Gluttony (32 page)

“No!” Harper said, waving her hands in front of her face. Miranda had been documenting everything that had happened for the last: couple weeks, and enough was enough.

“No way,” Kane said, trying to grab the camera out of Miranda’s hands. She squirmed away. “No need to document another lame night in the world’s lamest diner.”

“Come on,” Miranda begged. “For me?”

Kane looked at Harper. Harper rolled her eyes. “The things we do for love,” she said, spreading her arms in defeat. She waved Kane over to her side of the booth. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

Kane squeezed in next to her and they pressed their heads together. Miranda held up the camera. “Kane,” she said reproachfully. “Don’t do that.”

“Is he holding up bunny ears behind my head?” Harper asked, jabbing him in the side.

“Not exactly….”

Harper whirled around, but Kane was sitting calmly by her side, hands in his lap, angelic smile on his face, the picture of innocence. “Can we just take the picture?” he asked. “What’s the holdup?”

Harper glared at him and turned back to the camera.

“Think happy thoughts,” Miranda said cheerfully.

Harper thought about the first time they had come here together: Kane complaining about the decorations, Miranda ordering two sundaes in a row, Adam whining about how his new girlfriend snorted when she laughed, and Harper breathing it all in, savoring the brief vacation from posing, performing, impressing, all the effort she put into maintaining her social position every second of every day. For a couple hours, she could just be with her friends, no worries, no fears, just overcooked burgers and soggy fries.

“Smile,” Miranda said.

But as the camera flashed, Harper’s mouth dropped open and her eyebrows knit together in alarm, turning her face into a fright mask of shock and horror. Because just before the camera flash had blinded her, she’d glanced toward the door. The perfect couple—blond, bronzed, beautiful—had just walked in. They weren’t holding hands, but they were a couple nonetheless. Anyone could see it. Harper just didn’t want to.

They were heading right for her.

“What’s
he
doing here?” Harper spat.

Miranda turned around, then looked back at Harper, her eyes wide. “I don’t know, I didn’t—” She suddenly looked at Kane. “Did you?”

Kane tapped his fingers on the table. “I probably should have mentioned it sooner, but …”

“What were you thinking?” Miranda hissed.

“I was thinking
she
wasn’t coming,” he whispered, jerking his head toward Harper. “Like you told me.”

“Then I told you she
was
coming.”

“Well by then it was too late, wasn’t it?”

“You could have said something,” Miranda complained.

“I just did.”

“Forget it,” Harper snapped. “It doesn’t matter. It’s done. I’m out of here.” She stood up, just as Adam and Beth reached the table. Beth was wearing a pale green polka-dotted sundress with a white sash around the waist that looked like it belonged at a post-golf garden party—but, fashion don’t or not, it still showed off her long limbs and deep tan.
Lawn Party Barbie
, Harper thought in disgust.
And she’s finally reclaimed her Ken
.

“Harper,” Adam said in surprise. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

“I’m not,” Harper said. “This is just an optical illusion. It’ll be over in a second.”

“You don’t have to go just because—”

“Yes.” She glared at Beth, who at least had the decency to look away. “I do.”

Beth closed the car door and settled back into the passenger seat with a loud sigh of relief. “Well, that was …”

“Awkward.” Adam stuck the key into the ignition, trying not to replay the night in his mind. It had been a mistake to bring Beth; it had been a mistake to come in the first place. It had, mostly, been a mistake to think that he could make things normal again just by wishing it.

“Awkward with a capital
A
,” Beth agreed.

“I’m sorry.”

“No,
I’m
sorry. You warned me that Kane was going to be there, and …”

“I didn’t know about Harper or—” Adam pulled out of the lot, reminded of all the nights he’d come to the diner to pick Beth up after her shift. Back when she still worked there; back when they were still in love.

“Please don’t apologize,” she said. “They’re your friends. You should get to hang out with them. And I … I should have been smart enough to stay home where I belong.”

“No.”
He reached over to squeeze her shoulder. “You’re my friend, too. And if they can’t handle that …” No one had said so out loud, of course. Beth and Kane had snipped at each other, Miranda, loyal to the bitter end, had glared silently down at the table, unwilling to engage the enemy—Harper’s enemy. And Adam had tried to keep up a nonstop stream of meaningless conversation without calling attention to the fact that everyone around him was miserable. It would have been hard enough under normal circumstances, but tonight, still shaken from his encounter with the UC Riverside coach, Adam wasn’t quite at his best. He hadn’t told anyone about the offer; he still wasn’t sure he believed it. And he didn’t know what it would do to Beth if he left.

“I know,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”

“Please stop thanking me. I’m not doing you a favor by hanging out with you. I care about you.”

He laid his hand over hers, and she squeezed it. “It means a lot that you’re always there for me.”

Not always
, he thought, self-hatred rising like bile.
Not when you needed me
.

An old Simon and Garfunkel song came on the radio, and Adam turned it up.

“I love this song,” Beth said, smiling faintly.

“I remember.”

“Reed always used to make fun of me for liking this kind of stuff but … sorry.”

He glanced over at her, then back at the road. “What?”

“I shouldn’t talk about him, with you. I mean, it’s kind of weird, right?”

Adam shrugged. “A lot of stuff is weird right now,” he pointed out. “You should talk about him. If you want.”

“I don’t.”

They listened to the music. Beth sang along under her breath. Her voice was a little thin, but sweet and on-key, just as he remembered.

“Okay,” he said eventually, pulling the car up to the curb in front of her house. “Door-to-door service, as requested.”

“Thanks for—you know … thanks,” she muttered, fumbling with her seatbelt and scooping her bag off the floor.

Adam turned the car off. “Beth, wait.” Before, when they were together, she had always pushed him to think about the future. She had wanted better for him than the life he’d planned for himself. And she had always given him the best advice. “Something kind of weird happened this morning, and uh … can I ask you something?”

“Anything.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Adam had always loved it when she wore it down like this, cascading over her shoulders. He liked to run his hands through it and breathe in its fruity scent.

“I got called down to the guidance office,” he began hesitantly, “and there was this guy there, with the coach …”

She nodded, waiting for him to continue.

But he couldn’t. She was depending on him. He could see it in her face. She needed him. If he was going to leave, he would have to tell her in the right way, at the right time, and this wasn’t it. He couldn’t say anything, not until he’d made his decision. Then he could figure out how to go, without hurting her.

“Never mind,” he said.

“What? You can tell me.”

“No, it’s just some stupid basketball thing. It’s no big deal. So, I guess, have a good night, okay?”

“Ad, I know you don’t want me to thank you any more, but—” Beth leaned across the seat and gave him a tight hug. He rested his chin on her shoulder and listened to her breathing. “I owe you,” she whispered. “For everything.”

She let go, but he held on, pulling away only enough to see her face. It was mostly hidden in shadow. There was a tear clinging to the corner of her left eye. She gave him a half smile. “Déjà vu, right?”

He knew that she was thinking of all the nights he’d dropped her off at home, lingering in the car for one last kiss, before the living room lights flicked on, her mother’s signal that it was time to go inside.

“A lot’s changed,” he said softly. “But …”

“It still feels kind of …”

“Yeah.”

You couldn’t put it into words, the feeling between them, that comfort of knowing the other person, of having been through the pain and the lies and the guilt and coming out the other side.

Beth’s face was a portrait of sorrow. He could almost see the old woman she would become someday, the worry lines and creases, the sagging of time weighing her down. She wasn’t the same girl he’d been in love with. If he’d even been in love. She was watching him, like she was waiting for something.

So he kissed her.

It was light, it was hesitant, and then, almost as quickly, it was over.

She pulled away from him, but not in anger. Just surprise. “What was—?”

“I don’t know,” Adam said quickly. “I just thought …”

“You mean you want to …?”

“I don’t know.” Adam looked down at his hands. One of them was resting next to hers, and he inched it over until their pinkies were interlocked, just like he always used to. “Do you?”