff I personally love, and Miller’s arm is still around me as we sway back and forth. Balloons, every color of the rainbow, are released as if from the sky itself. The colorful lasers are pulsating in time with the rhythm, in time with my body.

  I feel the lyrics from the inside out.

  “I feel my heart beating … oh, you make me feel like I’m alive again…”

  Miller’s temple finds the top of my head. I feel the weight of it there, for a moment. Then I turn to look up at him. Our eyes meet, linger together, and he takes a step to the side, hurriedly downing his beer.

  Before I even know what’s happening, he’s gone. Yanked away, very pointedly by Yael, even if she covers the expression on her face a second later with a silly grin, as she pulls Miller in for some maniacal dance.

  But I caught a glimpse of it before she turned away from me, and it read something like … shame on you.

  She is definitely his something. She must be.

  I sink down onto the blanket, wrapping my arms around my knees, suddenly feeling so out of place there.

  And with her look … I do feel ashamed.

  I feel ashamed because I’m suddenly remembering a very particular night not so very long ago, inside Bluefin, when I was in Yael’s shoes. When I was watching some girl getting inappropriately close to my boyfriend, conscience screaming at me loud and clear despite my desire to ignore it.

  My head drops, and I close my eyes.

  The last person I want to be is some girl.

  The last thing I want to do is make someone feel the way I felt that night, even if it’s someone I’m not particularly fond of.

  I want to tell her what Harper never told me, couldn’t tell me.

  We’re just friends. Miller and I … we’re just friends. He’s yours.

  Miller is just a friend. A friend with a girlfriend. I squeeze my knees. And that is that. I will respect the boundaries.

  No wonder she’s always so cold to me.

  I sneak a glance in their direction, my eyes immediately going to that wide, easy smile, those effortlessly cheerful eyes, and suddenly I’m swallowing hard over the lump in my throat, feeling a painful tightening within my chest.

  My hand goes to my heart at the shock of the sensation, the confusion surrounding it.

  What is with you? You didn’t drink that much. You’re not getting your period. Why are you so emotional?

  Maybe it’s because the band has moved on to “Fix You” and the stage lights have turned a morose shade of indigo. Maybe that’s why I’m tearing up inexplicably. I stare into space the remainder of the song, trying not to feel.

  I try to inhale a deep breath of cool night air but find myself choking instead. I look over at my group again, confused. Right to my left, Yael and Daniella have huddled together, squatting right above the ground, and are holding a lighter to the end of something. Okay, so maybe that’s why I’m tearing up. The breeze is carrying the smoke right in my direction, and every time I try to breathe, it chokes me, making me cough.

  Miller’s all into the music, standing by himself now, shifting ever so gently during the ballad, but he turns when he hears me struggling.

  He drops down before me, placing a hand on my shoulder, looking into my eyes. “You okay?”

  I stare into his eyes. I still have a little bit of a beer buzz. Everything feels a little bit hazier than it did a few minutes ago, and I’m just really … confused. I tell him as much. “I’m confused.” I giggle. “I’m just…” I feel my brows drawing together; I’m staring at him intently as if trying to impart something really deep. “I’m just … really confused.”

  Miller tilts his head, still smiling. “What’s wrong? Are you drunk?”

  “No.” I giggle again. “I’m not drunk. I only had, like, two-point-seven beers.” The concept is hilarious, and I’m giggling again, even though I don’t mean to be. I cover my mouth with my hand, trying to stifle the giggles, but they escape like helium from a balloon.

  Miller can’t seem to help but laugh along with me. “What are you laughing about?”

  “I really don’t know…” I giggle. Then I’m laughing so hard, ridiculous tears are suddenly pooling in my eyes, which seems even funnier.

  Miller glances to his left, a look of astonishment taking over his face as he looks back toward me. “Are you high? Did you smoke with them?”

  “No! There’s just…” Giggle, giggle, giggle. My stomach is starting to hurt. I wave my hand through the air. “There’s just … a lot of smoke.”

  Miller’s suddenly nodding. He laughs out loud. “Because you weigh ten pounds. You weigh ten pounds, and now you have a freakin’ contact high.”

  The idea is so ridiculous that I fall over sideways laughing at it.

  And of course, it’s Miller who steadies me, righting me, eventually helping me to my feet and letting me lean against him so I don’t topple over, at the same time chastising Yael and Daniella for smoking so much, so close, and rendering me helpless.

  Please don’t, I want to tell him. Don’t stick up for me. Don’t be a good friend. Don’t make her feel disregarded.

  Don’t make me feel like this.

  Don’t make me feel … sad … wistful … heartache …

  Jealous.

  Don’t make me feel jealous.

  The emotion announces itself in my consciousness at the same time it announces itself in my gut, finally coming to fruition.

  I am jealous. Of Yael. Over Miller.

  The naming of the feeling stuns and confuses me. I’ve never been jealous of a girl who’s anything like Yael. I’ve never been jealous over a guy like Miller.

  I am jealous over Miller. What?

  But I am. It dawns and grows in a sudden force, clenching my heart as I inhale the soft cottony scent of his shirt, as I sneak a glance at his profile in my peripheral vision. I miss the encore entirely.

  Oh my God. I have feelings for Miller.

  I have feelings for Miller.

  And I need to get away.

  From this night, from them, from him.

  I need to go home. I need to get as far away from these feelings as I can. Nothing good can come from them. For anyone involved.

  The hurt caused by Jake and Harpe
r’s betrayal has been fading, and the last thing I want is a new kind of hurt to stake claim inside my heart. I need to get away from this.

  Problem is, they’re my ride home, and there’s some late-night construction inside the complex blocking the route from their building to mine. Miller offers to walk with me, an offer I know I can’t accept, and besides … after a night of avoiding the atrocity of portable toilets, my bladder is certain there is no way it will hold up during the walk home.

  So instead, when Miller parks Yael’s car, I follow him toward their apartment, dashing up the stairs past him, and bounce outside their door until he finally, blessedly, turns the key in the lock and I can dart past him, into their home, and to their bathroom. “I’ll be quick!” I promise as I dash.

  I’m not quick, not really. I swear I pee for a solid three minutes. Then I find myself staring at my reflection in their mirror, first trying to make some kind of sense out of my tangled hair and then just staring at my face.

  Don’t feel this way.

  You can’t feel this way.

  Okay?

  Don’t feel this way.

  I stare down at the two toothbrushes, side by side, in the holder. One blue, one orange. They live here together.

  You said you wouldn’t feel this way!

  With a heavy sigh, I turn off the light and walk back into the living room.

  Miller is sitting on the futon, his head resting against its back, his eyes closed. They open when he hears me approach, and he gives me a small, tired smile, patting the open cushion beside him.

  I don’t take another step in his direction. Glancing around the apartment, I realize that Yael hasn’t come up. “Is she actually waiting downstairs for me to leave?” I ask.

  Miller looks confused. “Huh?”

  I swallow hard and glance away. “Miller, I don’t want to cause any problems,” I whisper. “You’re a good friend, and I know you mean well. But if she…” I hang my head. “I don’t want to cause any problems.”

  Miller stares at me for a long minute. Then his eyes light up, and he bites back a grin. “It’s so nice out. I was waiting for you on the balcony. You know why I came in here, into this oven, broken air conditioner and all?”

  I shake my head, utterly confused.

  Miller stands up, grabs my hand, and leads me toward the small balcony. He leads me over toward the railing, then points in the direction of the courtyard. I have to squint to make out what he’s looking at. It’s dark. And sort of far away. But finally they come into view.

  Yael and Daniella. Sitting side by side on the old green wooden bench. Kissing like there’s no tomorrow.

  My mouth falls open. “Whhhhhh…?” is all that comes out.

  He turns toward me and raises his eyebrow. “Yael said she was gonna”—he puts his hands in the air and makes finger quotes—“walk her home. Guess that’s what the kids are calling it these days. Anyway…” He runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t want to be a voyeur. So I came back inside.”

  I’m still staring. Daniella’s hand is now snaking under Yael’s T-shirt. I turn abruptly. “Inside. Right. We should go there.”

  I fling the door open, march inside, and collapse onto their futon, staring ahead, eyes wide.

  Miller plops down beside me. “I mean, you knew she was gay, right?” Miller studies my face for a minute, then laughs. “No, okay, the look on your face … you did not know she’s gay.”

  “No … I mean … that’s cool, but … I thought … you two…” I wave my hand in the air. “She leaves you love notes. You said something about her being ‘out of bed before you even heard her.’ And she, like, hates me…”

  He looks confused for a second, and then his eyes widen. “Love notes? What? No! We’re just friends.” He shrugs. “Largely because I find her perpetual surliness kind of entertaining, but yeah. We’re just friends.” Miller looks down at me. “You thought that all along?”

  “Yeah.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a while.

  “Why didn’t you ever say anything about it? Or just ask me?”

  I stare into space. “I guess…” I hear myself admit the truth. To myself, at the same time I admit it to him. “… it got to a point … I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer.”

  Miller inhales sharply. “Why not?”

  I glance up at him. His face is so close. His eyes are locked into mine. I’m pleading with my eyes.

  Come on, Miller … don’t make me say it.

  So I don’t.

  I kiss him instead. It’s just easier.

  And I shock him. I must, because it takes several seconds for his lips to get the hint and for him to kiss me back. But eventually, he does. Miller kisses me back.

  Oh my God, I’m kissing Miller! It sort of surprises the hell out of me, and it is weird, and different, but … not bad. Not bad at all. A good kind of weird.

  My hands find his face, so he doesn’t stop kissing me, and like this gives him some kind of permission he was waiting for, he deepens the kiss.

  It works for me. I end up with my back pressed against his futon cushion, kissing Miller. And I’m giggling again, because I’m kissing Miller, and also because his beard is tickling the crap out of my cheek and neck.

  He pulls back an inch. “What?” he whispers.

  “Your beard. It tickles.”

  “You want to stop?”

  “No.” I kiss the tip of his bearded chin. “I want to make out with you for a little bit.”

  I pull him closer and kiss his ear, which makes him shudder against me. “Do you want to make out with me for a little bit?”

  I can hear the smile in his words. “I want to make out with you for a lot bit.”

  Then his mouth is back on mine in record time.

  That’s when things get a little bit crazy.

  Somehow, I collapse onto the futon and he shifts his weight, making room for me, and then twisting around so that he’s hovering above me.

  I kick off my shoes, hear them land on his carpet, and put my arms around his back, encouraging him closer still, his body coming to rest atop mine.

  Kisses are landing everywhere as we get situated … necks, faces, foreheads. And even though the futon is narrow and uncomfortable, we line up perfectly, our feet twisting together, our mouths just right.

  Miller’s hands tangle in my hair, and my hands roam his back, and he’s still tickling me, and I’m giggling again, which makes him laugh right into my mouth.

  Yet every time, as soon as the laughter starts, it stops, our lips coming together again with renewed urgency. The truth is, Miller’s kisses feel even better than Miller’s hugs, and before I know it, I’m sweating beneath him, and his T-shirt is damp. It is hot as hell inside this apartment! We’re twisted together trying to find purchase on the narrow futon. My legs are caught between his, and we’re rolling around, and the next thing I know …

  … I’m falling off the futon, taking us both down, and we tumble right onto the carpet, narrowly dodging the coffee table.

  And I’m giggling again, my hair fanned out around me on Miller’s carpet, because I’m lying on Miller’s carpet beneath Miller, and I’m kissing him, and I just found out that I can, and I really, really like it.

  He’s watching me laugh, laughing, too, and I reach for him, so he’ll come all the way down here with me and kiss me some more.

  “Come back,” I whisper, tugging on the bottom of his shirt. My eyes fall shut against their will.

  When they open, for the first time since I started this, I see hesitation reflected in his.

  I struggle onto my elbows. “What’s wrong?”

  He doesn’t answer for a minute, staring past me to the wall. “Nothing’s wrong, just … you were drinking tonight, and then you were … practically high or whatever … and so…” Miller actually winces at what comes out next. “… we should probably call it quits for now, okay?”

  “Miller.” I groan. I kick him playfully and pout.
“Boo. Booooo.”

  “Okay, thanks for proving my point.”

  “I’m not high!” I protest fervently. I think for a minute, blowing my hair back from my face. “If I were high I would … I don’t know!” I circle my hand through the air, considering. “Ask you if you always have spray whipped cream in your fridge. Or another cheesecake.”

  He grins. “No cheesecake. But I do, as a matter of fact, currently have spray whipped cream in the fridge.”

  I stare at him. “As a matter of fact, that sounds freakin’ delicious. Go get it.”

  I mean, dinner was seven and a half hours ago at this point.

  Miller cracks up. “Oh my God, you are still high,” he mumbles. Still the same, he goes over to the kitchen, produces the trusty red canister with the white top, removes it with a flourish, and leans down to spray a thick stream directly into my mouth.

  I stare up at him. He’s so damn cute.

  I can’t help but grab his collar, trying to pull him in for a sugary whipped cream kiss.

  But he pulls back, giving me a firm look. “I’m not making out with you anymore tonight.”

  I swallow the whipped cream and frown.

  Then, “I’m not kicking you out, either,” he says, a bit more gently. He kisses my lips once more. “It’s too late to go home. Why don’t you go sleep in my bed? I’ll crash out here.”

  I twist my neck and stare at the futon in horror. “That thing is, like, illegally uncomfortable. I bet the only person who finds it comfortable is Yael. I’m not going to kick you out of your bed.” Then, winking, I point to the can in his hand. I shimmy my hips jokingly. “We could have fun with that…,” I say in a singsong.

  “That’s it; you’re flagged,” he announces. “C’mon. I’ll tuck you in.”

  Against my will, he tugs on my hand and pulls me up, wrapping an arm around my waist and helping me down the hall.

  Inside his room, I collapse onto his bed and watch him while he roots around in his drawer.

  He tosses me a pair of pajama pants. “These okay?” I nod, and he adds a worn T-shirt to the pile. I giggle because it has a picture of YouDee on it.