Frenemies(21)

Helen blew out a breath. “Yes,” she said. She let out a knowing sort of chuckle. “But you know Nate. He doesn’t know how to do anything the easy way.”

This wasn’t happening. I was in hell. Or in an alternate reality in which current girlfriends had overly familiar conversations about their boyfriends with the ex they’d helped kick to the curb. Or maybe I was on a reality television show in which, at any moment, some has-been celebrity would leap out from behind a potted plant and explain that of course this conversation wasn’t actually happening for real—and of course I was being set up while millions of viewers tittered at my predicament from the safety of their living rooms.

“Sometimes,” Helen continued in that same musing sort of tone, seemingly oblivious to my horror, “I think that he goes out of his way to make things as difficult as possible. I totally believe it’s because of his issues with his mom. What do you think?”

It was definitely time for the hidden cameras to make themselves known. Before I was forced to take matters into my own hands or—more frightening—actually engage in some sort of in-depth analysis of the man we’d both slept with. I shuddered at the prospect.

“I don’t …” I was at a loss. Also, there was a building hysteria spreading out from my gut, which I definitely wanted to keep inside. Hysteria, in my experience, opened doors best left sealed tight and padlocked shut. I coughed, and started again. “I’m not sure I really …”

“You know, because with that kind of mother, it’s not surprising Nate has intimacy issues,” Helen blathered on. I watched in a sort of distant amazement as Helen slid her soft pink bra strap back up over her delicate shoulder. I was afraid that I would be frozen somewhere between discomfort and horror for the rest of my life, forced to contemplate such unknowables as: if Helen couldn’t find a bra to fit her properly, who could?

I was definitely getting hysterical.

Helen aimed a tremulous smile my way. “I mean, you know Nate’s mom,” she said. “Every time we have lunch, I have to remind myself that she’s just a lonely woman who doesn’t know any better, you know?”

All right. Hold up.

Here was what I knew about Nate’s mother:

She had disapproved of me. Not because of anything concrete, let me hasten to add. I’d never disrupted a family outing, let loose with obscenities on the telephone, or dressed like a hooker for Sunday church.

No, Mrs. Manning had, on principle, disapproved of any woman she felt usurped her position in Nate’s life. Textbook stuff, really. Because of this, I’d never met the woman during my tenure as Nate’s girlfriend (a term he hadn’t used himself until near the end, but don’t get me started). We certainly didn’t engage in any cozy Mom-and-Usurper lunches.

Helen, I was quite certain, knew this.

Not only did she know it—she was rubbing it in. This was typical Helen shenanigans, because if I called her on it, she could very easily bat those big eyes at me and claim she’d just been trying to bond with me, the way she’d been being nice when she’d opened the bidding on me as a date. It was passive aggression at its finest: walking that line between inappropriate and friendly, and using it to plant the knife.

And all this from the woman who had stolen her friend’s boyfriend.

She was good.

God, I hated her.

“You know what, Helen?” I asked with the suppressed rage I’d thus far saved for rants to Amy Lee or Georgia. “I think it’s time you and I—”

But I never got to tell Helen what it was time for, because the door to the bathroom swung open and bride-to-be Chloe charged inside with her bridesmaids-to-be, all of them chattering excitedly.

Helen and I were immediately swept up in the commotion. I had to crack a smile and clamp down on my anger, which was never the easiest thing in the world to do anyway, and certainly not when you were dressed like a royal blue clown.

Helen simpered and leaned close to my ear. “I do still want to talk,” she told me in her saddest voice.

And then she sailed into the stall I’d vacated and shut it in my face.


Outside the bathroom, Nate was leaning against the balcony railing, looking down at the bustle of the lobby below. I watched him for a moment, feeling the hysteria in my chest settle into something else. Something that ached and brought a sort of heat to my face.

He turned and looked at me.

The fact was, I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand how he could have cheated on me. I didn’t understand how he could care so little for my feelings. How he could dismiss me so easily. How he could smile at me as if he was still delighted to see me, but think he wasn’t exactly what I’d wanted.

What I still wanted.

I didn’t understand why I still could see how cute he was. How dark his eyes were against his rosy cheeks. I remembered the scratch of his jaw against my skin, and the way he stretched when he was sleepy. More than that, I knew we were perfect for each other. He was a smart guy. He deserved better than a manipulative queen bee bitch like Helen. How could he possibly want her? The only way he could—I knew in my bones—was if he didn’t realize how evil she was.

Looking at him made me feel lonely.

“Is Helen in there?” he asked finally.

“Yeah.” I searched his face for some sign that all of this was a result of Helen’s mind control. Helen had to have planted those strange words in his head. Because none of it made sense otherwise.