“Well, thanks,” I say, shrugging weakly.
“Hey, what’s the deal with this Ethan guy?” says Hen out of nowhere.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I feel like he kept coming up. My friend Ethan thinks this. My friend Ethan said that.”
“Is he cute?” asks Carmen.
“Uh . . . yeah, actually. Why?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “Just . . . interesting.”
“What are you going to say to Sam?” asks Hen, making me groan again.
“He’s moving soon. Maybe we’ll never speak again?”
Hen peers down with a chiding look. “He’s Sam, Gretchen. Your Sam. You know you can’t do that.”
I nod, just as Nacho runs in, joining our pile on the futon. “So, wait,” I say to Hen. “I never even asked. What are you doing home? Don’t you have class tomorrow?”
“Yeah, but Lizzy had to fly back last minute and I wanted to be here for her. Her dog is sick. They’re probably going to have to put her down.”
I gasp and cover Nacho’s ears, his beady eyes meeting mine. “It’s okay, buddy,” I whisper, pulling him to me.
“Uh-oh,” says Hen. “Are you two the closest siblings in the family now? I’m suddenly feeling very left out.”
“Knock, knock . . .”
When I look up, Mom has walked in with Dad behind her, the two of them frowning down at me. I must be a sad sight, draped across Hen and Carmen, even letting Nacho get in on the action. “We’re about to start dinner,” says Mom warily. “But is everything okay?”
I hesitate, then sit up. “Actually, there’s something I . . . want to come clean about.” I bite my lip as I stand, suddenly doubting this decision.
“Oh, just show them,” says Carmen. “What you said about us was way worse.”
I laugh, swiping open my phone.
“So . . . there’s a long backstory here, but . . . well, just watch.”
I hit play and hand off the phone to Dad. It’s too awkward to look, so I keep my eyes on the ceiling, my stomach doing flips when they reach the family stuff: “Let’s discuss how me and my siblings all learned to ride bikes, shall we?”
When I let myself peek, my parents both have baffled smiles on their faces. “Well,” says Dad at the end. “This was . . . unexpected. But hey. Funny stuff.”
Mom bobs her head slowly. “I’m confused, but . . . very glad to see you’re expressing yourself. And I loved that Prince Charming stuff.”
“She really got your voice down,” Dad says to her, before turning to me with a curious look. “But I have to say, Gretch. That’s not quite what happened the day you learned to bike.”
“What do you mean?” I say, honestly stunned by these reactions.
“I remember,” he says. “Actually, it was the day you first met Sam.”
“Oh yeah,” says Mom. “They’d just moved up here that summer. Viv and I had been to one of Gabriela’s yoga classes, and we all hit it off so much we invited over the whole family. Aw.” She looks at me. “You two must have been . . . six? Neither of you had any idea you were about to meet your best friend. Or—” She frowns, eyes flitting to the phone. “More than friend?”
“Oh, we definitely don’t have to talk about that,” I say. “But what does this have to do with learning to bike?”
“Well,” says Dad. “That day we were throwing this big barbecue. Viv, Arvin, and Carmen were there, too, and everyone was rushing around, trying to get the house nice before our guests arrived. But you . . .” He shakes his head. “You chose that moment to sneak outside with Hen’s bike and start working at it. It wasn’t long before Mom and I came and found you, but you’d already pretty much figured it out.” He smiles faintly, and I think I see a flicker of emotion behind the mustache. “I remember when we got out there, we asked you why you did it that way.”
Mom breathes in, looking at him. “That’s right,” she says, turning to me with a funny little pout. “You told us you didn’t want anyone to see you fall.”
Over dinner, Hen and Carmen take turns recounting the events of New Year’s Eve-Eve, spooning cheese onto pasta before I jump in to explain the rest. Dad appears more impressed with me than anything. Mom, on the other hand, still seems pretty stuck on the fact that we all used fake IDs.
“I don’t even drink,” I tell her. “I swear. I’ve been throwing back ginger ales every night for weeks.”
“Still illegal,” she says. “In fact, all three of you are grounded.”
“I’m in college, Mom,” says Hen. “And Carmen’s not even your kid. You can’t ground us.”
“Oh yes I can. You can be grounded for as many days as you stay, Hen. And Carmen, you can . . . just sleep over here and be grounded.”
“Okay,” says Carmen, shrugging happily.
“But wait. What if Lizzy calls?” says Hen.
“Well, obviously if Lizzy calls . . .” says Dad, looking hopefully at Mom.
“If Lizzy calls, I will grant you a variance,” sighs Mom. “But the rest of the time you’re grounded.”
Hen pouts teasingly. “But what if I get a craving for a snack we don’t have in the fridge?”
“Then we’ll get takeout,” says Mom, laughing despite herself.
“I think I’m going to like being grounded,” says Carmen.
Hen frowns at our parents now. “You know, Gretchen was kind of right. You two really aren’t that strict anymore.”
Dad sips his beer, considering this. “I think as you get older you just sort of want to enjoy your life and let your kids be kids. But it’s true. We may have gotten a bit lax over the years.”
“And we’ll keep talking about the college stuff, okay?” says Mom, reaching out to squeeze my hand.
“Yeah,” I say. “All good.”
“Poor William,” sighs Hen. “I don’t think he got any of your loosey-goosey years.”
“Eh,” says Mom. “We make it up to him with free childcare.”
Are you back?
The text sits like a heavy stone in my lap.
“Fine, Aunt Lulu,” says Carmen. “We can watch Love, Actually again.” The couch is especially tight with all of us crowded together—two bowls of popcorn and one Nacho between us, four sets of pj’s, and Dad still dressed for some kind of wilderness expedition.
A second buzz fills me with dread, but I look down anyway: Will you please just come over?
“What is it?” says Hen, straining see my phone across Carmen. “Is it Sam?”
“He wants me to come over,” I say, queasy now. “Oh well. Can’t. Grounded.”
“Well,” says Mom delicately. “I mean, maybe you can be un-grounded. . . .” I glare at her. “Honey, you’re going to have to face him eventually. And selfishly, I like the idea. I think he’d be a great son-in-law.”
“Oh my God, Mom,” I say, rolling my eyes all the way back. “He doesn’t even like me that way, but here you are talking about marriage.”
“I reject this premise,” says Hen. “You have no idea how Sam feels. He chased you. Like in a movie!”
“He chased you?” says Mom, touching her heart.
“Can we not?” I say.
“Personally, I think you should go now,” says Carmen. “Talking in private will be way less awkward than trying to do it at school. If it’s horrible and you have a huge meltdown, do you really want everyone seeing? Not that I think that’s what’s going to happen,” she adds quickly. “Hen’s right. You don’t know how he feels.”
I look at Dad, mid–popcorn bite, the only one yet to speak. “Oh,” he says. “You don’t want your dad chiming in on your love life, do you?”
“I mean, everyone else has,” I say, shrugging.
He laughs. “Just go talk to him, Gretch.”
“Dammit,” I say, getting up. “You’re all traitors. All of you!”
“You’ll be fine,” says Mom.
I don’t even bother trying to glam myself up—just grab a sweater
and yank it right over my pj’s, stuffing my feet into boots and swiping my keys. I swivel back. “Wait. Should I have, like, a speech prepared, or . . . ?”
“I don’t think that’s really necessary,” says Mom. She turns to Dad. “Did you ever make me a speech?”
“Don’t think so,” he says.
She smiles. “Just go be Sam and Gretch.”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding a few times. And with that, I step out into the snow.
Here, I text when I’ve parked outside the yoga studio.
A minute goes by with no response, and I wonder if that’s a good enough excuse to turn back. But the apartment is lit up, and downstairs, a few yoga ladies are trickling out after the last class of the night. I know Sam is home. And on a normal day, I wouldn’t think twice about letting myself in through the studio.
I take a few breaths behind the wheel, then get out and run across the street, snow catching in my hair. Hand on the door, I repeat Mom’s words to myself: Just go be Sam and Gretch.
“Sabrina?”
I freeze as I walk in. Amber is standing behind the desk. I honestly forgot she worked here. “Or wait. I guess that’s not actually your name,” she says, tilting her head, until something shifts—a click. “Oh my God. I knew you looked familiar. You’re Sam’s friend! Man, I can be such a dingus. Wait. Is Sam that Sam? From your sets? This just got good! Does he know?”
“He does now,” I say weakly. “Since everything kind of . . . blew up.”
“Right,” she says, crinkling her nose. “Everyone was so confused after you left on Wednesday.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” I say, just sort of squirming by the door now.
“It was pretty dramatic,” she says. “The second the show ended, it was a big fight. So many people were pissed at Jeremy. And Paula really let him have it. Dolores, too. I don’t know what he was thinking, messing with you and that other girl. You know, the . . . other you. Also, after you left, he still had to go on, and his set was terrible. He was so flustered. I really think he blew his chance at winning.”
“Well . . . serves him right,” I say. It’s strange talking about Jeremy. After all those confusing feelings, he seems so suddenly unimportant. At least compared to what’s waiting for me now. A silence swallows us up and I can’t help but ask, “So . . . were people mad at me, too? For lying?”
“Um?” Amber thinks a moment. “Maybe. Or . . . I think they were more surprised? In retrospect, we all agreed you seemed young. And that your outfits didn’t really match your personality. No one thought you were being malicious. But it was still . . . pretty frickin’ weird.”
I nod my head. “I’ll take it.”
She laughs, then stops short. “Wait, are you here to see Sam? Am I interrupting something?”
“Oh,” I say, abruptly nervous again. “Possibly?”
She gets a giddy look, gesturing toward the studio. “Well, he’s right on the other side of that door. I’ll leave you to it. You and Sam can handle closing.” She grabs a few things from a cubby, then slides into her Uggs. “Also, no Mercury tonight,” she says with wink.
“Huh?”
“I’m just saying, the planets are on your side!”
Through the hanging vines of the window, I watch Amber scamper out to her car, the place now quiet. Actually, I hear music—that same old bossa nova CD of Gabriela’s, which grows louder once I lightly knock and open up.
I poke my head in and smile. Sam is dancing around the candlelit room in his socks, pushing a Swiffer along smooth wood. His silly, unrestrained moves remind me of the kid he used to be, and I can’t tell if it makes me happy or sad.
He jumps. “Oh . . . my God. Hi!”
I gape at him, suddenly unable to believe I willingly turned up here. “Hi.”
“How, um . . .” He takes a few steps closer, searching my face. “How are you?”
“Fine,” I say, definitely dying inside. “You?”
He shrugs. “Fine.”
God, this is excruciating. “Look.” I steel myself, kicking off my wet boots and padding my way in. “I really don’t want this to be weird. . . .”
“Me neither,” he says.
“I know so much has changed, but I still think of you as my best friend.”
“Same,” he says quickly. He gestures to the floor, and I follow his lead, until we’re both seated, facing each other with legs crossed. It’s total New Year’s Eve-Eve déjà vu.
“So . . .” I say, after another long, painful silence. “I guess we’re going to talk about this?”
He looks equally mystified. “It appears that way.”
“I don’t know where to start,” I tell him honestly. “Should we . . . talk about the stand-up thing, or the you-and-me thing?”
“Both,” he says. “Though the you-and-me thing is probably more . . .”
“Unbearably awkward?”
“I was going to say pressing, but sure.” His laugh comes out strained. “And, I will say, on a more bearable note, you were good, Gretch. Really good.” He catches my gaze, his gold-flecked eyes lighting up. “It was kind of amazing to watch. It was like . . . there you were, the exact person I’m always wishing you’d let other people see.” I smile despite everything, an odd mix of ache and deep appreciation lodging in my throat.
I think I needed to hear that.
He frowns. “That said, I still don’t really understand the whole fake-name, dressing-up thing.”
“We’ll . . . get to that,” I tell him, feeling rattled again. “But, um . . .” I clear my throat. “I’m afraid I might actually black out from the awkwardness if we don’t clear the air about the . . . other stuff.”
“Okay,” he says seriously. “So . . . how long have you felt this way?”
“Oh God.” I cover my face with my hands, then peek out between tiny slits. “A few months?” I close my fingers again, speaking into the dark. “At first I hoped it would pass. Like it was a . . . cold or something. But then I found out you were moving away, and I guess I started to wonder if letting it pass was even what I wanted. Like maybe this was a sign, and it was now or never! But then I changed my mind again when I realized how not on the same page we were, and of course there was Natalie, who I really weirdly like for you? Even though it also sort of makes me want to cry. . . . Anyway, most of all, I just wish I’d never opened my big mouth, because I don’t want everything to be ruined. . . .”
He reaches out to pry my fingers from my face. “Hey. Gretchen. It’s okay.”
I make myself look back at him. “Did I ruin us, Sam? Or . . . maybe we were already ruined. If we’re being honest, we’ve been growing apart for a while, right?”
“I mean, maybe,” he says. “But we could never be ruined. Things have changed and they will again—and again. But I feel like we’ll always . . . come back around. I’m pretty sure friends like you and me can withstand a few bumps.”
I nod, a wave of emotion coming over me. “I think I owe you an apology, Sam. That night on the phone . . .”
“No, please,” he says, swatting the air. “I was being a dick.”
“Uh-uh.” I shake my head. “A lot of what you’ve been saying is true. I do judge. And I close myself off to people. . . .”
“Well, you were right, too,” he says. “I do get kind of . . . party-hardy when I’m sad. And maybe sometimes I choose to be in groups, or around people who don’t know me as well, so that they won’t see through all my bullshit.”
“But maybe it isn’t bullshit!” I say. “I mean, what do I know? I’m not the authentic-Sam police. I don’t even know who authentic Gretchen is. If she even exists.”
An odd look flits across his face.
“What?”
“I guess I’m . . . realizing I have to come clean about my side of things,” he says, taking in a long breath. “It . . . wasn’t just you.”
I frown. “Just me who . . . ?”
“Felt something.”
“Oh” is all I can think t
o say. We’re quiet for a minute. “But . . . I thought you liked Natalie.”
“I did,” he says. “Or, do? Doesn’t matter. I botched that. And if we’re being honest, I’m pretty sure you’re the reason why.”
I can’t seem to produce a response to that, so I stare.
“I know you and I don’t usually talk about crushes and stuff,” he goes on, “but in the past, I’ve always been a strictly one-girl-at-a-time kind of guy. So feeling torn like that was . . . a lot. It mostly just made me want to hide from both of you.”
I almost laugh, my brain and mouth finally synching up: “When did this . . . ?”
“Remember the night I told you I was moving?”
I nod, heartbeat picking up. “We were right here. . . .”
“Except . . .” He levels me with a look. “I mean, we definitely almost kissed, right? Or did I imagine that?”
“No,” I say. “No, I . . . I thought I imagined it.”
He puffs his cheeks, looking a little dazed. “Well, that was the night it hit me. That you and I could . . . maybe work as more than friends?”
“But . . . if you felt it too, why’d you act so weird after? Why leave me hanging like that?”
“Because, it’s you, Gretch,” he says. “My best friend. The person I’ve . . . shared more of myself with than anyone else, who can make me laugh so hard I shoot soda through my nose, and who . . . held my hand the day my dad moved out. Who watched the whole Office with me like thirty times! And never got bored!”
Somehow we both have tears in our eyes.
“It would change everything,” he says. “And for what? For me to just move away? It’s going to be hard enough leaving my entire life behind. I didn’t want to lose you, too. And I mean, is that actually what you’d want? You and me, as boyfriend-girlfriend?”
As I peer into his eyes, I’m surprised the answer isn’t simpler. “I . . . don’t know.”
“I don’t either. And the most confusing part is, I still really do like Natalie.” He cringes. “Sorry if that’s weird to say. I’m trying to be honest. I seriously don’t know how to feel. Or what to do, or—”
“Kiss me,” I say.
“What?”
I sort of can’t believe myself, but I don’t break away from his gaze. “Let’s just find out. Once and for all. No strings, no expectations. This moment doesn’t have to count.” I say it to myself as much as to him. “It will be a . . . purely objective experiment.”
The Girl Least Likely Page 22