Like a Love Story(60)

“Hi” is all I can think of to say back.

All of the above. The answer is definitely “all of the above.” I’m so pissed off at him, and so afraid of confronting him, and so sad that our friendship is over. My mind spins with possibilities of going to college somewhere he would never go, picking one of those liberal arts colleges in remote towns, surrounded by trees and sky and miles of open road, no city near us, no Art.

“Maybe the two of you should go for a walk,” Stephen says.

“Sure,” Art says. “Judy, I . . .” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He can’t. What can he possibly say to defend himself?

“You what?” I spit out. “You’re sorry?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, caught off guard.

“That’s not enough,” I say. “That’ll never be enough.” I’ve never heard my voice like this. It’s harsh, rough, laced with bitterness that I didn’t know I had in me.

“She’s very upset,” my mom says, stating the obvious. “Maybe you two should speak when things have cooled off.”

“Things will never cool off,” I say viciously.

“Of course they will,” my mom says. “It’s like that Joni Mitchell song . . .”

My mom is about to sing. She is seriously about to sing some old folk song. I bet it’s the one about the seasons going ’round and ’round, or maybe it’s the one about seeing clouds from different sides. I have no idea. All I know is that if she starts singing to me right now, I’ll lose my mind, so I quickly blurt out, “A walk sounds good.” I grab one of my father’s winter coats from the coat rack and throw it on. It’s brown and worn and ugly, and it’s exactly what I want to wear right now. I want to disappear, crawl into someone else’s skin.

Before we leave, my parents each hug me, and Stephen gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek and whispers something to me. “Friendship is far more tragic than love. It lasts longer,” he says. “Oscar Wilde said that.” I don’t respond. What is he trying to tell me? That I should be more upset about losing Art than I was about losing Reza? If that’s his point, then it’s so obvious. Reza may have been my first “boyfriend,” a word I’ll always put in quotation marks when using it to describe our fake relationship, but Art has been my best friend since forever ago. Obviously, losing my best friend is more tragic. But if Stephen’s point by saying “it lasts longer” is that Art and I will somehow kiss and make up, then he’s wrong. This friendship is over.

Nobody hugs Art before we leave, and he doesn’t try. But before we go, my father stops Art by calling his name. “Judy has always been a great friend to you,” my dad says sternly. “What you did to her was beneath you.” I can feel the way those words sting Art. They’re so simple, so direct, so true. My dad, a man of few words, but a man of words that actually matter. I don’t know if I’ve ever loved him more than in this moment.

As we walk down the interminable stairs to get outside, we say nothing. Art walks in front of me, his legs moving both quickly and hesitantly, like he wants to get out of here and wants to turn back at the same time. I used to love following behind Art. I felt like he knew where he was going. He seemed to have all the confidence and charisma I lacked, the aura of a natural leader. Now I want to push him down the stairs and lead the way myself.

When we get outside, it starts to snow. The snow was timed for this exact moment. Gods and goddesses are crying frozen tears as they watch us. “Which direction should we go in?” Art says.

“Who cares?” I snap back.

He starts to walk north, and I stay alongside him. We walk in silence for a few steps, and then he says. “There’s nothing like first snow, right?”

“Seriously, you wanna talk about the snow right now?” I ask, irritated.

“I guess it’s like, I don’t know if this’ll make sense, but it’s like us in a way. Like at first the snow falls and it’s perfect, but inevitably it turns into slush, but then, maybe, the springtime comes and flowers bloom and things get better again and . . .”

“Oh, just stop it,” I say.

“I’m only trying to . . .”

“Stop it!” I scream. I take a breath of cold air in and out, the steam escaping my mouth forming a little shield around me. “The seasons just happen, Art. This did not just happen. You didn’t just lie to me and hit on my boyfriend by accident. You did it on purpose. Don’t turn this into some natural thing between friends that will get better with time. It isn’t, and it won’t, and I guess we can just go home now, because there’s no point in talking. What’s the point? What’s the point? What’s the point?” I yell. I don’t know why I keep repeating that. Maybe I wish he could answer it.

“You’re right,” he says, defeated.

“Great,” I say. I throw up my hands and realize I forgot gloves, and that my fingers are a little frozen. “What’s the cliché, I’d rather be happy than right?”

“Something like that,” he says. “But I’m not happy, Judy. I can’t be happy without you. You’re my best friend, and I messed up.”

“Royally,” I say.

“I feel so awful, Judy,” he says, and I can feel the guilt and remorse in his voice. “I’ve been feeling bad about it since the moment I realized I had feelings for Reza. I’m wrong, and I’m an asshole, and I’m so, so sorry.”