My breath fogs the window as I laugh, baffled. I think some reckless part of me wants that sensation back. The mere possibility gives me a mildly nauseated rush: Would it be the worst thing if I told Sam the truth tonight? (Yes, a small voice says.) But maybe not. Maybe I could do it—just close my eyes and blurt it all out. Maybe this is the part where I bust out the grand gesture, creepy-John-Cusack style!
I hurry the rest of the block and step into the café, surprised to see Ethan Spears on a laptop by the register, the only person here.
“Gretchen, hey,” he says, glancing up as the jangly bell rings above my head.
I put on a smile, definitely regretting the pj’s all right. “Oh, uh . . . Hi.” I know Ethan from yearbook, but he’s also Sam’s friend, which is apparently enough to make my cheeks go hot, a strange humming sensation picking up from within. I wonder if Ethan knows about that moment we had last night. Can he tell I feel weird right now? Will this get back to Sam? For the love of God, be normal, Gretchen!
Ethan appears oblivious to the inferno inside my head. “What can I do ya for?” he asks like some old-fashioned saloon guy. The dorkiness of it oddly settles me. And suddenly, I laugh.
“Ethan, how many jobs do you have? I thought you quit this place.”
He shrugs, clasping his hands behind his grown-out mop—mullet-ish. But weirdly not in a bad way. Definitely not full mullet. “They were down a barista, so I’m back on weekend shifts for a while. And I hear photojournalism is a dying field. Better save my pennies.” I bob my head at this. Beyond doing photography for yearbook, Ethan is known for picking up odd jobs, mowing lawns in summer and shoveling driveways in winter. Plus, I think he helps out at his parents’ hardware store year-round. I still don’t really understand how he fits the football team into his schedule. But he’s only a kicker. Maybe they don’t make you practice as much when all you do is kick.
He’s looking at me like it’s my turn to speak.
“Oh, um.” I nod toward his laptop. “Got anything good for us?”
“Just touching up a headshot. Actor found me on Craigslist.” He pauses, as if only now making the connection. “So I guess I’m doing two jobs at once today. But in terms of yearbook . . .” He swings open the counter, waving me toward him as he clicks through files. “I shot some stuff last night that might be cool to include. We all ended up at the football field during the storm. Pilsner and Grody figured out how to get the stadium lights on.”
“Is that allowed?” I ask, still hanging back a little.
“Oh, definitely not,” he says. “But check these out.”
I shuffle over and lean in, spotting Sam immediately, along with a few football guys, plus Natalie Hughes-Watanabe, our yearbook editor, and her friends Sasha and Lexi. The pictures are stunning, everyone tackling each other in scarves and hats and jackets, happy and beautiful, with little white orbs blotting out bits of the frame. It’s like something out of a catalog: popular high school kids edition.
“Wow, these are great,” I say, pushing through the tight feeling in my chest. In one shot, Jake Pilsner and Dick Grody, aka the broiest of bros, are lifting Sam up in the air, smacking the ass of his wet jeans. It’s still weird to me that Samuel is part of this world. But maybe it was inevitable. The child of a yogi, he could always meet any physical challenge, whether that meant teaching himself back handsprings in the yard, crushing it at youth soccer, or leading the sword fight choreography for our sixth-grade production of Peter Pan. The Carlton football coach figured this out about him our freshman year, and got him to play a few games while their star wide receiver was recovering from an injury. It wasn’t long before Gabriela found out and made Sam quit, convinced he’d wind up brain damaged. But as far as my life went, the damage was done.
Sam’s stock went way up at school just by gracing that team.
And I never fully got him back after that.
“You have to see the snowman Grody made,” says Ethan, returning me to the moment. “Probably won’t make the yearbook cut. Since it’s, um . . .” He hesitates. “Very anatomically specific.”
I move closer to the screen. “Wait. Is that a vein?”
Ethan chuckles, scrolling some more. “These were fun, too. . . .” He lands on a shot of Sam and Natalie, making snow angels on their backs. There’s a whole series like this. Arms up, then down, then up again. Natalie laughs with her whole body, dark curls getting caught in the corner of her mouth. Sam keeps grinning over at her. In one frame, he reaches out for the fuzzy pom-pom dangling from her hat.
“Kinda cute, huh?” says Ethan.
“Oh.” I glance up at him. “I didn’t . . . Do you . . . ? I mean, you don’t think they’re . . . ?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” says Ethan, eyeing me strangely. “She’s been hanging out with us a lot. But I haven’t heard anything. Why, have you?”
“No,” I say immediately, the photo drawing me in again. “At least, I don’t think so. . . .” I’ve always liked Natalie. As editor, she toes the line between friendly and commanding, and she has this way of shrugging off stuff that might go to a lesser person’s head—like her early acceptance to Columbia, or the fact that she rarely walks into a room unnoticed. With her expertly put-together outfits, flawless brown skin, and warm, infectious smile, she’s undeniably gorgeous. But feminism was the closest thing I had to religion growing up, so while I’m sure it defies some long-ingrained cavewoman instinct, I’ve always tried not to hold that against her.
“Gretchen?” Ethan ducks down to catch my gaze.
“Sorry.” I shake it off. “I think I’m really tired.”
“Of course,” he says, his face falling. “You came for caffeine and I’ve been keeping you here.”
“Oh please,” I say quickly, “it’s fine.”
“It’s been nice to have a customer,” he says, sighing at the empty place as I scan the rows of coffee options written out in chalk. “I think I got screwed with these later shifts. Seems like most of our regulars have had their second coffee by like seven a.m. Tips aren’t doing much for the photojournalism fund.”
“Well, I’ve got a Washington with your name on it,” I say like a total dad. He chuckles, closing the counter, and I tilt my head. “Ethan, what are your thoughts on pumpkin spice lattes?”
“I think they’re fucking awesome,” he says without hesitation.
I laugh. “Okay, give me three of those.”
The house feels more awake now as I step inside with my tray of wafting spices. I start to slip off my coat, but keep it on, silently cursing Dad, aka the Vladimir Putin of thermostats.
I find Hen and Carmen taking feeble bites of toast along the bench seat in the kitchen window. Across the room, Mom and Aunt Viv crowd over a cookbook in matching reading glasses, the countertops covered in diced onions and carrots, herbs and resting pastry dough. It’s entirely possible they’ve been too preoccupied to notice their daughters are mere shells of themselves. Or maybe they’re playing dumb as a kindness.
“Morning, Gretch,” Aunt Viv says vaguely. She drops a cutting board into the sink, making Hen and Carmen flinch in unison.
“Morning,” I say, very quietly.
I pull out cups from their cardboard slots. “Bless you,” whispers Hen, taking hers with a shudder. Carmen nods vigorously, downing a big sip with instant relief.
“Ack!” I jump, something wet along my sock line. Despite all my winter-loathing layers, Nacho always manages to find some bare skin to lick. He quivers at my feet, all tiny legs and electrocuted fur, staring up at me with the eyes of someone who just tried meth for the first time and is quite pleased with the decision.
“Nacho, do you love Gretchen?” Mom calls, her voice going full Muppet. “Are you the best little brother in the world?” Let the record show, my mom is a newly tenured professor, published widely in feminist journals. But something happens to her brain around this dog. “Oh, that reminds me,” she says, human again. “I picked up the cutest rain jacket yesterday.”<
br />
“For Nacho,” I say. “Tell me you didn’t get the little shoes.”
“In three colors,” she sighs. “I took him with me to my office earlier, and got a few cute pictures.” She shows me on her phone—Nacho in fire-engine red, prancing in the snow between collegiate buildings. “So pretty in winter. That’ll be you frolicking in that quad in a couple years.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, remembering to smile.
Dad pops up from the basement then, wearing a big puffy vest and fur-flapped hat, a perfectly reasonable alternative to indoor heating. He goes to the fridge and sets out a massive hunk of meat wrapped in butcher paper. “Let this sit out at room temp for a while.” He gives Mom a kiss on the cheek. “Then I’ll come back and work my meat magic.”
“Mmm,” she says happily. “You are very good with meat.” I grimace as Dad walks off. I don’t exactly know what that could be innuendo for, but I still don’t like it.
I scoot in next to Carmen, who’s had her eyes locked on a screen since I got here. I bump her side. “Whatcha doin’?”
“Deleting old Instagram posts.”
“Carmen is being hypocritical,” says Hen primly. “She literally confiscated my phone earlier for looking at too many old Lizzy posts.”
“Because you were being a masochist,” says Carmen. “This is different. I am Marie Kondo–ing my past.” She passes me her phone with a photo up: a selfie of her and Sabrina on Halloween. My heart flutters a little when I notice Sam and me in the background. We met them at a haunted house that night, both of us dressed as Dwight Schrute from The Office—double Dwights. We got the idea over the summer, long before my crush set in. So as much as I might have liked the opportunity to dazzle him, I was stuck wearing a mustard-colored button-down and tie while most of the girls we passed were dressed as some kind of professional with the word slutty tacked on to the beginning.
Still, it was nice to feel like us, out together, away from school. With Sabrina and Carmen close behind, we screamed and laughed every time a zombie jumped out at us. Later, the four of us went out for milkshakes. It was fun. That is, until Sabrina suggested we stop by a college party she’d been invited to. Of course, Sam lit up the moment we walked in. It took all of five seconds before he’d struck up a conversation with a sexy cardiologist, or veterinarian, and suddenly Sabrina was grabbing Carmen by the hand to greet a friend of theirs. In a blink, I was alone, feeling radioactive in a swirl of people. I found myself pushing through the crowd, telling myself I was an actress, in the role of Girl Looking for the Bathroom. But then I felt Sam’s hand on my shoulder, our best-friend ESP to the rescue, and all I wanted was to grab him by the pocket protector and kiss him.
“Gretchen,” says Carmen.
“Hm?” I realize I’m still clutching her phone. Carmen looks adorable as a black cat in this picture, her arm slung around Sabrina in a witch’s hat, both of them mid-laugh. It’s actually kind of sad.
Carmen sighs, taking back her phone. “More like Sabrina the teenage bitch.”
“Carmen!” says Aunt Viv, glancing up from her recipe. “We don’t talk about other women that way.”
Mom tilts her head as she picks a sprig of rosemary. “Is it weird I almost prefer cunt to bitch?”
Henrietta chokes on her latte. “Mom!”
“What? I’m just saying. At least when people throw the word cunt around they feel some pressure to justify it. Bitch gets used for everything. If you’re serious about your job, or don’t feel like being hit on. Or God forbid you have the slightest bit of confidence.”
“Fine, Aunt Lulu,” says Carmen. “Sabrina the teenage cunt. Better?”
Mom frowns. “I think so.”
A shiver runs through me and I roll my eyes. “Okay, did someone forget to tell me we moved to Soviet Russia?”
Mom shoots me a sympathetic pout, looking after Dad to make sure he’s really gone. She tiptoes across the room and raises the temperature with a wink.
Thank you, I mouth.
“Do I detect the patriarchy at work?” I say to the TV—half serious, half making fun of our moms. “Ah yes. Another tale of women shitting all over each other.”
“Shhhh,” says Carmen through a chuckle, still very much hungover.
I sigh and lean back as Kate Hudson and Anne Hathaway continue to sabotage one another, all for a chance at the perfect rich-girl wedding. Tradition has prevailed this afternoon—almost. We’re eating marshmallows straight from the bag, our movie night pushed to movie day.
“Also, I see you painting girls as histrionic, Hollywood,” I add on, unable to help myself. “And I’m extremely upset about it!”
This time the “Shhhh” comes from Hen, who is apparently most comfortable while draped around the arm of the couch like a limp towel. Carmen yawns on my other side, her legs outstretched across both our laps. It’s dark out but still early, a couple hours left to go before the party. I’ve been content enough to put Sam out of my head for long stretches, only occasionally checking the time. When I look now, I have two new texts.
This guy again.
Are you ghosting me?
That’s cold, Sabrina.
It’s strange to see that name on my screen as I sit here in the living room. I know there’s no point in replying. I can’t go back to the club. And even if I weren’t working up the nerve to bare my soul to another guy tonight, Jeremy is too old for me. And thinks I’m someone else.
Still, it seems my alias can’t help herself.
A little waiting is good for you, I type out quickly. That will throw him off his game. And then, because why the hell not, I add a winky face.
“So Bride Wars was not a feminist rallying cry,” says Carmen when it ends.
“But the wedding dresses were pretty,” says Hen. We all nod.
“What next?” asks Carmen, yawning. “Never Been Kissed?”
“See, I don’t know about that one,” I say. “Wouldn’t Drew Barrymore have been kissed?”
Hen purses her lips impatiently. “What about 10 Things I Hate About You?”
“Sorry,” I say. “I just rewatched it. God, I love that one.”
My sister sighs. “When Heath Ledger sings ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You’ . . .”
“It’s, like, the best winning-someone-back scene in a movie,” says Carmen. “Maybe ever.”
“When I was little, I definitely assumed that was a normal high school rite of passage,” I say wistfully. “Someone super attractive just . . . casually enlisting a marching band to publicly sing to you.”
Carmen lets out a long breath. “Is it so much to ask?”
In the end, we settle on When Harry Met Sally, and this time, I don’t yell at the screen at all. It’s a testament to Nora Ephron, I guess. Her films are, like, the fine wine of rom-coms. And sometimes, you really do want to watch two friends fall in love.
People trickle into the house as we near the end. Uncle Arvin waves wordlessly, my brother and his wife and kids passing by like a torrent. But we stay focused on Billy Crystal, running through New York while Meg Ryan waits in her ball gown.
It occurs to me that this movie must be directly responsible for every New Year’s Eve that’s ever felt lackluster. Who are these people going to galas every year? And how does one gain entry to such an event?
“Happy New Year!” I hear from the hall. It’s Gabriela, chitchatting with Mom and Aunt Viv. I hear Sam’s voice next as he greets everyone. I sit up, hitting pause.
“Hey,” says Sam, stepping into the living room. His lips form a tight smile, eyes finding mine only briefly. I didn’t quite catch the expression. Was that a bashful smile? A pity smile?
“Hey,” I say back, searching for more words as his phone begins to buzz.
“Well, I’ll let you guys finish your movie,” he says, typing something out. And with that, he drifts off to the kitchen.
From my seat, I watch a mishmash of potluck-style dishes flow down the long table, chairs scraping, napkins unfurling, all whil
e Mom, Aunt Viv, and Gabriela guide and hover like air traffic controllers. Beside my brother, William, and his wife, Zarin, my twin niece and nephew blow on party horns, flailing against the constraints of their highchairs. Nacho’s paws scratch the floor as he yips and whines for scraps. It all somehow fades to a hum.
Sam and I haven’t talked yet, which can’t be a coincidence. When the credits finally rolled, I found him still tapping on his phone at the far end of the crowded kitchen. Then dinner was announced.
When I look up, he’s pulling out the chair directly across from me, right by Gabriela, who’s now busy passing down cocktails. I fix my gaze on my food, which I realize a second too late was the wrong move.
Because now I have an eye contact problem: super weird to make it, and just as weird not to. The food staring feels especially noticeable with Hen and Carmen drooped on either side of me, Hen stubbornly removing all the peas from Mom’s chicken potpie, while Carmen eats Uncle Arvin’s oxtail and rice one tiny bite at a time.
Finally, I let myself look at Sam, my body melting with relief. He’s smiling as he fills his plate, clearly delighted by the insane conversations already zigzagging around us. We have a term for this Wilder house phenomenon: The Symphony.
Zarin: “Could you wipe Mina’s face?”
William: “She’s a toddler eating spaghetti. She’s just going to get sticky again.”
Dad: “You should have fed them my pork roast. I don’t understand why kids need separate meals these days.”
Zarin: “Gus isn’t sticky.”
William: “Gus doesn’t have sauce.”
Mom: “William never liked sauce.”
Gabriela: “Samuel either. Is it a boy thing?”
Uncle Arvin: “I liked sauce.”
I feel a jolt as Sam looks at me, his grin widening. His eyes seem to say, I know just what you’re thinking now, friend from forever.
And I think, Almost.
Dad: “Meals weren’t kid-friendly when I was growing up. And it was all from a can!”
Aunt Viv: “Carmen liked pesto. Isn’t that right, Car?”
Carmen: “This can’t possibly be interesting to you, Mom.”
The Girl Least Likely Page 4