The DJ announces that we have ten more minutes, and the anticipation in the room builds. Beside me Malin finds sobriety long enough to ask the question that’s pounding in my head along with the bass.
“Hey, where is Liam?”
Brody looks up from laughing over something with Landon. “He was meeting up with some buddies from college, I think. He said he’d try to catch up with us later.”
Malin is too self-involved to understand how the words might affect me, but I get varying degrees of pitiful looks from Max, Landon, and even Casidee. How flipping terrible. When your twenty-two-year-old assistant feels sorry for you, something has probably gone really wrong in your life.
It feels hard to breathe and hard to sit there without crying. But I absolutely refuse to draw more attention and force myself to stay seated. But unfortunately I can’t force myself to stop remembering Max’s words. They echo over and over in my head, telling me how Liam is selfish and how what he wants takes precedence over anyone else’s feelings.
I shake it off—literally shake my head to make the thoughts leave my brain. I plaster a bright smile on my face and bounce up from the sofa.
“We better get on the dance floor. It’s only five minutes until midnight!”
Everyone smiles and comes to join me. Landon is the only one who grabs my hand to stop me.
“Hey, girl, are you OK?”
I give her a watery smile. “I don’t want to cry on New Year’s, OK? It’s got to be terrible luck. Let’s go dance it off and have fun. I’ll figure it all out later, OK?”
She smiles and throws an arm around my shoulders to lead me to the dance floor. Once we push our way into the mass of bodies, Brody snags her arm and pulls her in for a dance. Beside me Malin is dancing in a way that suggests she drank her body weight in hard liquor this evening. That sounds like a really good idea right about now. I grab two glasses of champagne off a tray that the servers are passing around and then make quick work of both of them. The bubbles make my head swim, dulling some of the questions.
“All right, you sexy beasts,” the DJ calls out. “Get ready!”
Everyone is all smiles and giggles and laughs, exactly how you should feel in this moment. It shouldn’t feel like your heart’s been stomped on; that is not what this is about.
“Ten! Nine!” Everyone starts to chant along with the DJ. “Eight! Seven!”
A hand grabs my forearm in a viselike grip. I look up at Max in shock, but she’s not looking at me, only holding on to me. I follow her incredulous line of sight to see Brody on one knee in front of Landon, holding a small red box.
“Five! Four!”
Landon’s face is filled with total awe, even as she leans closer to hear the words he’s whispering into her ear, since it’s too loud in here. I put my hand on Max’s and squeeze her fingers tight.
“Two! One! Happy New Year!”
Landon nods and throws herself into Brody’s arms, nearly knocking him backwards onto the floor. But he’s laughing and she’s laughing, and she can’t stop kissing him. Their joy is palpable, and all around the room even the jaded LA socialites in the VIP section are cheering for them.
I watch as Brody stands up and presents the ring again to Landon, who hasn’t even put it on yet. She looks at it like it’s magic, and I guess it is. Even from back here I can see it sparkle. I don’t realize I’m crying until Max hands me a cocktail napkin. Her eyes are suspiciously bright too. Landon lets him slide the ring onto her finger and then leaps into his arms again. The kissing and laughing repeats itself until she finally turns away to look back at us. Max and I are still holding hands and watching her with watery eyes. Apparently witnessing our best friend get engaged turned us into old women. When they walk the few feet back over to where we’re standing, we envelop her in a group hug, and though she’ll never admit to it later, Max giggles and squeals along with us. I look at Landon’s gorgeous ring and feel like my heart might burst for her.
“I just knew this night was going to be epic!” I yell over the music.
Landon nods happily, apparently too overwhelmed to speak.
“We need more champagne!” Malin declares.
Brody points back at our lounge area, which has been stocked with obnoxiously expensive bottles of champagne on ice. We hurry back over—high on everything that’s happened—and take our seats just as several servers walk up with tray after tray of food. When they start to unload the plates onto our table, Landon’s smile threatens to break her face in half.
Pancakes. Every kind, every shape, every size you can imagine are piled high on the plates. When the last plate gets put down before us, Landon gives up on any pretense of calm and just goes ahead and starts crying. She looks at Brody with so much love and joy that it’s hard not to get emotional along with her. It’s too loud in here to make out what she says to him, but I read the words on her lips.
His smile is tender, and though the room is packed with energy and people and a chaotic mess of color and sound, he doesn’t seem to notice any of it. He only has eyes for her.
“You’re my favorite thing too,” he says back.
I reach out for a plate of pancakes and give them their privacy.
It’s past two o’clock in the morning when we leave, and I feel heartsick by the time the car service drops me off at home. Tosh’s car is in the driveway, but he’s asleep when I wander in, and all the lights in the house are off except for the hallway to my room. I wonder if he ever even left here at all. When I invited him to go out with us tonight, he declined. He blamed it on having too much work to do, but I know he’s still upset with me for Christmas. The reminder makes my heart hurt more.
When I get to my room, I head straight for the shower. I just want to wash this night off of me, put on my favorite pajamas, and sleep until noon tomorrow, when we’re all supposed to meet for brunch to celebrate. As I stand under the hot spray, I can’t help but smile when I remember Landon on the way home. She couldn’t stop looking down at her ring, she couldn’t stop telling him that she loved him, she couldn’t stop smiling every time he said it back. They describe it sometimes in books—the giddiness, the stars in their eyes, the electric current that runs back and forth between two people in love—but the words don’t do it justice. In this instance, the book isn’t better than real life. No book could ever clearly describe the palpable joy that my friends are wrapped up in. Max made jokes about gagging over their PDA, but it was a halfhearted attempt at best. Everyone was swept up in their love. It was like stepping near a fireplace: it was impossible to be around it and not be warmed by it.
I am so happy for my friends; nobody is more deserving of that kind of joy. But I can’t help but think how their situation compares with my own.
I keep telling myself that we’re still new and that I have to give Liam time, but is that the case? Is enough time ever going to pass for him to stop holding me out at a distance? I reach up to finger the chain at my neck. I haven’t taken the necklace off since he gave it to me, and all of a sudden that feels embarrassing. It feels like Gollum and the ring, and coveting things that were never supposed to be yours to begin with. Even with that knowledge, I still can’t make myself remove it now.
Ugh! Is this what relationships are like? Never knowing what’s going on? Always being confused? Always wishing, hoping, praying that you’ll do the right thing or say the right thing? Feeling desolate when you know you’ve missed the mark?
I shake my head sadly as I dry off in answer to my own question. No, my friends are in relationships, and theirs aren’t like this at all. They might argue sometimes, and they might have to work through their problems, but they’re supportive and respectful of each other. Both Landon and Max are totally confident that they are loved unconditionally. They never try to change themselves into someone new or worry that they’re doing the wrong thing, because being loved makes them utterly confident i
n just being themselves.
I rub at my gritty eyes. It is so time for sleep. I absolutely cannot think about this for one more second today.
I slip into pajamas and pad across the floor to my bed. My phone on the nightstand is showing a text message.
You should totally come over and hang out with me.
How many times has he sent me the exact same text? How many times have I immediately dropped whatever I was doing and gone to his house? I’m frozen, stock-still, unable to move for the anger bubbling up inside me. Tonight, of all nights, he’s going to try that? After he couldn’t be bothered to show up when he said he would? After he missed his own brother’s engagement because—what, he knew there would be too much commitment in the air? Now he wants to text me at three o’clock in the morning so I’ll drive over? It’s New Year’s and he must know that I’ve been drinking; how does he propose I get there? Does it even matter as long as I show up? Anger gives way to rage and with it comes clarity.
What am I to you? I asked him once.
A friend? he answered.
And I believed him too, because we have fun and we laugh and I thought it could be enough. My parents are best friends. Charlie and Viv, Max and Taylor, Brody and Landon: I’ve watched these couples all around me who are definitely close friends with each other, and so I convinced myself that this was a solid place to start a relationship. I shake my head.
But we’re not friends. Friends don’t treat each other this way.
It’s like a switch is flipped and I can see clearly for the first time in months. Friends don’t waver back and forth on whether or not they like you. Friends don’t constantly make plans and then break them. Friends talk. Friends ask each other questions. Friends care enough to try to keep you from being hurt. Friendship was the minimum I was hoping for from him—but we’re not even friends, are we?
I look over the last eight weeks and the ten months before that with a new kind of clarity. I chased after him like a puppy, but whatever I did, it was never enough to interest him. So I gave him everything I had to give and didn’t ask for anything in return.
Tosh always told me, In business you’re worth whatever someone is willing to pay for you. The idea being that you should charge a prospective client more because the value you have in yourself increases your value in the world. I’ve placed no value on myself at all, and worse than that, I’ve allowed Liam to treat me as if he agreed with the price.
The realization makes my knees feel weak, and I have to sit down on my bed.
How have I become this person?
If someone had told me a story about a friend who found herself in this situation, I would have felt pity. I probably would have said something snarky about self-esteem and higher standards. It would never have occurred to me that I would, or even could, become this person. It would never have occurred to me that Liam, who I’ve loved since the very first time I met him, was the one who would help me get here.
I lie back on the pillows, resigning myself to the truth. I have to have a conversation with Liam—and not the kind that happens over text.
I get up midmorning and go about getting ready with slow, methodical steps. My hair is big and wild; my T-shirt is the size of a regulation flag and just as many colors. My boyfriend jeans have almost as many holes as they have denim, and my red low-top Converse make me smile. I feel like myself—for the first time in a long time, I feel just like myself.
I drive to Liam’s house, feeling totally confident in what I’m about to do. I ring his doorbell with hands that don’t shake. When he opens the door, looking sleep mussed and sexy and so, so happy to see me, my heart kicks into a higher rhythm, but I ignore it.
“I’m so happy to see you.” He reaches for me.
I dart around his outstretched arm and into the entryway. I don’t want to let him touch me; I don’t want anything to cloud my thinking right now.
“I need to talk to you.” I look him right in the eye.
A little furrow appears in between his eyebrows. He’s never seen me so serious.
“Is everything OK?”
Too many answers pop into my mind, but I ignore them all. I reach into my front pocket and pull out the tiny blue pouch.
“I came to give you this,” I say, handing it to him.
He looks down at the Tiffany’s pouch that holds the necklace he gave me.
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t want to see you anymore.” I say it with total calm sincerity. “I know we’ll have to see each other, but I don’t want to do this”—the old words taste bitter on my tongue—“whatever this is with you anymore.”
He scowls. “You’re this upset because I didn’t show on New Year’s.”
He just doesn’t get it. Maybe he never will.
“I’m this upset because you didn’t show up ever. Not once in the last two months.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I can’t be with someone who thinks it’s OK to treat me this way.”
Pain and confusion race across his face. He takes a step closer to me, and I step closer to the door.
“You’re with me, but we’re not really together. You like me but just not enough to acknowledge me in public. You called me your friend, but friends don’t treat each other this way. I can’t keep going on like we have been.”
The last part comes out with a bit of a sob, and I have to take a couple of deep breaths to regain my composure. I refuse to break down right now. I’ve cried over him enough already. I can tell that my emotions make him uncomfortable.
“I don’t do relationships. I told you this months ago.” He crosses his arms and anger seeps into his tone. “I also don’t do ultimatums.”
How sad. How totally, utterly sad that this man has been so affected by his past that his first instinct is to think I’m trying to manipulate him into change. The understanding strengthens my spine again. It’s sad and I want to comfort him and make it better, but it’s not my job to do that anymore. Actually, it never was my job in the first place. I swallow and force myself to look him right in the eye.
“I love you.” I ignore the shock on his face. Saying these words isn’t about him or his reaction to them—this is for me. “I’ve loved you almost as long as I’ve known you. I just wanted to be able to say that to you at least once. I truly hope you’ll find happiness.” I reach for the car keys in my back pocket. “Please don’t text me anymore.”
I make it to the door before his voice halts my progress.
“You—you feel that way about me and you’re still ending it.”
For once I’m not the one someone is looking at with pity. How upsetting that he can’t even say the words, even just to repeat them back. It makes me sad, as does the bittersweet truth in what I’m about to say.
“I love you, Liam.” I take another calming breath. “I’ve just realized that I love myself more.”
I walk out of his house into the bright sunshine and never once look back.
He doesn’t listen to what I asked. He texts anyway. He tries playful, he tries sexy, he even writes some that clearly show his frustration. When I don’t respond to a single one, he starts calling. I send him to voice mail each time. I know I can’t answer, or we’ll be right back where we started.
When you break something yourself, you feel the force of the explosion; you can see every part of the destruction and watch the pieces fall. But at least then you can find them again when it’s over; at least that way you have a chance of putting the pieces back together. I find it ironic; this whole time I’ve lived in fear of Liam breaking my heart. But I did it all on my own.
So I cry.
I cry so long and so loud and so hard that Tosh finally stops politely asking me questions through my closed bedroom door and eventually uses some unknown key to unlock it. When he sees me wrapp
ed up in blankets in the same pajamas I put on three days before, with a face that is splotchy and puffy with tears, he lets out a long string of curses I didn’t even know he knew.
First he turns off the iPod dock, which is probably a good thing. It can’t be healthy for anyone to listen to Beyoncé sing “Best Thing I Never Had” on repeat for three hours straight. He comes over to my bed and sits back against the headboard with his feet stretched out in front of him.
“Don’t put your dirty sneakers on my bed,” I chastise him weakly.
He raises one brow sardonically.
“Koko, you’re lying on a pillow covered in mascara and chocolate sauce. My shoes aren’t going to hurt anything.”
I sniff. “I made myself a hot-fudge sundae for dinner last night,” I say by way of explanation.
“Did it help?”
I force myself to sit up against the headboard with him.
“It did, actually.”
My bedroom looks like a bomb went off in it. I wonder how long it’ll be until all this chaos makes his OCD start to itch.
“What are you crying over?” he asks carefully.
Liam is the obvious answer, but there’s so much more to it than that. I’m crying for every crappy choice I’ve made over the last several months. When I tell him as much, he nods in understanding.
“I sincerely want to hurt that guy. Not kill him or anything, but beating the hell out of him or maybe leaving a few noticeable scars would go a long way for me right now.”
I never knew someone wanting to maim another person on my behalf could warm my heart.
“Can you fight?”
He stares at me in total affront. “Of course I can fight. All guys can fight.”
The image that comes to mind is of my friend Lonny from last summer. A bee buzzed too close to his face, and he went fully spastic trying to shoo it away. All this while wearing a thirteenth-century troubadour costume.
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