It Takes Two

by Jenny Holiday

  He looked at her for a long time but eventually pulled his shirt over his head. “All right then. Good-bye for now. But I’m calling you tomorrow.”

  He slipped out the door. When she tried to close it behind him, it snagged on Elvis.

  She bent down to retrieve him, and, for the second time that night, a Pez dispenser made her cry.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Would you like to pray together?”

  Reverend William Long, from Aunt Mary’s church, sat down next to Wendy in the surgical waiting room.

  “Sure.” Because really, why the hell not?

  Wendy had already offered the God she was pretty sure she didn’t believe in everything she could think of in exchange for sparing Mary’s life. She’d work less. She’d stop traveling and move in with Mary. She’d take a cue from Noah and stop having casual sex. She’d bargained everything she could think of, but she hadn’t tried straight-up praying.

  Wendy had always been secretly dismissive of what she saw as her aunt’s simplistic devotion to an organization that basically subscribed to the notion that a man in the sky was in charge of what happened to humanity. But regardless of whether any of it was actually true, she’d been bolstered by the outpouring of love and support for her aunt—and by extension, for her—in the thirty-six hours since she’d been back from Vegas.

  And this Reverend Bill—he’d told her to call him that—was not a bad guy. She had seen him at church, of course, preaching sermons. But in person he was cooler than she would have expected. He was an interesting mixture of kind and efficient, and he didn’t flinch when she baited him. For example, she could say things like, “What actually is praying, anyway? Is it just asking for what you want? Like a shopping list?”

  He chuckled. “I like to think of it more as asking for what you need.”

  “I need my aunt to not die,” Wendy said without hesitation.

  “Why?” he asked gently. “Everyone dies.”

  Wendy rolled her eyes. She didn’t care if she was being rude. “I suppose this is the part where you tell me that if it’s time for God to take her, it’s her time. Well, eff that.” She congratulated herself on not using the real curse word there. It was what she’d been screaming in her head. “It’s not her time.”

  “Do you perhaps mean it’s not your time? That you’re not ready for your aunt to die?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  All Wendy could think was about how often her aunt invited her to church. Wendy usually went with her on Christmas Eve and Easter Sunday—or the odd one-off Sunday when Noah was in town and insisted on going. But that happened once every couple of years, tops. Would it have killed her to show up every now and then on a random Sunday, because it was important to her aunt and her aunt was all she had left? God, Noah was more thoughtful about church with Mary than Wendy was.

  Wendy hadn’t cried yet. Not since she’d picked up that stupid Elvis Pez from the floor of her hotel room back in Vegas. Somehow, she’d gotten through the seemingly endless flight home without crying. She’d sat at her aunt’s bedside in the ICU, holding Mary’s limp, IV-pierced hand, without crying. She’d conferred with doctors, listened to diagnoses of brain swelling and cracked vertebrae, and phrases like “too soon to tell,” and “possible paralysis,” and “surgery will tell us a lot.” She’d talked to cops, doing her best to answer questions so they could decide whether to lay charges against the driver who’d struck her aunt.

  All this she had done without crying.

  She’d thought maybe she was out of tears, that maybe her night with Noah had sucked them all out of her.

  But, no, it turned out that a simple “Do you perhaps mean it’s not your time?” was what finally did the trick.

  The toxic mixture of shame and fear was too much. She was ashamed of not spending more time with her aunt, who was, after all, as much an orphan as Wendy was. But also afraid. Gripped with stone-cold terror. She’d gotten herself all twisted into knots over the idea of Jane “leaving her” when she got married, when all along she should have been paying more attention to the one person who never, ever would—or so she’d thought.

  “Wendy. Wendy, sweetie, don’t cry.”

  It was Cameron, who’d come from the cafeteria bearing coffee. Cameron, who had been at her side literally nonstop since they got back from Vegas. He and Jane had arrived back in Toronto a few hours after Wendy and had come directly to the hospital and spent that first day with her, but eventually Wendy had talked Jane into going home to get some sleep, pointing out that there wasn’t anything to do or know until after this morning’s surgery.

  But Cameron, damn him. She hadn’t been able to shake him.

  Reverend Bill passed her a box of tissues and murmured something about leaving for a while. Wendy nodded her thanks, secretly relieved that she was off the hook with the whole praying thing.

  “Don’t you have to work?” she asked as Cameron set down the coffees he was carrying. He sat next to her, slung one of his stupid, giant, beefy arms over her shoulder, and side-hugged her.

  “Nope.”

  “Don’t you have school?”

  “Nope.”

  He was lying. Cameron worked full-time and went to school part-time, so there was no way he didn’t need to be in one of those places at nine in the morning on a weekday.

  “Hey…” He gave her a little squeeze with the arm that rested on her shoulders before retracting it. It seemed like he was going to say more, but then he closed his mouth.

  “What?”

  “Well, I was going to say, ‘It’s going to be okay.’ But we don’t actually know that, and you’re not the kind of person who appreciates platitudes.”

  She nodded. That had been perceptive of him.

  “But I will tell you this. No matter what happens, you’re not going to be alone in this.”

  “I appreciate that, Cameron, I really do, but I kind of am. Mary’s my last surviving family member.”

  “No,” he said—more sharply than was called for, she thought. “I’ve got your back, Wendy, whether you like it or not. It’s the way things work now.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Easy. You’re Jane’s person. Jane’s my person. Therefore, you’re stuck with me. Simple logic.”

  “What do you mean I’m Jane’s person?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked away, embarrassed. “You’re, like, her soul mate or some shit. I don’t know. Girl bonds. You tell me.”

  Wendy couldn’t help but smile through her tears at his caveman-esque attempt at expressing his emotions. “I’m pretty sure you’re Jane’s person, Cameron.”

  He shrugged. “I should be so lucky. Anyway, I’m newer to the scene, so I’m gonna have to go with you.”

  “You really love her, don’t you?”

  He paused for a moment before answering. “I really, really do.”

  A sob rose through Wendy’s chest, and she didn’t even try to hide it. Just let the next one come as Jane’s fiancé’s supersize, surprisingly comforting arms snaked around her again.

  “Yep,” said Cameron with a resigned cheeriness in his tone. “Whether you like it or not, I’ve got your back now.”

  And damn if that didn’t make her cry even harder.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ONE WEEK BEFORE THE WEDDING

  Noah paused outside Mary’s hospital room in Toronto. He was prepared for anything. Well, he was prepared for two possibilities, really. One would be rage. He’d seen flashes of anger from Wendy since the spring, and now that he knew where it came from, he was of the opinion that he deserved it.

  God, he’d spent the past five days going over and over what had happened, both in the hotel room and all those years ago at the prom that wasn’t. He’d had two bombshells dropped on him that last day in Vegas—Jane’s confession about feeling responsible for their father’s death and then arranging her subsequent life so she wouldn’t be a burden on him, and Wendy’s astonishi
ng revelation.

  He’d wanted only to do right by both girls back then. Instead, he’d made a hash of everything.

  So, yes, he had earned Wendy’s anger.

  But his money was on the second option he’d braced himself for: indifference.

  He was mostly convinced that he would open that door, and he’d get…nothing. She, having exorcised her feelings toward him—the bad ones and any residual lust-related ones—would raise her head and look at him blankly. Like she didn’t know him at all.

  Indifference was what he expected based on the radio silence he’d had from her since Vegas, anyway. When his first few calls had gone to voicemail, he’d started texting her. He’d tried apologizing again for the dance. And for that last night in Vegas—though something in him rebelled at apologizing for such spectacular sex. He’d tried asking after her aunt. He’d tried asking after her. He’d even sent her a link to a “What kind of Pez dispenser are you?” Buzzfeed quiz. She never replied.

  Jane had kept him filled in on Mary’s progress, of course, so he knew she was out of the woods. He knew, broadly, what was happening.

  But he didn’t know what was happening.

  So, yeah, he was ready for anything. Armored. Indifference, rage, whatever—bring it on. He just needed to know.

  He pushed open the door.

  And had to correct himself. He’d been ready for anything…except delight.

  “Noah?” She looked up, her tone incredulous. A parade of emotions passed over her gorgeous face—bewilderment and trepidation, mostly, but there was definitely some delight in there, too, before she tamped it down.

  She was lying next to her aunt watching TV, both of them smooshed against each other on the single hospital bed.

  He tried to breathe, but nothing happened.

  She scrambled to her feet.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I, ah…I’m here for the wedding.” That was true. Partly. He couldn’t say I’m here because you won’t text me back.

  “But I thought you weren’t coming until the day before.”

  She wasn’t going to let him off the hook, was she? Of course not—this was Wendy. “I decided to come early.”

  “What about work?”

  He shrugged, trying to telegraph a casualness he did not feel. “I brought some work with me. Handed off to colleagues the stuff that required my physical presence.” She had no idea how unprecedented that was. Or maybe she did—Wendy had always seen him in a way other people hadn’t.

  “Jane must be so thrilled.”

  “I suppose she will be.” He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Had just been sitting in his apartment last night, all restless and jumpy. The usual calmness that working brought, the sense of control it conferred on him, was nowhere in evidence. He couldn’t keep his mind on anything—was unable to lose himself in work like he usually could. All he could do was scroll through those eleven sent texts, going back over them to obsessively check the “read” stamp on them, when he’d thought, Fuck it. I’m getting on a plane.

  “Jane doesn’t know you’re here?”

  “I came here first.” That didn’t really answer her question, but he was still suffused with the overwhelming feeling that he didn’t know what was happening. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do.

  He hated that feeling.

  “Is that Noah?” said Mary.

  Well, shit, there was another thing he’d gotten wrong. Clearly, the first thing he was supposed to do was to pay attention to the patient. He could worry about the rest later.

  “Miss Mary.” He walked over and smiled down at her.

  She looked so small, and not in the way that Wendy was small. Wendy was small but big, which probably made no sense to anyone besides him. Her aunt, though, was small and frail; dwarfed by the machinery around her and lost in a too-big hospital gown, she almost looked like she could slip away and no one would notice. He bowed his head a little and said, “I’m here for my sister’s wedding, but I came early to see you.”

  “You were always such a good boy.”

  I tried to be! he wanted to shout. But he just looked at Wendy, who was…smiling? What the hell was going on here? Being at war with Wendy was, comparatively speaking, much easier than this.

  “My sister tells me you’re doing well,” he said to Mary. “What’s the prognosis?”

  Wendy answered for her aunt, her smile widening into a full-fledged grin. “The prognosis is great.”

  * * *

  “What happened to you?” Noah asked as he held the door for Wendy at the diner she’d suggested they decamp to for lunch.

  She shot Noah a bewildered look, and, yes, maybe that wasn’t the right way to ask the question, but damn, it was like Wendy had taken happy pills. It was disconcerting as hell.

  Wait. “Did they give you antidepressants?” That might have happened, right? If she’d been consumed with grief? “Is that why you’re so chipper?”

  “Ha!” She did her cackling thing, and it warmed his insides even as it continued to throw him off his game. “Nope!”

  She didn’t say any more until they’d been shown to their seats. She disappeared for a minute behind the menu, and he wondered if she was avoiding him, but then she lowered it abruptly and said, “I’m so sorry I didn’t text. I kept meaning to, but things have been so…insane. I’d get one from you, and I’d think, oh, I’ll text him back later when I can sit down and actually think about it. Then, the moment I wasn’t needed at the hospital, I’d go home and fall dead asleep.”

  “No problem.” He was kind of lying. No, he was totally lying. Her lack of a response had not only not been “no problem,” it had made him insane enough to bail on work and impulsively get on a plane to come check on her.

  But she was…fine. Not in need of any comfort or solidarity from him.

  “Anyway, it’s better in person.”

  “What is?”

  “The apology I’m going to make.”

  Huh?

  “I’ll have a tuna melt now and two pieces of lemon meringue pie to go,” Wendy said to the server, who had arrived to collect their orders.

  “That’s a really…specific order,” he said.

  “Gia’s arriving tonight. She has a freakish fondness for lemon meringue.”

  Noah stumbled his way through ordering a sandwich, and when the server left, Wendy looked him straight in the eye and said, “I’m sorry I laid all that shit on you in Las Vegas.”

  “You didn’t ‘lay any shit’ on me.”

  She ignored him and just kept talking. “I’m also sorry I basically sexually assaulted you.”

  “Hang on, now. You did not sexually assault me.” And also: he certainly wasn’t sorry about it, whatever she was going to call it.

  “I knew you weren’t into getting the milk for free, so to speak, but I pushed it anyway. That was shitty of me.”

  “It’s really okay. I’m the one who should be apologizing.” He just didn’t quite know how to do it. If only he’d known back then how she’d felt.

  “I’m assuming the whole ‘What happens in fake New York stays in fake New York’ clause still applies?” She looked down and fiddled with her silverware, the first indication that she was at all unsettled. “About everything that got, uh, said and done there?”

  He blinked. She was going way too fast here. “If we want it to.”

  She blew out a breath and grinned sheepishly. “Well, that’s a relief.”

  Noah had said “we.” If we want it to. She’d obviously heard “you.” If you want it to.

  Him? He had no freaking idea what he wanted.

  “And I know it’s asking a lot, but I’d really prefer to keep what happened between us from Jane. I don’t want to make what is supposed to be the happiest time of her life any more about me than I already have.”

  “Sure thing.” He was in total agreement there. He couldn’t help adding, “It was fun, though.”

  “Ha! So you admit that
there’s something to be said for meaningless fucking!”

  “God, do you have to call it that?”

  “No, I don’t have to call it that. I just enjoy taunting you.” She grinned. “What would you call it?”

  “Casual sex?”

  His answer had come out more like a question because it didn’t really describe what had gone down in that hotel room in Vegas. There had been nothing casual about it.

  He shook his head. Of course that’s what it had been. Jesus. Even if he’d wanted it to be something more, it was completely impractical. They were enmeshed in satisfying careers in different countries. She was leaving for her trip around the world.

  And of course there was the fact that attempting a relationship with his sister’s best friend was a supremely unwise idea. When it ended, as all his relationships eventually did, how would they possibly untangle it?

  “Meaningless fucking. Casual sex. Whatever you call it, it cannot happen again,” she said. “Just so we’re clear.”

  Crystal clear. Also clear? That he was a little more disappointed than he should have been. But he nodded and said, “Some sort of bizarre fake-New-York-in-Vegas vacation aberration thing.”

  She burst out laughing at his twist on the excuse they’d been feeding each other. “We should start a band and call it Vacation Aberration.”

  He let himself smile with her, let her happiness chase away that niggle of disappointment. “You still haven’t told me what’s with this whole Happy Wendy thing?” If they were being direct, which it seemed they were, he was just going to ask.

  “Happy Wendy.” She smiled, as if to demonstrate that she deserved the moniker. She looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “I talked to the priest from Mary’s church. Like, really talked.”

  He choked on a sip of his water. He had an image of her earnestly confessing her sins. And of doing so using her signature forthrightness and colorful language. He couldn’t help it; he cracked up.

  “I’m serious!” Wendy swatted his forearm. “You know how they say a brush with death can make you change your ways?”