You and Me and Him (19 page)

“Yeah.” Tom lowers his voice and leans in. “I know I’m the one who kissed you, but I’m not sure what it meant for me. You know, long term?”

“So you’re telling me you kissed me, risked the best friendship I have, the best friendship I’ve ever had, and now you’re like ‘maybe not’?” I sway a little, reestablishing my grip on the counter. “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I say under my breath.

“Maggie . . .”

“No offense, Tom. But I have friends. I don’t need more friends. I need Nash.”

“With friends like Nash, who needs enemies?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, I know Nash is an idiot if he’s mad at you for one little kiss.”

“Look,” I say. “Did you ever play dibs when you were a kid?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Well, Nash and I have been doing it since probably second grade.”

“Maggie, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Nash called dibs.”

Tom still looks confused, and then it hits him. “Dibs? On me? That’s why he’s so mad?” Tom shakes his head. “You guys are unbelievable!”

“I know it sounds stupid. But it’s really about being a good friend. Being the kind of friend who doesn’t get in the way when the other person really wants something. And now we’ve kissed, and I blew it. I’m not that kind of friend anymore. And I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t even know if it can be fixed.”

“Whatever. Dibs are for bunk beds or the last chocolate doughnut. You don’t dibs people. Call me when you grow up, Maggie.” He swings his backpack onto his shoulder and pushes out the door, leaving the bell jangling wildly.

“I am so screwed,” I say. It comes out half as a laugh and half a sob.

“Wow, how many people are you going to piss off today?” Quinn stands next to me.

“It’s fine. The men in my life must all be PMS-ing.” I look at Quinn and smile. “All the men but you, exalted boss and spirit guide.”

“So, a question for you: If the tables were turned, if you liked the boy, but the boy liked Nash, what would you do?”

“Tom doesn’t like me. Didn’t you hear him? He wants to hang out, be friends.”

“Whatever. Indulge me for a minute. What would you do?”

“Cry myself to sleep for a few nights, like I do whenever the man of my dreams likes someone else?”

“But what would you do about Nash?” Quinn asks. “Would you blame him? Would you make him choose? Or would you let him have the boy?”

“Well, it’s different,” I say. “It’s harder for Nash to find boys who are . . . compatible. Especially in Cedar Ridge. If Tom liked Nash, I’d be sad for me, but I’d be psyched for him.”

“Hmmmm,” Quinn says, turning to his ledger.

I wait.

Quinn has something to say on the topic, but he’s pretending to be absorbed in the accounts.

“‘Hmmmm’?” I say. “‘Hmmmm,’ what? What does ‘hmmmm’ mean?”

“Nothing,” Quinn says, his voice nonchalant. “But, okay . . . I have to wonder why Nash can’t do that for you.”

“Do what?”

“What you said you’d do for him. Be psyched because you found someone.”

“But it’s different—”

“Bullshit,” Quinn says. “How many boyfriends has Nash had?”

“None.”

“How many have you had?” he asks.

“None.”

“Doesn’t sound that different to me,” Quinn says.

“But I kissed Tom.” I pace back and forth inside the tiny square island of counter. “Ultimate betrayal. Nash liked him. I kissed him. How do I fix that?”

“Look, if Tom makes you feel good, if you really like him, even if it’s just as friends, then Nash needs to find a way to be okay with that. Even if it hurts him a little.” He spins back around to the desk and picks up his pencil. “Now, let me do my work. I think Classic Jazz needs straightening.”

I make my way over to the Jazz section. If there was a yearbook category for “Least Likely to Find a Boyfriend at Cedar Ridge,” Nash and I would be the clear winners. Either of us finding a guy here, a guy who likes us back, would be a minor miracle: something to be celebrated.

Flipping through the third bin, I find the album I need right away. I go back to the counter, put it on, and drop the needle down on Billie Holiday’s “It’s the Same Old Story.” Quinn doesn’t turn around, but he stops writing and sits up to listen. I put my head down and get to work, thinking about Tom and singing along with Billie’s mournful voice. Like Billie says, it’s an old story, but to me it’s brand new, and I don’t have a clue about what comes next.

That night I’m stretched out on my bedroom floor, feet on my bed, one arm thrown across my face. What a shit storm of a day.

Checking my phone, I see a text from Tom:
Sorry.
And one from Nash:
Sorry yet?
Like bookends, those two. I don’t respond to either text.

My phone buzzes again. It’s Nash. And he’s calling, not texting, so I pick up.

“Nash!” I say, fumbling the phone a little as I answer.

Nash is silent for a few seconds, but I can hear him breathing. “Maggie, how could you do this?” he says. His voice is quiet, but I can hear a little tremble of anger underneath.

“Nash, I’m not sure what you heard, or who you heard it from.” I try to keep my voice level. “But Tom and I aren’t together. Talk to Tom if you don’t believe me.”

“Oh, Tom and I talked already—we talked about a lot of things, hon.” The word is sweet, but it drops like a blade. “Last night we talked about how I’m not his type. Right after he spent an eternity raving about the stellar time you two have been having behind my back.”

“Stellar time? What, in biology lab? Give me a break.”

“Biology? Yeah, nice cover. Hiking? Seattle? Dinner? You were after him all along, and congratulations! Tom wants you, not me.”

“Nash, listen, that’s not how that happened. You were standing right there when we decided to go hiking. And Seattle was your idea until you bailed and left me to play tour guide. Get a grip!”

“Why would he say that, then?”

“Say what?” I ask. “That we had fun on the hike? Or in Seattle? We did, but that doesn’t mean he
likes
likes me.” I sound like I’m twelve. “Nash, I know you’re sad, but you’ve got this wrong. Tom and I are not—”

“I would be happy for you if it were any other guy.”

“Nash, you have dibs—”

“Fuck dibs, Maggie! When has dibs ever helped either of us in the boy department? Jesus! Grow up! Until now we were both in danger of reaching legal adulthood without being kissed.” His voice verges on hysterical now. Nash is unhinged by whatever he imagines is going on between Tom and me.

“No, Nash, it’s not . . . We’re not . . .” I say, but he isn’t hearing me now.

“I should have trusted my instincts. Way back when you said he was too nice to everyone, I should have known you liked him. I should have known!”

“Nash, you’re my best friend! You know me—”

“I thought I did, but now I have no idea. We were both in the same boat: seventeen, never been kissed, never had a boyfriend. That sucks, right? But we were in it together, and I thought you would be happy for me when I finally found someone.”

“I am—I mean, I will be—” I am crying now, but I don’t care. “Nash, you don’t understand . . .”

“Don’t, Maggie,” he snaps. “Seriously. And you know the hardest part? The thing that is really breaking my heart right now? What I want to do most is talk to my best friend. But since she’s the one that fucked me over, I guess that won’t be happening.” He’s crying a little now. “You were the only one I could trust, Maggie! The only person who knows all my shit. The only one who’s seen how hard it’s been. I really can’t wrap my brain around how you could do this to me.”

“This didn’t . . . It’s not what you think!” Now I’m crying in that disgusting, gulping, snotty way that can’t be controlled, trying to get enough words out to make him see how sorry I am. How much I want to fix this.

“All this shows is that you don’t care what I want, as long as you get yours.” Nash’s voice sounds bitter and brittle.

This poison dart stops my crying immediately. Nash has crossed the line. I remember what Quinn said and take a breath.

“Nash, Tom is not your someone,” I say, my voice shaking.

“Thanks to you!” Nash says, and his voice is so whiny it temporarily sucks all the empathy right out of me. I want to reach through the phone and strangle him.

“Tom’s not gay, Nash. He’s not gay, he’s not bi, he’s not even bi-curious! He thinks you’re a wonderful person, but he doesn’t want to be your boyfriend. He will never want to be your boyfriend.”

“God, Maggie. No shit!” Nash says. “I know all that. In spite of Tom’s ability to make everyone in the room feel like he’s in love with them, I still have some pretty good instincts about who’s gay and who’s not. You really think this is about some guy not loving me back?” I can hear in his voice all the familiar, frustrated longing of years of unrequited love. “This isn’t about getting crushed by another crush. It’s about friendship. It’s about loyalty. It’s about trust. It’s about giving a rat’s ass about what your best friend wants and not screwing over the ones you love.”

I feel my heart tug toward my best friend’s pain, but I recapture my anger and say my piece.

“I would be happy for you if Tom had turned out to be the one.”

“Yeah, right.”

“And I’m not the one for Tom either. He was pretty clear about that today. But as my friend, since you can’t have Tom for yourself, wouldn’t it have been nice if you could have been a little happy he might have liked me? Happy one of us might have a real chance with someone?” I stand and start pacing. “Look, the one-sided crush thing got old in about seventh grade. Tom being into either one of us would have been a hell of a lot better than one of the fucking A-listers getting the guy. Again.”

When Nash speaks, he spits the words out with the venom of the recently betrayed. “Maybe I’d be happy for you, if you hadn’t been so slutty about the whole thing.” He hangs up, and I stand there, holding the phone.

I burst into tears and for a few minutes I try to call Nash back, but he won’t pick up. I text him several hundred times. He doesn’t respond. Gripping my phone, I pace some more, trying to decide what to do. Nash won’t answer, Cece is pissed at me, and calling Tom seems like the worst idea ever. What I’d really like to do is find Kayla and punch her in the head. But I know this is my own fault.

The promise of some cookie dough to ease my pain propels me into action. I slide into my slippers, go downstairs, and pad past the living room, where Dad fiddles with some sort of small motor while Mom peers at her laptop. I do not want to have a conversation with my mother about the evils of junk food or my unrealized potential right now. I’m almost past the door of the living room when she looks up.

“Hi, honey. What are you doing?”

“Nothing, um, just getting a glass of water.”

“Water’s good for your brain,” Mom says. “You know a dehydrated brain . . .”

“. . . Is a cranky brain. Yes, I know, Mom. Thanks.” I start to make my escape, but Dad calls me back.

“Mags,” Dad says. “Good-night kisses?”

I hesitate in the doorway, but don’t see a way out without hurting Dad or making Mom suspicious. I circle behind the couch and lean in for a kiss with each of them, then hightail it out of the living room and head for the kitchen, where I can forget Nash and Tom and everything in a blur of flour and chocolate chips.

Mom comes in while the first batch is still in the oven.

“I thought you were coming in for water?” she says.

“Mom, not now, please?”

“Maggie, whatever the problem is, cookies are not the answer.”

“That sounds like a refrigerator magnet.” I’m measuring out spoonfuls of dough onto parchment paper. If I stop moving, I might fall apart.

Mom laughs, shaking her head. “You’re right,” she says. “That’s probably where I saw it. But that doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

“Mom, I know. I’m almost done.”

She watches me for a minute. “Everything okay, honey?”

“Yeah. Good. All good.” I keep my eyes on the balls of dough I’m lining up on the cookie sheet.

“You sure? You seem . . .”

“I’m good, Mom. Really. I’m tired.”

She comes around the counter, putting her arm around my shoulder. “I love you, Maggie.”

For about five seconds, I consider telling Mom the whole thing, but I drop the last bit of raw dough into place and the moment passes. “Thanks, Mom. Love you, too. Now get out of the way so I can get these things in the oven.”

“All right. All right.” Mom laughs, retying her robe as she heads back to the living room. “Don’t forget to clean up when you’re done.”

“I always do!” I say, and start washing the mixing bowl. I finish baking and wrapping the cookies: plain chocolate chip tonight—my favorite. Instead of eating my one cookie at the counter as usual, I take four of them back to the privacy of my bedroom, where I can stuff my emotions without witnesses. I load up my most morose playlist, start the music, and sink to the floor, settling into my spot between the bed and the wall. I go through my ritual, breaking the cookies into quarters, then eating them from the inside out, leaving the crunchy, caramelized edges for last. And after I have swallowed the last crumbs, I am kind of okay. The cookies were crunchy and soft, and the bitter chocolate dulls both my anger and my hurt. There’s a knock on my door.

“Maggie? You in there?” My mom starts to turn the knob, and I wipe my mouth and scurry onto my bed as she opens the door. “Maggie?” she asks again, and smiles as she sees me clutching my stuffed elephant, Neshie. “You’ve had that thing for so long!” she says, her eyes getting a little wet.

“Yep,” I say, looking at the plush green skin and the bindi I drew with Sharpie on his forehead.

“Your dad says the cookies are delicious.”

“Good. Nothing special: chocolate chip.”

“Isn’t that your favorite?”

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“I’m your mom, Maggie. I know what your favorite cookie is.”

Suddenly my eyes are moist and I can’t swallow. I hug Neshie tighter.

“I wanted to say good night,” she says.

“Night, Mom.”

She turns off the light, and I climb into bed. I fall asleep with images of Nash and Tom and Kayla swirling in my sugar-buzzed brain.