Frenemies(29)

Narrowly avoiding death when an entire pile of bags tottered over and rained down on me, I lurched to my feet and through the living room toward the door.

“Yes?” I asked through the intercom. I braced myself as I pressed the LISTEN button.

“DOUBLE PARKED!” my father roared, knocking me back a few feet. I suspected that he didn’t quite believe in the concept of intercoms, and that was why he always bellowed into mine. But I knew better than to make him wait too long, and hurried downstairs just as soon as I wrestled the zipper shut on my duffel.

“We’ll catch up after I make it out of the city,” Dad said after the obligatory cheek-kissing. “You wouldn’t believe the traffic. Boston is a parking lot as far as I can tell.” He frowned at my doorway. “Can’t believe you still live in this place.”

As this was a variation on the same theme he trotted out every time he was forced to taxi me about for holiday get-togethers, I only smiled and directed my attention out the window at the dark night settling all around us.

I ordered myself to relax. It was marginally successful.

Despite the dorm room decor of my apartment and my constant envy of Georgia’s wardrobe, I thought as my father navigated the holiday traffic headed north out of the city, I had just about everything the average woman on the cusp of thirty could want. I lived where I wanted to live, had a job I loved, the two best friends in the world, a larger social circle that meant lots of invitations, and a romantic situation that, while complicated, was looking up. At least I hoped it was. As far as I could tell, I was back on track to having it all.

What I didn’t have, I thought on Thanksgiving Day while recovering from a gravy overdose on my parents’ couch, was a time machine that could catapult me forward to the next party.

I couldn’t wait to see Nate. I couldn’t wait to get him back.

And when I did, maybe I’d spend some time hanging around Helen’s apartment, harassing her into awkward conversations. Maybe I’d embarrass her in public by throwing her at random men, the better to suggest that she was incapable of finding one on her own. Maybe I’d trap her in bathrooms and, when she asked how I could treat her so badly, maybe I’d act confused as to why she wasn’t just a little bit more supportive of me and my needs.

Turnabout on Helen wouldn’t just be fair play, it would be sheer delight.

I felt a searing sort of pang then, and remembered that hushed dawn on Cadillac Mountain, with the world still and dark everywhere around us. We’d huddled together in the early-morning cold—so cold I couldn’t bring myself to imagine winters in Maine, if that was what June felt like—and giggled. It didn’t feel like a personal memory—it was more like a movie I’d seen once. The kind of movie that made you believe that friendships that involved vision quests to Cadillac Mountain would last until the friends in question were old, quarrelsome women on a porch somewhere. Men should never come between those kinds of friends. Not even someone as golden and sweet as Nate Manning.

I curled myself into a ball and pulled the fleece throw up to my chin, tuning out the football game and my mother’s chatter.

Cadillac Mountain hadn’t mattered to Helen. It shouldn’t matter to me, either. She’d showed me what our friendship meant to her.

Now it was my turn.


Back in Boston, I spent the first week of the last month of my twenties recovering from food overindulgence and trying to cope with Minerva’s new affinity for the didgeridoo, traditional musical instrument of the Australian aborigines.

“The power!” Minerva warbled from halfway up the stairs. “The earthy mysticism, Gus!”

It was a long week.

And then, soon enough, it was Friday night and I was on my way to a party at a sprawling house out in Winchester that belonged to an old friend of ours who’d given in entirely to her Daughters of the American Revolution roots. We all assembled dutifully enough at Amy Lee and Oscar’s place in Somerville so we could pile into Oscar’s car. We’d even come bearing the hostess gift all the manners mavens insisted upon. Because we were grown-ups, damn it!

This time around I was dressed like a normal human being instead of a giant berry, which was doing wonders for my mood. Not to put too fine a point on it, I felt hot and sexy in the sparkly little dress I’d found on sale just that morning, during the shopping trip I’d felt compelled to take after a long contemplation of my blueberry appearance at the last event.

I’d put my hair up and created a little mascara magic. Everything was perfect. All I needed was to see Nate, andeverything would fall into place. He would forget all about Helen and race to my side, and in a year or so we’d laugh about that strange gap of time when he’d been so confused.

I didn’t consider Helen’s feelings in this scenario.

Which concerned me for about as long as my feelings had concerned her—about three point five seconds.

I was sipping my white wine and feeling very nearlymerry when there was a sudden pressure at my elbow.

An unpleasant pressure.

“Ouch,” I said.

“We need to talk.”

I looked up, and was somewhat confused to find Nate standing there, still grabbing me. Not to mention, looking as close to furious as I’d ever seen him. Nate didn’t really get mad, as far as I knew. This had a lot to do with the fact that most people simply melted when he looked at them with those big brown eyes. Except tonight those eyes were narrowed with temper and aimed right at me.