Frenemies(10)

“Oh, good movie,” Georgia murmured from behind her drink. Because it truly was a great movie and also because, as a redhead, she viewed early Molly Ringwald films as a personal shout-out.

“Henry wanted to know if I could keep stuff on a happy, party level and not throw any scenes.” I couldn’t let it go. “As if having public dramas is something I really enjoy.”

“As if you cause the public dramas!” Georgia retorted, scandalized. “And as if Henry, who is himself a public drama, should comment!”

I was more than prepared to throw myself into an orgy of trash-talking, as usual, but Amy Lee had other ideas.

“There was a really cool restaurant in DailyCandy today, did you guys see it?” she asked. “Some Asian fusion thing, very hip, apparently. I think we should check it out.”

I couldn’t process the change in subject. I drank my water in a big gulp and put my glass back on the bar.

“I feel oppressed by DailyCandy,” Georgia confessed with a sigh. “Isn’t that terrible? Every morning my in-box is swamped with a level of coolness I can’t attain. Restaurants I will never eat at, clothes I will never buy—I can’t take the pressure!”

“You could—I don’t know—cancel your subscription,” I suggested. “No one’s forcing you to read it.”

“And then what? Accept that I’m intimidated by daily e-mails?” Georgia shook her head.

“I think you’re overthinking the DailyCandy,” Amy Lee said. “And I’m making reservations for us because I don’t care if we’re almost thirty—we are that cool.”

“If you say so,” Georgia said, but her expression said something else. “But I’m warning you right now, I’m not dressing up like one of those Simpson chicks just to blend in.”

The image of Georgia dressed as Ashlee Simpson was one I knew I would treasure for years to come. I could feel myself grinning.

“Because normally, you blend so well?” Amy Lee eyed her. “Since six-foot redheads are so common here in Boston?”

“I’m five-ten, thank you,” Georgia retorted. “And don’t pretend you’re not jealous. You dream of reaching five feet, and that’s when you have heels on!”

“I’m five-two!” Amy Lee cried. Georgia just looked at her. “Fine. Five-one and seven-eighths.”

“And those seven-eighths make a huge difference,” I added, and laughed. “They elevate Amy Lee far above the usual short person.”

So it made sense that just then, just as Amy Lee made a rude gesture and I was beginning to think it was safe to be back in that house, something caught my eye from across the room.

Sure enough, there was Nate, standing at the foot of the stairs that led up to his rooms on the top floor. He scanned the crowd, and then turned back to take the arm of the woman behind him—as if precious Helen couldn’t be expected to maintain her own balance without his assistance.

I watched as Helen whispered something into Nate’s ear, something that made him smile and noticeably squeeze her hand oh-so-supportively. I racked my brain, and couldn’t think of a single time Nate ever squeezed my hand. He liked to hold hands, though—and play with my fingers as he did so, as if each curve of each fingerprint was individually fascinating to him.

I must have had some of my feelings on that subject plastered across my face, because when Helen’s gaze drifted to mine, she blinked. And then she smiled.

Directly at me.

“What was that?” I demanded out of the corner of my mouth.

“Ignore it,” Amy Lee advised at once.

“Seriously,” Georgia agreed. “Fuck her and her sweet little smiles—”

“Yeah, but … guys?” I was at a complete loss. “She’s coming over here.”

Impossible, but true. I watched as Helen detached herself from Nate and made her way through the party. Okay, I told myself, I was standing right next to the bar. Maybe Helen had as much interest in talking to me as I did in talking to her—which was to say, none at all. Maybe the bitch was just thirsty.

That sinking feeling in my stomach, however, knew better.

“You have to hand it to her,” Oscar said then. “She has balls.”

“My ex-boyfriend’s balls, to be precise,” I snapped.

From across the room, I could see that Henry’s smirk had sharpened as he watched the show. Terrific, I thought. Another drama for him to witness and then use to mock me.

And then Helen Fairchild, that girl in all her glory, was standing directly in front of me. Close enough so I could notice that her peach camisole top really suited her. I also noticed that she’d attached wispy little fairy wings to her back, the better to look ethereal and fetching. I wanted to smack her.

“Gus!” she said in her sweet, almost breathy voice, the one that inspired otherwise perfectly normal men to spring to her aid like some kind of modern-day white knights. The idiots. “I’m so glad you came!”

I heard what sounded suspiciously like a guffaw from Amy Lee, and I could feel the chill emanating from Georgia, but I knew better than to look at either of them. Despite some behavior that might suggest otherwise, this wasn’t actually the seventh grade.

“Hey, Helen,” I managed, with what I thought was extraordinary calm. Given the circumstances.