Frenemies (4 page)

chapter four

A
n impromptu Janis Joplin karaoke intervention, for God’s sake.

My life was a sad, sad farce.

“Worried about me?” I echoed her stupidly. “What?”

“Worried,” Helen said firmly. She reached over and took my hand. I stared down at her pale, manicured fingers as they closed over my scraggly ones. “I
know you
, Gus. I know it’s just not like you to make such a fool of yourself in public.”

The clincher was the tone she used, the one that suggested we were such close, deep friends that she felt comfortable saying these potentially hurtful things.

“If you know me so well,” I managed to get out past my brain’s inability to accept that this conversation was happening, “I’m curious why you didn’t foresee the fact that I wouldn’t react too well to you
stealing
my
boyfriend.
”

To my surprise, and eternal horror, my eyes welled up when I said it. I looked away. I would scratch my eyes out with my own scraggly fingers before I’d let her see me cry.

“Oh, Gus.” She sighed. “I don’t think ‘steal’ is the right word, but you can use it if you need to.”

I wanted very much to stand up then. I wanted to leap to my feet, actually, and scream at her. But I was afraid that if I moved—even just a jerk of the hand to make her stop touching me—I wouldn’t stop at screaming.

I breathed in, and then out. I forced myself to count, very slowly, to twenty. Then thirty. Then, hell, fifty—

“You can’t say I didn’t try,” Helen said, getting to her feet. She finally let go of my hand and I cradled it with my other, uncontaminated one. “We’re too good friends for me to let something as crazy as that performance just slide by. I hope you know, both Nate and I were scared for you. You should think about that.”

I wanted to tell her that Nate hadn’t sounded too thrilled with her when he’d spoken to me that night. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more it seemed as if what Nate had been saying was that I was too good for him, which meant Helen was just dirty enough. I would have told her all that—happily—except there was still too much moisture around my eyes and I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea.

“Fine,” Helen said. “Be this way, if you need to.” She shrugged—audibly, thanks to her wings—and then flounced out the door.

I just sat there for a moment and tried not to scream.

The fact was, I’d been concentrating a whole lot on Nate’s part of this mess. How my boyfriend could have left me, how I hadn’t noticed that he was cheating on me, etc. The usual stuff. I was hurt and confused, sure. But really? It was Helen I wanted to kill.

It didn’t matter that on occasion she drove me insane.
We were friends.
It didn’t matter that it wasn’t the kind of friendship I had with Amy Lee and Georgia, or that no one seemed to understand that, even if it was different, it was real. Helen and I had lived in the same room for ten months. We’d been eighteen and away from home for the first time together. She taught me the secrets of applying eyeliner and mascara, and I taught her how to cook pancakes and make chocolate chip cookies from scratch. We lived on ramen noodles and microwave popcorn for the entire month of March that year. I knew that she had bad dreams sometimes and that she’d regretted losing her virginity to that guy in high school because she’d really liked his best friend better. How could all of those things be true? How could she have done something so horrible to me when she was part of that history?

And more to the point, how dare she talk to me as if she were on some moral high ground here? Was she
completely
insane?

Quivering with fury, and that slippery emotion that had brought tears to my eyes, the one I refused to name, I surged to my feet and headed for the party. I wanted that freaking martini, and I wanted to kill Helen. Not necessarily in that order.

I was brought up short by the immovable wall of Henry that appeared before me as I walked into the living room. This was evidently not my night.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Henry said, laughing. “I didn’t say a word.”

“Your nonverbal communication is deafening,” I retorted.

“I knew Helen wanted to reach out to you,” Henry said, watching me so closely that I was forced to look away. I concentrated on his ever-present selection of bimbos, two of whom hovered just behind him, each dressed as some form of leotard-wearing cat. It was fun to watch them snarl at each other from behind masses of thick, blown-out hair and identical fake smiles.

Then Henry’s actual words penetrated.

“Reach out to me?” I echoed. “Are you kidding?”

“I knew she wanted to,” Henry clarified. “I didn’t realize she wanted to drag you out of the room and be such a drama about it.”

“Because if you had, you would have leapt right in there and helped me out?” I was as incredulous as I was sarcastic. “Because you’re such a Good Samaritan?”

“The last time I tried to help you—”

“Good call, Henry,” I snapped. “After a moment of sharing and growing with Helen, what I really want to do is revisit
that
nightmare. Thanks.”

There was a moment of silence. His eyes seemed particularly blue, but that could have been the lack of oxygen I was taking in as I fought off hysterics.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I managed to say after the moment dragged on and became, if possible, even more uncomfortable, “I’ll gather what’s left of my dignity and we can return to our regularly scheduled program of hating each other.”

“I think you’re a strange one, and I have no clue what goes on in your head,” Henry said, as if he’d given the matter some thought. “But I wouldn’t go so far as to say I
hate
you. That’s just one of those girl games you like to play.”

Several feminist enclaves in Cambridge and out in Northampton keeled over and died at that one. I wasn’t sure what it said about me and my commitment to the sisterhood that all I could muster up was an eye roll.

“Whatever.” I felt surly and ungracious, a feeling I associated with being near Henry.

He didn’t say another word as I stepped around him, but I was sure I could feel his eyes on me long after I thought he should have looked away.

This time, when Georgia handed me a drink, I took it.

I could only hope she was no longer monitoring Henry’s conversations with other women—a reflex she’d maintained for a long time after the worst of the crush had ended—because I felt far too unsettled to discuss it. Especially with Georgia.

So I told her what Helen had said—and even reenacted the hand-grabbing—and then we stood there in silence for a long moment. Georgia scowled across the room in the general direction of Helen—whose horrible donkey laugh could just be heard now and again, braying above the music.

“I’m finishing this drink and then I’m out of here” was what I said when I could finally speak.

“Right after your private moment with Helen? As if she wounded you in some way? As if she was
right
?” Georgia’s eyes flashed. “No way are we leaving.”

“Fine.” My snippy tone made it clear it wasn’t fine at all. “Where are Amy Lee and Oscar?” To be honest, I was slightly hurt that they weren’t standing by to see what Helen had wanted.

“I think they’re having marital relations in one of the bathrooms,” Georgia said.

“They are not!” I replied. Although I hoped it was true. At least that would mean
someone
was enjoying the evening.

“No, they’re really not,” Georgia said with a sigh. “I assume they’re having one of those boring conversations about property values with other assorted married people in the kitchen. Although wouldn’t that be funny if they
were
bathroom boinking?”

“Sure.” I raised my eyebrows at her. “If we were seventeen.”

“I refuse to participate in those discussions, fascinating as I’m sure it is to consider the market in Natick,” Georgia said. She gave me a benevolent sort of smile. “I felt it was my duty as your friend to maintain my vigil. What if you needed someone to race to your side at a moment’s notice and pry Helen’s claws from your face?”

“And the fact that you’re standing next to the bar is, I’m sure, purely coincidental.”

“Purely.”

“We actually can’t talk about Helen,” I said after considering it. “It might tip me over the edge.” Besides that very valid fear, I knew that Georgia had never made any secret of the fact that she considered me a lunatic to waste a second on Helen once freshman year ended. She and Amy Lee both thought I should have excised Helen from my life years ago. Neither was moved when I ranted on about what friendship meant and how it wasn’t always pillow fights and sleepovers, as shown on TV.

“Okay.” Georgia considered her glass for a moment, then looked up. “I think Chris Starling was flirting with me.”

“Chris Starling is your boss!” I was scandalized. Being that scandalized made my head throb, and I rubbed at my temples. “He’s married! He’s practically twice your age! And—hello—
bald
!”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. The true horror is that I was so lonely, I actually flirted back,” Georgia confessed.

“No!”

“It was only for about thirty seconds, but it was a scary thirty seconds.” Georgia shuddered. “I blame Des Moines, or wherever the hell I was. It was so boring that I actually considered the idea. I
actually
considered sleeping with him.”

I blinked, but then thought about it for a moment.

“I bet he would be surprisingly good in bed,” I said. “I mean, there’s something to be said for men who can’t coast by on their looks, right?”

“How would I know?” Georgia asked wryly. “The only men I ever meet are entirely too good-looking, know it, and are complete assholes.”

“You have to get over that,” I told her. “I mean, where does it end?”

“Please don’t tell me you’re suggesting …” She couldn’t finish. She looked at me. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

I looked at my gorgeous friend, who spent all of her emotional energy on the kind of career-driven, flashy guys who had already maxed out their emotional energy banks on themselves. They all talked the same high-power, adrenaline-infused game, and they all left Georgia sobbing in her empty apartment when they were through with her.

“If you don’t have the whole young-and-pretty thing going for you, you have to make up for it,” I theorized. “Guys like Chris Starling are almost
forced
to develop other skills.” I frowned. “Although not actually Chris Starling
himself
, because he’s married. Ew.”

“What are you talking about? Relationship skills?” Georgia smirked. “The kind where you learn how to say, ‘My needs aren’t being met’ in words, not in suddenly moving to Jacksonville?” I winced. Georgia’s last breakup had been particularly harsh.

“Among other things,” I said.

Georgia shifted from one foot to the other. “I think Chris Starling might be one of those average, older guys who thinks of himself as hot just because he has money. One of those guys who thinks, okay, maybe he’s not Brad Pitt, but he’s rich, so that makes up for it.”

“Presumably missing the key point about Brad Pitt,” I said. “That being that he’s hot
and
rich.”

“It’s a guy thing,” Georgia said. “They truly believe that money makes them good-looking. It’s such a strange delusion. Because let’s be honest—it makes them rich, which isn’t the same as good-looking, although it will garner you the same results. That being a hot chick.”

“A money-grubbing hot chick,” I amended.

“Yes, but what do you care? You get to sleep with a hot chick.” Georgia ran her hand through her dramatic hair and rolled her eyes as she scrunched a handful of it in her palm. “We shouldn’t talk. Women do nutty things, too.”

“Like what?” I asked. “Women don’t think a good job makes them a supermodel.”

“No, but let’s say you had sex and it was lame.” Georgia looked speculative. “You would absolutely do that girl thing where you tell yourself that, you know, he was just
nervous
and then you keep trying but it’s still lame and then you just shut up about it, because sex isn’t
that
important and there are so many other facets to a relationship, and it’s not like it’s
bad
, exactly—”

I glared at her. “Why would I do that?”

“I’m using the general
you.
” Georgia made a face at me. “I think that women are always putting up with a whole lot less than they should. It’s like a reverse delusion. Men think they deserve better, women think they deserve less. That’s just how it goes.”

“With that kind of attitude, I’m not surprised you’re still single!” singsonged Helen, rearing back up in front of us. I jumped about five feet in the air, while Georgia looked as if she’d turned to stone.

“What?” I asked, not even pretending to be polite.

“Nate and I were just talking, and we have the best idea!” Helen continued blissfully.

“I very much doubt that,” Georgia snapped at her.

“What you two need to do is
get in the game
!” Helen exclaimed. “And lucky for you, I have a surprise. Two guys you
will not
—”

“If you’re leading where I think you’re leading,” I told her, “I think I might actually—”

“Helen.” Georgia interrupted me and leaned in. She towered over Helen, and looked as if she might reach over and pluck off Helen’s wings. “Whatever you think is happening here, you need to stop. Back off.”

“They’re brothers,” Helen continued as if she hadn’t heard us. “And okay—not exactly Luke and Owen Wilson, but who is? It’s not like we girls can afford to care that much about looks once we cross the Big Three Oh!”

“Excuse me?” Georgia was even more appalled. “No one here is thirty yet, for the love of God!” Helen ignored her.

Once again, it was like I was trapped on a train, and there was no getting off. There was only the inevitable horror.

“HEY!” Helen shouted across the room, completely at odds with her supposed daintiness. The woman was like a cockroach. A nuclear winter wouldn’t slow her down at all.

“Helen, I swear to God—” I began, but it was too late. Sensing another drama—another one involving the same players as the other night—the room fell quiet in anticipation. I plastered my polite smile across my face, but it felt more like a grimace. I couldn’t imagine what it looked like.