Frenemies(56)

Helen wouldn’t even have these thoughts, I knew. Helen would just fluff her hair and go.

Except, I reminded myself, Helen had sat right in this very apartment and tried to pretend that she wasn’t worried about her boyfriend and another woman. That woman being me. Helen was obviously deeply concerned about what happened between Nate and me. She even seemed to care what I thought of her. Not enough to get in the way of what she wanted to do, of course, but she’d certainly tried to talk to me afterwards. In her own inimitable way, naturally, but she’d tried. I’d bet she really believed she’d been reaching out to me.

What all of this meant, I thought, was that Helen wasn’t the fearless, confident goddess I’d admired ever since I was eighteen. She chose to present herself that way. She chose her saunter and her air of entitlement. Maybe she was faking it to make it just like everyone else. Maybe she was just as worried and insecure as I was—she just didn’t let it get in the way of doing what she wanted to do.

And if Helen could do it, so, by God, could I. I was going to get up, go out there, march into that party, and have a good time. Even if killed me.

I surged to my feet and pulled my good winter coat from the closet. I inhaled the sweet tang of my perfume and the crisp scent of my shampoo that hung around me like a cloud. I felt my hips sway, accommodating the high, dangerous heels. I felt good.

I locked my apartment behind me and set off down the hall toward the best party I would ever attend, because I was going on my terms and my—

“What,” came the back-curling, querulous voice from behind me, “is that racket?”

Irwin.

Talk about bringing my power walk to a screeching halt.

I pivoted around and glared at him. He stood in his doorway, scowling at me, his tatty bathrobe around him like a nasty blue cloak.

“I’m walking down the hall.” I stated the obvious.

“Are those your shoes? Making that ungodly noise?”

Sure enough, out came the notebook and the pen, and he began scribbling.

I felt my chin jut out, which was never a good sign.

I opened my mouth to get good and petty, and then stopped.

This, right in front of me, was a golden opportunity to act like a grown-up for a change. Storming about, assigning nicknames, leaping through windows to get away from the guy—none of that was particularly mature behavior, and more to the point, it didn’t work.

“I’m really sorry,” I said. This was so surprising for Irwin that he stopped writing and looked up at me, his mouth a perfect, astonished “o.”

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“I’m sorry my shoes are so noisy,” I said calmly. Pleasantly. “But I’m not sure how I can go about walking down the hall without making some noise.”

“Er, no,” Irwin said in a completely different voice. The hand holding the notebook dropped down to his side as he watched me—a bit as if he expected me to turn into Sydney Bristow, haul off, and kick him back through his door.

“There’s too much hardwood,” I continued. “They should really put down some kind of carpeting, but I don’t think the owner cares. And why should he? He lives out in Western Mass.”

“Of course, you’re right,” Irwin said. He peered at the floor. “It gets so slippery with all the slush and snow, too.”

“It takes them forever to get around to mopping,” I commiserated with a sigh. “And I know my dog doesn’t help.”

Irwin tutted at me. “It’s the owner who needs to be more on top of things.”

I gave him a big, conspiratorial sort of smile.

I didn’t think he would go for it, but he did—his lips curved up. I thought it looked a little rusty. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to discover it was the first he’d smiled in months. Maybe years.

“I think I might write the owner a letter tonight,” Irwin said, puffing out his chest.

“I think you should,” I told him, and it was more smiles all around.

And when I sauntered out into the frozen night in my noisy stilettos, I didn’t just feel like a goddess.

I felt like a grown-up.





chapter eighteen





A grown-up feeling I got over pretty quickly once I arrived at the party, which was held in an apartment in Cambridge packed full of holiday merriment and a whole lot of people to match. I could do just about anything with my friends at my back—saunter around in a royal blueberry gown, for example. But I wasn’t much for sauntering when I was alone.

It didn’t matter that Harry Connick Jr. was crooning in the background, or that a group of people I knew from college were in all likelihood together in a pack somewhere—probably the kitchen. High school had felt that way too—I’d known that my whole junior high class must be somewhere, but I’d still felt exposed the moment I walked through the door.

Exposed as well as vulnerable, disliked, and ignored, all of which were my own thing and only in my own head, I knew. That didn’t change the fact that I felt that way. I eased my way along the edges of the living room, helped myself to a drink, and tried to blend in with the decorations on the Christmas tree until the bad teenage feelings went away.

I had great plans to surgically excise the quaking, complaining teenager within someday. If I could just get rid of her and her thousands upon thousands of issues—Do I look fat? Am I ugly? Will anyone ever love me? Will I always be alone? Is she fatter than me? How ugly am I? Are they making fun of me?—I was convinced I would immediately become the sort of casual and laid back adult person who was forever smiling and was genuinely unconcerned with the size and/or shape of her body.