Being Friends With Boys (36 page)

I step back so I can see his face. “Did you really think that splitting us up was going to make things
better
?” I’m still trying not to cry, but it’s hard.

He takes my hands.

“Big dummy, I know. But once I knew how I felt, it sucked not being able to
be
with you. And you kept getting extra-fabulous, extra-hard to not be with. But after . . . Lily . . .” He says it like it’s embarrassing. “Not being with you at all hurt even more.”

“Um, Charlotte?” Fabian’s hovering behind me.

“Oh god.” I turn to him. On his face I see that it’s time. And I’m so not ready.

“I’ll be here,” Trip says. “I know there’s a lot more talking we need to do. And I’m really sorry to spring it all on you like this.”

I grab him around the neck, squeezing him close. “I missed you,” I say, fierce, before letting go.

“I know. It was stupid. You can tell me all the reasons why later.” His face is so sincerely sorry. And sweet. And I’m just glad to be seeing it again.

But Fabian genuinely looks anxious now as he reaches for my arm to guide me toward the stage. I realize Oliver and the other guys are already up there, that the DJ’s last song before us is halfway through. I take Fabian’s hand and we work our way to the front of the room, pushing past people and faces and voices telling us good luck. I look for Trip, to wave to him, but he’s already melted into the crowd.

“You need some more time?” Fabian’s got one foot on the stage, one on the floor—half of him ready to play, the other half here for me if I need him.

Eli comes over. “She all right?”

The song around us repeats its final chorus, quieter and quieter, and people start moving closer to the stage. We’re on the far edge, away from most everyone, but still it would be nice if there were some kind of curtain.

“I’m fine,” I tell them both, sucking in a deep breath. “I mean, the boy I think I love more than anything just told me he’s in love
with me, and that this whole time he’s been ignoring me and making me feel like utter crap—all because he hasn’t been able to make himself happy without me, and I’ve been writing all these songs and doing all these things, thinking I’ll never talk to him again but also knowing I won’t be happy without him either, and I’m supposed to process all that in, like, ten seconds, while in the meantime I have to get up here and sing, and be there for you guys, who’ve stuck by me through this whole thing, but . . . yeah. I’m okay.”

“Whoa.” Eli looks like I might electrocute him.

“Ready?” the DJ interrupts, wanting to introduce us. Oliver appears next to him, fingers yanking through his bangs.

Fabian keeps his eyes on me. “We think so.” But he doesn’t sound very certain.

Oliver’s beside me now. “Spider? You can sing, right?”

And everything that’s happened—everything over the last six weeks of good and bad and awful and terrific—flashes around me like I’m dying. I picture where I was at the start of all this, and where I am now: who’s left me, who’s stayed by me, and who’s grown with me through all of it.

My breath comes out a little shuddery, but strong. “I can sing.”

Immediately the DJ turns and hollers into his mic, without giving us even another second. “Okay, everybody. Time now for our special musical guest . . .”

The room echoes with whistles and applause, and a visible crush of people swarms in from the back. I shake out my hands, take another deep breath, move to my spot in front of the mic. The hall swells with more noise. Oliver and I sneak glances at each other, trying not to smile under the pride we can’t help but feel. When the DJ steps down and the lights brighten on us, I can’t see anyone very well anymore, but I hear Benji’s loud, sharp whistle, and Darby and Gretchen screaming my name. Out there somewhere in the crowd, I know Trip’s eyes are on me too.

We’re starting tonight with Oliver’s favorite of our new songs, the one he insisted I sing first. The irony is so big, I almost laugh into my mic as Fabian’s first notes of “Hansel and Gretel Crumbs” swell around me. But instead I manage to make it look like I’m the happiest person in the world to be here. And maybe I am.

Behind me Oliver comes in on his guitar, a loud, bold chord.

I take a breath.

And then I sing my heart out.

I
n reality, the byline of this book should read “Terra Elan McVoy and Anica Rissi.” Anica, I know it’s your job, but thank you for all the extra tough love, time, attention, and sparkle that you put into this manuscript. It was a mess without you.

Caroline Corder, Sumar Deen, and Natalie Spitzer, your beautiful honesty inspired these pages. And Jamie, you might not remember our discussion about what kind of solo time guys spend with girls they’re not attracted to, but I do, and it helped with this book. (Bump fists.)

Scott, you were an extra trooper with this one. There’s no acknowledgment I can ever write that will properly thank you for what you give to me, and my work, every day. I am glad you are so much more than my friend.

Amy McClellan, you are a million times better than a million boy (or girl) friends put together. I cherish the time we spent working out this arc, and it remains a great example of exactly why and how I love you. (Also, if we hadn’t, this book would have no plot.)

Lastly, I have to recognize the purely friend guys in my life: the ones who have informed and sustained the girl I am. David Astor, John Aubry, Josh Siegel, Frank Schultz, Stewart Haddock, Tom Bell, Jamie Allen, David Lee Simmons, David Bowles, Colin Moore, Justin Colussy-Estes, Paul Stenis . . . we don’t have to talk about it, but thanks.