My Last Innocent Year(33)

“How’s Agnes?” I asked.

“Who?”

“The old lady from your story. I just—I was wondering how your story was going, if you were still working on it.”

Andy narrowed his eyes. “Are you serious right now?”

“What do you mean? I liked that story. You should keep working on it. Has Joanna seen it?” I hadn’t liked his story. I wasn’t sure why I was lying.

Kara stepped out of the bathroom and placed a hand on Andy’s arm. “Hi, Isabel,” she said. “I like your dress.”

“Thanks.” I turned to Andy. “I’m sorry—did I say something wrong?”

He shook his head and started to walk away.

“Wait,” I said, grabbing his sleeve. “Are you mad at me?”

He turned to face me. “Please. Stop pretending you aren’t loving all of this.”

“All of what?”

“Being teacher’s pet.”

“Is that why you’re mad? Because Connelly liked my story?”

“Give me a break,” he said. “I don’t give a fuck what that guy thinks, some washed-up has-been who hasn’t published anything in fifteen years. What pisses me off is how much you enjoyed it.”

“Me? I didn’t—”

“Yes,” Andy said. “You did.”

Later, I would understand that I didn’t owe Andy an apology or anything else. He had a right to be mad at me, and I didn’t have to care or try to fix it—I couldn’t fix it. He was mad for reasons that had far more to do with him than with me. But I didn’t know that yet, so I kept trying to explain myself.

“I’m sorry, Andy. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Throughout our conversation, Kara didn’t say a word. She just stood there, a smile frozen on her pockmarked face. Years later, we’d bump into each other in a bar in New York and she’d hug me, warmly, as though none of this had ever happened.

“Forget it.” He thrust the hat at me and walked away, Kara eager to join his retreat.

I stood there for a few minutes, perilously close to tears. Someone had turned up the music, so everyone had to shout over the tinny drone of electric guitars. The party was quickly devolving, like every cocktail party I’d ever go to, the result of too much alcohol and too little food. Nice dress, Holly mouthed from across the room, and Alec gave me a sly thumbs-up. Amos had joined Whitney on the couch—from where I was sitting, I could see him looking straight down her blouse. Ginny was slow dancing by the bar with no one in particular, punching the air and moving her arms in a way that made it look like she was doing a drum solo. After a few minutes, I saw her run outside; I heard later she’d thrown up in the pachysandra. Everywhere I looked people were talking and talking, working their mouths like cows chewing their cuds, but absolutely no one was listening.

I walked back to the bar, picked up a bottle of wine. If Kelsey were here, she would tell me to stop drinking or, better yet, to go home, but she wasn’t, so I filled my glass. Roxanne walked by like a woman on a mission, her back straight, her steps quick and efficient. I remembered the documentaries I’d watched over winter break about Princess Diana, Roxanne there to place her in historical context. My mother had always felt a kinship with Diana, a young woman married too soon to a man who didn’t understand her. Diana’s death would have devastated her, and I was glad she hadn’t lived to see it. I’d watched everything I could about her death, absorbing the news in my mother’s place, crying so much I burst a blood vessel in my eye. Of the many things I wished I could tell my mother, I wished I could tell her she had been wrong about Roxanne, that she was beautiful, the way a mountain is beautiful: remote, craggy, forbidding.

My head was spinning, my mouth cottony and sour. I clutched Andy’s hat as I watched him and Kara standing by the fireplace talking to Joanna, Joanna nodding as if what Andy was saying was important and significant. Kara had her fingers interlaced with his, her head resting gently against his shoulder. After a minute, I saw Andy lean down and whisper something in Igraine’s ear, and the little girl laughed.

I set my glass down and ran into the bedroom. I wanted to go home, take off this dress, climb under the covers, and forget about tonight. Maybe Kelsey and Debra would be there and we could heat up ramen and watch bad TV in the common room, or stay up late talking, the way we used to. The night had begun with such promise, and now I couldn’t wait for it to end.

I was rummaging through the dark mountain of coats when I heard someone say my name. I turned and saw Connelly standing in the doorway, his body outlined in shadow.

“Oh, my gosh,” I said, holding a hand to my chest.

“Guess it’s my turn to startle you.”

“Guess so.” Tears slid down my cheeks unprompted. I plopped onto the pile of coats and covered my face with my hands.

“Hey, hey, what’s the matter?” Connelly came and sat next to me, letting the door close behind him.

“God,” I said, wiping at my eyes. “I feel like I’m always crying around you. What was it you said? That women cry because they’re angry?”

“That’s what my wife says.”

“Maybe I am angry this time.” I explained, briefly, what had happened, about Andy and my story. I even told him about knitting the hat, and my mother’s warning.