Frenemies(3)

Between worshiping her at eighteen and wanting to leap across a crowded bar to strangle her at twenty-nine, however, there was the entire span of our friendship. There were the random nights out we’d had in those chaotic years after college, just the two of us, where I would marvel at her near-superhuman ability to attract cute boys and she would tell me how much she relied on my friendship. There were the phone conversations when she’d tell me long, hilarious stories about her romantic exploits that always ended with some guy begging for another chance while Helen tried to extricate herself. These were the things that made me roll my eyes when I saw her number on caller ID, and they were also the things that made me smile when I thought about her. There was no one quite like Helen. I’d known that even as a teenager.

When she’d started playing her little games with Nate over the summer—all those sidelong glances and overly intimate smiles she was so good at—I’d just gritted my teeth and ignored it. That was just Helen being Helen, I’d thought. That was the sort of thing she did, it didn’t mean anything, she couldn’t help herself. I’d spent long hours on the phone assuring Georgia and Amy Lee that of course it was annoying that Helen had no boundaries, but that of course nothing would happen, because even though she drove me crazy most of the time, she and I were friends. Having lived directly across the hall from us freshman year and having been less enamored of Helen than I was, Amy Lee and Georgia were understandably skeptical. But they both loved me too much to actually come out and say I told you so now.

“Here’s a shot of J?germeister,” Amy Lee announced, slapping the shot down in front of me. I blinked, unaware until that moment how far inside my head I’d gone. “I think you should view it as an anesthetic. Numb the pain, sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ and when you go home tonight, you’ll at least never have to face the two of them for the first time ever again.”

I was already feeling blurry around the edges, but I took the shot.

“Let’s stop staring,” Amy Lee suggested. I realized it wasn’t the first time she’d said it. “Let’s talk about how Georgia’s job is ridiculous. I’ll start. It’s ridiculous.”

Georgia was a lawyer and, like tonight, was forever traveling for work. When particularly morose—which usually meant she’d over-served herself vodka without the Red Bull—she could sketch the layouts of most major domestic airports on cocktail napkins. This time she was in Cleveland. Or possibly Cincinnati. Somewhere out there in the middle. She had left me several supportive voice mails and a largely profane text message, encouraging me to ignore Nate and remember that Helen wasn’t worth being upset about.

Though she didn’t use those words.

With J?germeister, I decided, that should be no problem whatsoever.


Later, I felt blurred right through to the core when I ran into Nate outside the bathrooms.

We stared at each other in the tiny little alcove, festooned with flyers for local bands and supposedly hip postcards.

For a moment we were completely alone. Helen was nowhere near. I wouldn’t have chosen a noisy bar to finally have a moment to ourselves, but it was the first one we’d had in seventeen days. I couldn’t be choosy.

But then, with only the slightest lingering glance, Nate slid past me.

It took another whole breath for me to realize that he actually, seriously, really wasn’t planning to speak to me.

“Are you kidding?” I demanded. “You’re giving me the silent treatment? You have the audacity to give me the silent treatment?”

“Gus.” Nate sighed and shook his head. His silky brown hair tumbled across his forehead, and he shoved it back with one hand. His voice matched his eyes: sweet, rich chocolate. His hand rose as if he wanted to touch me, then dropped. “You seem so upset.”

“Weird,” I said through the tightness of my throat. “I wonder why? I guess that obnoxious single phone call failed to make me feel better about stuff like you lying to me and—”

“When you’re calmer, and maybe not as drunk, we can talk,” Nate said. As if he were being generous. “If you want.” As if he were doing me a favor.

“Or maybe you can go to hell,” I countered, hurt and furious. “How could you, Nate? How could you do something—”

I would have kept going. I might even have started to yell. But he reached out and put his hand on my arm.

I went mute.

“Gus,” he said fiercely, his eyes darker than usual and sad, too. “You don’t know how much I wish I hadn’t hurt you.”

“Then why did you?” I had to fight to get the question out, past the emotion clogging my throat.

“You want things I can’t give,” he said in that same hushed, hard tone, never breaking eye contact. “You’re sweet and smart and funny and … I’m not who you think I am. The thing with Helen just proved that. I’m just not …” He broke off then, and ducked his head. When he looked up, his expression made me feel sad.

“You’re just not what?” I prompted him, although everything felt precarious and I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear his answer.

“I’m just not who you want me to be,” he whispered. “I wanted to be. I really did. More than you’ll know.” He dropped his hand and stepped back. “It’s better this way, trust me.”