by Stacey Jay
It was . . . magical. Everyone seemed so happy to be there, to be included in the wonderful, unexpected celebration of two people who really loved each other promising to be together forever, through better or worse, good times and bad—
“And you’re going to cry for real if we listen to any more.” Mitch plucked my drink from my hand and sat it next to his own.
“But I don’t want to leave,” I whispered. “I love them.”
“Are you drunk?”
“No. I just love them. They’re so . . . perfect.”
Mitch smiled and looked back at the bride and groom. “They are. I’d like to be like that someday.”
“Yeah?” I asked, not realizing Mitch had his arm around my shoulders until I instinctively leaned into his warmth and felt the soft scratch of his wool coat against my cheek.
Clearing my throat, I stepped away as casually as possible, retrieving my champagne glass and taking another swig. “I didn’t know you wanted to get married.”
“Of course I do,” he said, sounding a little offended, though he turned to smile and clap with everyone else as Uncle What’s-his-name finished his toast. “Just because I haven’t dated anyone seriously doesn’t mean I don’t want to—”
“You haven’t dated anyone at all.” I hiccuped and blushed at the same time. The champagne was sneaking up on me. Time to stop. Hadn’t I learned my lesson about alcohol and Mitch and me the first time around? I set my glass down.
“I don’t need to date anyone. I know what I want,” he said, stepping closer, hand coming down over mine, pinning my fingers to the tablecloth. “I think you’ve had enough, don’t you?”
My skin sparked and my breath caught. It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t even a hug. But there it was, that awareness of Mitch, that aching in my chest. There was a part of me that didn’t want to stay at a friendly distance, that wanted to know what it would feel like to kiss Mitch again.
“I wasn’t going to have any more.” I pulled my hand out from under his, cheeks hot, eyes glued to the buttons on his coat. I couldn’t look him in the eye, not yet, not until I pulled myself together.
An hour ago, I’d been desperate for Isaac to do something to convince me I didn’t need to worry about Rachel ruining our future. That’s all this was, a reaction to how insecure I’d been feeling. I loved Mitch, but not in that way. Mitch was my goofy best friend who laughed at my fart jokes. Isaac was my future. He was everything I’d ever counted on. He was my steady, beautiful, talented, loving boyfriend and I was not going to ruin that a second time. We’d get past this tough time and go on to live the dreams we’d dreamed together, just like Sacha and Peter.
“I want to go home,” I said, suddenly ready to leave the wedding. My own happily ever after might never happen if I didn’t get out of here. And away from Mitch. There was definitely a weird energy hovering in the air between us.
Mitch’s hand fell lightly on my shoulder. “Do you feel sick?”
“Yeah. A little,” I lied, happy for the excuse to head for home.
“Champagne goes straight to my stomach if I haven’t eaten,” he said, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the cheese-and-cracker spread at the end of one of the giant fruit tables. “Let’s get something in you.”
Ugh. No! “Mitch, I really don’t—”
“I swear it will make you feel better.”
“No,” I hissed, waving an apology to the woman whose toes I’d stepped on in our dash to the cheese tray. “I don’t want—”
“If you don’t eat, the pukey bubbles will just get worse,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper as the next toaster began his speech—which was, as anticipated, in Greek. “And I don’t want yack in my van.”
Sigh. “Fine, but just a little bit. I already had a sandwich after school,” I whispered, fidgeting as Mitch loaded a plate with enough cheese and crackers to constipate a baby elephant.
“Come on.” He jerked his head toward the door to the Parthenon’s lobby, heading off before I could protest a change of location.
I stomped after him, feeling both cranky and calmer at the same time. Being annoyed with Mitch for big-brothering me was a good way to keep from thinking of him as anything but my best, oldest, bossiest friend.
Smiling a little in spite of myself, I pushed through the door and into the lobby of the museum. The rest of the Parthenon was closed, but the lobby was almost always open. The better to scare the crap out of little kids with the giant statue.
Athena still stood in the center of the room—as big and brightly colored and creepy as I remembered—but the rest of the cavernous space was nearly deserted. Only a single guard paced slowly back and forth on the opposite side of the statue and a couple of touristy-looking families circled Athena, speaking softly out of respect for the wedding taking place outside.
Or maybe they were just afraid to talk too loud and risk offending the goddess of wisdom.
Wisdom . . . I could really use some of that, Athena. If you’ve got any extra hanging around.
“Over here.” Mitch motioned me over to the bench near the wall. “Sit. Eat.”
“You’re like an old woman, you know that? Always trying to feed people.” I sat down next to him and took a few crackers from the plate he held out.
“I get it from my bubbe,” he said. “She’ll put the food in your mouth herself if you don’t eat fast enough.”
I laughed around a mouthful of rye. I loved his grandma, but he was right. I’d seen her physically stuff food in Mitch’s dad’s face like he was a two-year-old. Mitch snagged a cracker and stuck the entire thing in his mouth. We chewed in silence for a moment, watching Athena watch us.
“I was so scared of that statue when I was little,” I said, grabbing another cracker and a slice of something white with little green flakes in it. I was hungrier than I’d realized.
“Me too,” Mitch said. “I cried the first time my dad brought me.”
“Me too!” I laughed, spraying a bit of cracker crumb, then laughing again.
“We have so much in common. Fear of heights, fear of giant statues. It must be love,” Mitch said, tossing the L word out like it meant nothing. It made me wonder if I’d been overestimating his interest. Maybe the awkwardness between us was all in my head. “Now, if only you had horrible allergies and weirdly bony knees and elbows, then we’d be a match made in heaven.”
“Only if you had hellishly red hair,” I said, joking along with him.
“I could dye it. I think I’d look awesome with hellishly red hair.”
“So you’re agreeing that my hair is hellish?” I leaned over, nudging his shoulder with mine.
Mitch surveyed me critically from the corner of his eye. “Well, it used to be. Before you did this whole blond thing.”
Blond thing? My hand shot self-consciously to my newly chopped locks. “Everyone else likes the highlights.”
“Hmm.”
“What’s ‘hmm’ supposed to mean?”
“I prefer you hellish. Your natural color is cool.”
“Well, thanks. I guess.” I frowned and shoved another bite of cracker in my mouth.
It was nice that Mitch appreciated my “natural beauty,” but the condition of my hair was permanent—at least for the next year or so until the blond parts grew out. It was like he’d told me I’d be an unsightly blemish on the face of humanity for the next twelve months. But whatever. Who cared if Mitch thought I was ugly? He wasn’t my boyfriend.
Still, I had to work hard to wipe the scowl from my face.
“You’re welcome. The beauty advice is free,” Mitch said, clueless that he’d just hurt my feelings. “The love-life advice, however, will cost you.”
“Good thing I don’t need love-life advice,” I said, more defensively than I would have liked.
“Hmm. Right. So everything is sparkles and unicorns with you and Isaac?”
My pulse picked up and swallowing the last bit of cracker left in my mouth felt like I was downing an ostri
ch egg whole. Mitch knew something. But what did he know? And did I really want to hear it?
“I . . . I don’t know,” I said evasively, wishing I’d brought my drink with me. My throat was so dry. “It’s mostly sparkles.”
Mitch nodded, as if I’d confirmed his suspicions. “You need to be meaner to him.”
“Meaner to him?” I asked, with a laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure that would make him really happy.”
“He might not be happy, but it would probably help your relationship,” he said, completely serious, not even the ghost of a smile on his lips. “You need to do the tough-love thing you were joking about the other day. Let him know that he can’t get away with ditching you all the time.”
I breathed a little easier. This wasn’t about cheating. Thank God. I’d had enough angst about that for one day. “He doesn’t ditch me all the—”
“Let’s see—the play, the cast party, apple picking, um, tonight,” he said, setting down the plate of cheese and crackers and ticking the occasions off on his fingers. “Those are just a few examples off the top of my head. It’s ridiculous.”
“Basketball season just started, he’s busier—”
“What about this summer? How many times did he say he was going to pick you up and not show?” Mitch’s voice was soft, but I could hear the anger hidden beneath the reasonable tone. “I know of at least two. I saw you standing in your driveway for almost an hour both times.”
“So you’re spying on me now?” I asked, angry with Mitch, even though he was simply stating the facts.
These weren’t “new” memories, these were things that had really happened in my version of reality. Isaac had stood me up four times this summer, left me waiting in my bathing suit cover-up at the end of the drive when he’d promised to come get me to go swimming. Sure, he’d actually come to get me dozens of times—but did that make up for the fact that he’d “spaced” and forgotten to get his girlfriend because he was too busy playing Xbox 360?
But then, why was Mitch so eager to convince me to be mean to my boyfriend? There was a good chance his motives were not as pure as he’d have me believe.
“Yeah, I’m spying on you, Katie.” Mitch sighed and rolled his eyes. “Because it takes a lot of effort to look out my window and see your house.”
“You don’t have to be mean.”
He grabbed my hands, squeezing them with a frustrated sound. “I’m not being mean. I’m trying to be nice.”
“By telling me my hair looks awful and my boyfriend treats me like crap?”
“By telling you that you’re too good to let your boyfriend treat you like crap. And I don’t think Isaac would treat you like crap if you were meaner to him. Get tough, show him you won’t put up with his shit, and he’ll respect you for it.” Mitch’s fingers laced through mine, sending a shiver across my skin. “And I don’t think your hair looks awful. It’s really pretty.”
“Thanks.” I sniffed, pulling my hands away from Mitch’s. “But I think you’re wrong about Isaac. He had a fight with his dad tonight about spending more time with me. He’s really trying.”
“Good. I’m glad.” He grabbed my hand again and pulled me to my feet.
“I’m glad you’re glad,” I said, strangely breathless as I tilted my head back to stare up into Mitch’s face.
“I’m glad you’re glad I’m glad,” he said, pulling me closer, wrapping my arms around his waist, then releasing my hands. His arms came around me a second later.
All the little hairs on my arms stood up and I was suddenly keenly aware that less than three inches separated me from Mitch. What was happening here? Friendly hug or more-than-friendly hug? How could I tell?
“Isaac loves you,” Mitch said. “As much as Isaac is ever going to love anyone.”
Ugh! Mitch was so confusing. One second it seemed like he wanted to be more than friends, and the next he was giving me advice on how to keep Isaac in line and assuring me my boyfriend loved me.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked, breathing a little easier when Mitch began swaying side to side. We were dancing; that’s all this was. It wasn’t a “moment.” It was a perfectly natural response to the music drifting into the lobby. The toasts must finally be over.
“Exactly what I said.” He spun me in a little circle, closer to the door. The music became clearer as we moved. The band was playing a popular country song from a few years back, something about all the roads traveled before you find the one who’s your perfect match. It had never been one of my favorite songs. I didn’t like to think about traveling “other roads.” Isaac was my first road, my only road, my straight, clearly marked path.
Mitch grabbed my wrists and looped them around his neck before putting his own hands back on my waist. Very proper, very gentlemanly, but still . . . there was something there . . . something in the way his fingertips pressed into the small of my back that made it hard to breathe.
Surely I wasn’t imagining it. Was I?
“He loves you the way Isaac loves people,” Mitch continued.
“Which is different than the normal way of loving people?”
“What is normal?”
“I . . . don’t know,” I confessed.
We both fell silent as we swayed even closer to the lobby door, until we could hear every word the lead singer sang. The air shivered with long, sweet notes pulled from the fiddle, and through the glass we could see the wedding party spin on the dance floor.
Everyone looked so happy, so sure that the partner in their arms was the right partner. I’d always been sure too. So sure. And I was sure now, wasn’t I? Isaac was the one for me. The feelings I had for Mitch were because he’d been my best friend for years, because I’d loved him from the first day I’d seen him crying on the swings and wanted to hold him in my arms and tell him everything was going to be okay. I loved Mitch, but I didn’t love Mitch.
Mitch wasn’t the one who’d given me my first kiss when I was fourteen, Mitch wasn’t the one I’d lost my virginity to on my sixteenth birthday, Mitch wasn’t the person who I’d daydreamed about the future with for three years.
That person was Isaac. And “normal” or not, I treasured his love.
“I love Isaac,” I said, my voice strong and sure.
“I know you do, but I’m pretty sure Isaac’s way of loving is different than your way of loving. You see more, you want more,” he said. “You go all the way for people—your family, your friends, even people you don’t even know. Isaac wants to be a star, you want to be an impoverished social worker.”
“Not all social workers are impoverished. And I could major in business and still work for a nonprofit,” I said, hurrying on before Mitch could speak again. “And the only reason I don’t want to be a star is because I’m not star material. Everyone likes attention. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Everyone likes different kinds of attention.” He pulled me a little closer, seemingly oblivious to how stiff I’d become. “You wouldn’t want to be famous, you know you wouldn’t.”
I shrugged, uncomfortable with how close he was to the truth. Hadn’t I just been thinking about the plague-like nature of popularity?
“I’m not slamming Isaac.” Mitch stared out at the dancers, a distant look in his eyes. If I hadn’t known better, I wouldn’t have thought he was talking to me at all. “He’s a great guy.”
“I know that,” I said, a creaking sound making me turn and look over my shoulder. There, Athena glared down at me and Mitch, like the goddess herself disapproved.
I suddenly had an image of the base beneath the statue breaking in half and the marble giant crashing down. I could see the shock on Mitch’s face as he was knocked to the ground, hear the shattering glass as Athena broke through the doors and smashed into the wedding party. The music cut off, the singer’s soothing voice replaced by the sounds of people screaming as they struggled to lift the statue off loved ones pinned beneath. A little girl with ice cream spilled on her dress cried and—<
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“Katie?”
Mitch’s voice made me jump, but it was a second creak from the statue that kicked my pulse into high gear. “Did you hear that? That creaking sound?” I asked, hands fisting at his collar, prepared to pull him to safety if the statue began to fall.
“Um . . . no. I didn’t hear anything. Except the music,” Mitch said.
Another glance at the statue revealed not the slightest hint of movement. I was just losing my mind, letting my childhood fears and time-travel stress get the better of me. Athena wasn’t going to fall. Even if she did, the locket would help me go back and save anyone who’d been hurt.
The jewelry stayed cool and quiet against my skin, offering no argument but no comfort, either. I bit my lip, fighting the urge to pull it out and look at it for the millionth time. Staring at that silver G and the cryptic inscription wasn’t going to help me any more now than it had a week ago.
Mitch cleared his throat and spun me in another circle. “I also heard my melodious voice telling you that, aside from the standing-you-up thing, there’s nothing wrong with Isaac.”
“I never said there was,” I said, attention fully on Mitch once more. Why wasn’t he letting this go?
“But there doesn’t have to be something wrong . . . for something not to be right.” His eyes met mine, and I knew in that moment that he was going to kiss me.
Even before his lips moved closer to mine, before his hands clenched, digging into the small of my back—I knew the mistake was about to happen again. My entire body ached to kiss him back, my skin begged my brain to let this moment be whatever it was going to be.
Instead, I pulled away, breaking the circle of his arms. “I think you’ve been reading too many self-help books.” My voice trembled, betraying how close I’d been to screwing everything up all over again. Some girlfriend I was. As things stood, I had no room to judge Isaac for being tempted by someone else. But that was going to change. Right now. “And I think I need to go home.”