Frenemies(8)

“And I don’t blame you,” Henry continued. “But I think you should come. So what if Nate and Helen are there? Why should you care about them?”

“I can’t think of a single reason,” I said. Very snidely, because I was slightly surprised that he sounded … nice.

“I’d like to see you myself,” he replied as if he hadn’t heard the snideness.

I didn’t know how to process that statement. I told myself I didn’t want to know how to process it, because I didn’t want to know why he wanted to see me. There was a whole part of the night after I discovered Nate and Helen together that I was actively repressing. Which was the other, equally compelling reason I didn’t want to go to the Halloween party.

“I don’t know what my plans are,” I told him, through my teeth. I was clenching them tight together once again, a habit that made Amy Lee cringe.

“Of course you don’t,” Henry practically purred. Like he knew I was almost lying outright. “Well, you know where we live, so by all means, drop by. If you aren’t too busy.”

And then he hung up, because he was the Prince of Darkness and had to have the last word.

I stared at the phone in my hand. I had actually managed to shove Henry Farland and his part of the night I’d found out about Nate and Helen out of my mind.

Okay, that was a big lie. I wanted to forget about the Henry part. I was so upset and horrified by the Henry part, and by the worry that Nate knew about the Henry part (even if, technically, Nate had no grounds to complain, having, at that point, literally just dumped me), that my mind veered away from it in a panic every time a stray thought crept in.

But blame Henry I could. And did.

Henry’s problem was that he had the great fortune to be both rich and good-looking, and he’d used those attributes to cut a wide swath through the female population of Boston, to say nothing of the Cape and Islands. He could be quite charming, and even entertaining, but only to those who weren’t foolish enough to fall for him. He could be hilarious, particularly when standing in corners offering social commentary at large gatherings. The girls who fawned over him (and, just as often, his wealth) didn’t think so. They adored Henry right up to the point where he stomped on their hearts and discarded them, at which point they loathed him, usually while crying. He, naturally, never seemed to be affected one way or the other by the women who loved him. He was womanizing scum, no matter how amusing he might occasionally be in between inflicting heartbreaks.

I knew all this from near-personal experience, thanks to the epic crush Georgia had had on Henry for years back when we first met him. (This would be yet another reason I was working so hard to repress.) She didn’t just see Henry somewhere and think he was hot, either. She pined. She constructed elaborate plans to spend time in his vicinity, even if it meant befriending his various floozies. We once drove all the way out to his parents’ summer place on the water in Dennis so that Georgia could monitor his comings and goings one memorable Memorial Day weekend. It was like Henry was Georgia’s ex, except without his own side of the story, because the thing about epic crushes was that they had nothing to do with the crushee and everything to do with the crusher. Nonetheless, I was still mad at him, years later, on behalf of Georgia’s yearning, unrequited heart.

It just made his actions that night eighteen days ago all the more hideous, in my opinion. And would make the Halloween party equally awful.

I wasn’t prepared to deal with Nate, who I was still an emotional wreck over. I wasn’t prepared to deal with Helen, who I wanted very badly to harm—preferably in a permanent, disfiguring manner. And I certainly wasn’t prepared to deal with Henry, who of the three of them I hated in the most uncomplicated fashion, because he was the easiest to despise.

None of which I could really talk about to my friends. They had never liked Helen, had expressed doubts about Nate the moment Helen started cozying up to him, and had maxed out on insightful conversations about Henry years ago. (Slurs and mean-spirited rumors about him, however, were always welcomed.)

That was fine, I thought then, collapsing onto my couch. I was fine. I told myself to breathe. There was no need to get confused about the objectives here. I was going to attend the party because I needed to be seen having a carefree, marvelous time. Last night’s spectacle had to be erased. Or, anyway, mitigated. I would have to perform this same act no matter where the party was being held. The fact that I’d have to face Henry, too, just meant that I would have to prepare for the—

“Good God,” I told Linus. He thumped his tail against the floor. “This party is going to suck.”





chapter three





The fact that Henry lived in his own brownstone in the same neighborhood as certain unsuccessful presidential candidates with ketchup-heiress wives just added fuel to my dislike, I told myself as we approached Henry’s house on Friday night. I couldn’t imagine renting in Henry’s neighborhood, much less owning. I couldn’t imagine owning anything, including nice furniture. Much less an entire house that was so spacious he rented out the top half to “friends” like Nate. It wasn’t that Henry went out of his way to rub his wealth in other people’s faces—it was more the fact that he didn’t have to do any rubbing. It was already right there, in your face, in the form of a brownstone in Beacon Hill.