T
he six ways I was able to tell that the Cocky Arrogant Jackass Jared, also known (briefly) as Georgia’s latest “boyfriend,” was completely unworthy of a woman like Georgia and would inevitably crush her heart in some callous manner, which (surprise, surprise) happened sometime later that Friday night, long after I’d bailed and taken a cab home, were the following:
First, he was sullen and disrespectful when Georgia introduced him to me, because (as he claimed later during the dramatic
this is why I will never love you
portion of the evening) she was basically
claiming
him by towing him around her party like that and he was
independent, man
, and she should have respected him and not tried to
play him like that.
Second, he made it very, very clear that his presence at the party—which had provided him with free food and an open bar, so wasn’t exactly a great hardship—was a favor. A favor of such enormous proportions it was unlikely Georgia could ever repay it. He was therefore under no obligation to be polite to her, or even terribly nice, because hello—
he was there, wasn’t he, what more did she want?
Third, he was caught checking out the breasts and/or asses of at least four different women, none of whom were Georgia. And
caught
meant
both Georgia and I watched as young Jared drooled over a succession of cheesy, possibly augmented and almost certainly anorexic trophy wives of the partners, which Jared made no attempt to do subtly, and which he then acted all “What?” about.
Loser.
Fourth, he was happy to talk about his blond highlights and his many hair products, but sneered when Georgia mentioned her own beauty regime, and then made some ridiculously clichéd comment about women and bathroom time which was so clichéd that my inner raging feminist—usually quick to wave her fists in the air—couldn’t even bring herself to respond. (Possibly she was drunk and looking for Prince Charming after all.)
Fifth, when Georgia left us to fetch him a drink, he felt compelled by the uncomfortable silence between us to ask me what I did. When I said I was a librarian he laughed. Loudly. Then he said, “No, for real.” Then, when I assured him it was true and I had the librarian action figure to prove it—matronly figure, shushing action and all—he snorted and said, “Bet
that’s
a real growth industry.”
And finally, as the kiss of death, Georgia had to
explain.
Homophobic remark, asshole-ish story, snotty behavior? Georgia used all the excuses she could come up with: Jared didn’t mean that, Jared has his own sense of humor, ha ha, Jared likes to push people’s buttons for fun, he’s just tired tonight because he works so hard all the time, etc.
I ran through the list about sixty trillion times before it finally penetrated.
“I really thought he was different,” Georgia moaned. This was an improvement over the wailing and the
what did I do, what’s wrong with me
part. A breakthrough, really.
She hauled her comforter up around her neck and sniffled. She was sprawled out across her king-size bed, from which she moved only to visit the bathroom or let in the takeout Thai delivery guy.
I’d received the call a little before six—in the morning, I wish I was kidding—on Saturday. I staggered over with breakup CDs in hand and chocolate in my bag, and proceeded to hold her hand for most of the day. Amy Lee turned up after her office hours were finished.
“I don’t want to be mean,” Amy Lee said from her position slumped against the foot of the bed. “But enough with these guys, Georgia. This guy was a clown from the get-go and you know it.”
If that was her new version of the speech, it sucked. I glared at her. She only shrugged, and set her mouth in a stubborn line.
“I can’t help the way I feel!” Georgia cried. Very Tori Amos, with the arms flung out and the hair everywhere. I made a soothing noise, and patted her leg again.
Amy Lee just sighed, and crossed her arms over her chest. She didn’t look at all soothing, or even sympathetic. She looked annoyed.
“Well, I can’t!” Georgia threw at her, actually sitting up as she did so. I interpreted that as progress. “You fall in love with the person you fall in love with. You can’t
control
that!”
“Maybe that’s true,” Amy Lee agreed, but she sounded impatient. “And you’re saying that you were in love with this guy after what? Two weeks?”
“Almost four,” Georgia snapped at her.
“Oh,
four
weeks.” Amy Lee rolled her eyes. “My mistake.”
“Hey—” Georgia started, moving as if to lunge in Amy Lee’s direction, but Amy Lee raised her hands, palms out, as if to ward her off.
“Okay, relax,” she ordered. “I told you, I’m not trying to be mean.”
“Try harder,” I suggested. She didn’t even look at me, she was too busy staring at Georgia—no doubt willing her to refrain from throwing a punch.
“Then what are you trying to do?” Georgia asked. But she sat back.
“You hardly know this guy,” Amy Lee said, in what she probably thought was a gentle tone. “You’re never even in town, Georgia, so how much could you possibly have seen of him in four weeks?”
“Does that really matter?” Georgia demanded. “You want me to justify how I feel?”
“I want you to think about what you
really
feel,” Amy Lee countered. “You claim you’re in love, but I’m sorry, I don’t think that’s true. Gus and I sat at a table in the Park Plaza and watched you the night you met him, and we were able to tell that he sucked from across the room.”
Georgia’s eyes slid to me, a betrayed sort of light in them. I had the intense urge to dissent, but thought better of it. At that moment, I didn’t know which one of them I feared more, and seeing that expression on Georgia’s face made me sick to my stomach.
“He seemed a lot like all the other ones,” I said, shrugging. “I’m sorry.”
“He’s a carbon copy!” Amy Lee exclaimed. “And on some level, I know you know that, Georgia. So I’m wondering why you keep doing this to yourself.” She opened her arms to indicate the rumpled bed, not to mention Georgia’s puffy eyes and general state of disarray. “Aren’t you sick of this yet? Because I think you deserve better, and I’m running out of ways to say that.”
The silence, then, stretched out between the three of us. Aimee Mann crooned intelligent despair on the stereo and I snuck glances back and forth between the two of them, wondering what might happen next.
Eventually, Georgia sighed. It was as if a cloud moved away from the sun—her face cleared, and she tilted up her chin.
“You know what?” she said, a little unevenly. “I think I am sick of this.”
I was so proud of her, I thought I might burst. If Georgia could stop the bad-boy madness, surely anything was possible.
“Okay then,” Amy Lee said, her voice hushed.
Georgia smiled. It was a little watery, but it was there.
“Oh good,” I said then, in a rush. “Because I’m dying to talk about Chris Starling. I think you should consider him.”
“Are you kidding?” Amy Lee asked me. She looked disgusted.
Georgia blinked at me. “Consider him how?”
“Consider him as your next boyfriend,” I said, in a ringing sort of tone.
Again, a long silence.
“I’ve changed my mind,” Georgia said, scraping her hair back from her head and twisting it into a knot at the nape of her neck. “I think I’m actually sick of
you
, Gus. And Chris Starling.
Creepy
Chris Starling.”
“He’s not creepy at all!” I was outraged on his behalf. “He’s totally cute!”
“See what I mean?” Georgia asked Amy Lee. “She’s obsessed with Chris Starling.”
“Creepy,” Amy Lee said, “but an improvement on Nate Manning.”
“Mark my words, Georgia,” I said grandly, choosing to ignore Amy Lee. “You’re going to marry that guy. He’s—”
But I had to stop mid-prophecy, when she tried to smother me with one of her down pillows.
The next day I woke up early again, only this time it was from stress. Or a sense of impending doom. Or both—either way I was wide awake and kind of wishing Georgia had succeeded in smothering me.
At 2 p.m., we were all expected to assemble for a winter caroling party in further celebration of the holiday season. There were any number of reasons this was stressful. For one thing, Henry would be there, and I was somewhat worried that Georgia would be able to sniff out my second, sober, and thus far more serious betrayal of her on the winter air. Not to mention, I was worried about facing Henry after the phone incident. For another, Helen would also be at the party, no doubt prepared to lord her continuing relationship with Nate over me, knowing nothing about the Night of Seven Voice Mails.
And for even one more reason—what was a winter caroling party, exactly? Nobody knew. The invitation made a mysterious reference to
bells and bobtails
, which had given rise to my suspicion that horses might be involved, and possibly hayrides. It was out in some or other far-off suburb ending in ham, so really, anything could happen. This was what happened when your friends tried to get creative with their holiday-making, and a simple drink near some mistletoe wouldn’t do. The three girls throwing it had felt upstaged by a separate Christmas party last year, so, not to be outdone two years running, they’d shanghaied someone’s mother’s friend’s house, and who knew what would come of it?
But I wasn’t fooling myself. My real stress was Nate-shaped, and I didn’t know what to do about it. My heart was jumpy whenever I thought about him, which I suspected was anticipation. I was looking forward to seeing him, and I knew this was destined to lead nowhere good. I hadn’t seen him since he’d manhandled me at the party out in Winchester. I hadn’t heard from him either, unless I counted the number of times I had replayed his messages.
One way or another, I decided, I had to sort out the Nate situation. Bells and bobtails be damned.
I tried not to think too much about it that whole morning and anyway, there were other things to brood about. Like what one wore to an outdoor party. In Boston. In
December.
Layers, obviously, but which layers? Exactly how fat was I willing to look to ward off possible hypothermia? I wrapped myself in a series of garments, and then rolled myself out the door and onto the T so that Amy Lee and Oscar could once again carpool us to suburban fun. It was a good thing New Year’s was coming up soon—I wasn’t sure how much more of the enforced gaiety I could take.
Especially when my friends were under the impression I was a bunny-boiler.
I stared out at the deceptively bright and sunny sky while Oscar drove out of the city. Amy Lee and Georgia took the car ride as an opportunity to lecture me extensively on the subject of my insanity.
According to my friends, I was prohibited from: talking to Nate, Helen, or Henry; speaking
about
Nate, Helen, or Henry; and engaging in any form of nonverbal communication to or about Nate, Helen, or Henry.
Although they said it in a lot more words than that.
“So what am I supposed to do?” I asked when they finished the initial tag-team lecture. “Pretend I don’t see them? Ignore them if they talk to me? That’s a great solution, and very mature.”
“You can nod and smile, and then you can walk away,” Georgia said. “Since you’re so concerned with maturity all of a sudden.”
“And I can’t believe you’re making it sound like this is going to be some hardship for you,” Amy Lee chimed in. “Please try to remember that you don’t
like
any of these people! Two of them betrayed you and the other one is Henry!”
I muttered something under my breath, and avoided looking anyone in the eye.
“I hope there’s hot chocolate,” Oscar contributed from behind the wheel. Apropos of nothing. “Everybody likes hot chocolate.”
By the time we arrived at the party, I was about as gloomy as it was possible to get without
actually
curling up into the fetal position. There were a series of sleighs—horses, blankets, runners and all—arrayed along the country lane. Nearby, a series of Bostonians milled around in the fresh snow, looking either excited or dubious. Or a mixture of the two.
“I’ve always wanted to go on a sleigh ride,” Georgia announced. She linked elbows with Oscar, and tugged him along with her toward the crowd. “Admit it, you have a yearning.”
I watched Oscar deny it, and then looked at Amy Lee, who hung behind to keep glaring at me.
“I’m allowed to be in whatever mood I want to be in,” I told her, feeling a little defensive.
“It’s dashing through the snow on a one-horse open sleigh,” Amy Lee retorted. “It’s not a death march. You could lighten up a little bit.”
“I’m fine,” I said. I waited a beat. “And actually it looks like a
four-horse
open—”
“You’re already freaking out, aren’t you?” Amy Lee hissed at me. “No sign of any of them, and you’re already a mess. Georgia’s right. You flipped your lid with Nate and—”
“Okay, enough,” I said, cutting her off. “You’re the one making me crazy, Amy Lee. Why don’t you stop monitoring my behavior? How am I supposed to feel with you
watching
me?”
“Fine,” she said. “But any insanity in the sleigh, Gus, and I swear to God I’ll feed you to the horses.”
They were so worried about it, in fact, that the two of them flanked me as we waited for the whole party to arrive. Wherever I went, it was in a Georgia-and–Amy Lee sandwich. I would have been more upset about it, except for the fact that it provided a convenient buffer. I saw Nate and Helen arrive—apparently still together, if the hand-holding and outdoor snuggling were anything to go by. From a distance, I performed the nod and smile I’d been permitted. Inside, I was in turmoil. He hardly even glanced at me! What was he
doing
? Then Henry turned up not long after, crooked his mouth in my direction, and there was no need for nodding or smiling since I was suddenly too shy to look at him.
The last time I’d seen him, after all, he’d been mostly naked.
Don’t get me wrong—I managed to see that he looked way too delicious for a sleigh ride, and I squirreled away salient details about the way he wore his winter coat and jeans—and then I had to look away.