And anyway, I had my dog and my books, so what more did I need?
When I pushed my way through my front door, my silly dog was jubilant at the sight of me. Linus leapt into the air and wriggled madly, which he would keep doing until I stopped everything and concentrated on saying hello.
I tossed my mail across the counter in my little galley kitchen—a selection of credit-card and utility bills along with two large, brightly colored square envelopes I suspected contained more holiday invitations. It had been suggested to me that deciding to become a recluse just as the holiday season was swinging into gear was like shooting myself in the foot, and I had to admit Amy Lee had a point. We had a big group of friends, all of whom believed in throwing parties. People who could barely afford to pay rent went all out to send engraved invitations. Every party was an opportunity to one-up the previous one, and we were nothing if not competitive. It wasn’t as if I thought Nate and Helen were likely to keep themselves in seclusion to spare my feelings. So why should I hide myself away, as if I were the one who’d done something wrong?
I looked at my silly dog instead of following thoughts of Nate and Helen to their usual depressing conclusion, as he cavorted around in circles—a completely unapologetic spaz from his black-and-tan head to his oversize paws. I held his furry head between my hands and kissed him on his doggy forehead until he was calm and I was smiling.
Dogs: better for what ails you than the latest pharmaceuticals.
When the phone rang, I was feeling better. So much better, in fact, that I failed to check my caller ID before picking up the receiver.
I was a dumbass.
“Gus?” drawled the familiar voice. I froze. There was a pause, and I was sure I could hear him smirk. “It’s Henry. It’s been a while.”
Several consecutive life sentences would not be long enough to have not seen or heard from him, I thought. Several consecutive life sentences spent burning alive, in fact, would not even begin to be long enough.
And anyway, it had been about a week. Hardly long enough to qualify as “a while.”
I wasn’t exactly rational when it came to Henry. I could admit it. Even thinking about him made my stomach hurt. Hearing his voice made me break out in a sweat. He was like the flu.
“Henry,” I bit out, by way of a greeting. It wasn’t actually rude, I told myself. It was just his name.
To say that I disliked Henry Benedict Farland IV, known more simply as Henry and/or Beelzebub, was to so vastly understate my feelings that it was almost funny. Among other things, he was Nate’s roommate and one of the people in my extended group of friends I’d known without knowing well for years.
Nate, naturally enough, adored Henry. I’d long suspected this had something to do with the fact that Henry was tall and in phenomenal shape, while Nate was shorter, stockier, and was obsessed with the size of his biceps in comparison to Henry’s. It was a guy thing.
But the most important thing about Henry was that he was the one who had let me into the house that night eighteen days ago. If he hadn’t opened the door, I would never have seen Nate and Helen together in the kitchen. If it hadn’t been for Henry, I would still have Nate.
I just couldn’t forgive him.
“So this is the situation,” Henry said in that overconfident, lazy voice of his, the one I figured they taught on the beaches of Cape Cod. “Nate’s convinced that you’d rather be dead than seen in the same room as him. Tell me that’s just Nate being dramatic.”
“Help me out here,” I said, ignoring him. Along with the sickening image of Nate and him sitting down for a cozy chat about me. Because why shouldn’t they? They lived together, after all. What a nightmare. “You’re calling me why, exactly? To explore my emotional terrain?”
“I’m not much for exploring,” Henry said. And why should he be? With ancestors who partied it up on the
Mayflower
, the “explorer” gene had probably been bred out sometime around the Boston Tea Party. The only thing Henry ever explored, as far as I knew, was the number of little floozies he could hook up with in a single evening. (And he could hook up with quite a few.)
“Thanks for calling—” I began in an overly chipper tone, meaning to hang up on him as quickly as possible.
“Here’s the thing,” Henry said smoothly before I could slam the phone back into the cradle and pretend he didn’t exist. “You never RSVPed to the invitation for the party tomorrow.”
That was because I’d received the invitation the day after discovering Nate and Helen in that house. The day after Henry had made sure I’d discovered them. I’d shredded it into bitty pieces and laughed at the very idea of entering that place again. I opened my mouth to tell him so.
“And I don’t blame you,” Henry continued. “But I think you should come. So what if Nate and Helen are there? Why should you care about them?”
“I can’t think of a single reason,” I said. Very snidely, because I was slightly surprised that he sounded … nice.
“I’d like to see you myself,” he replied as if he hadn’t heard the snideness.
I didn’t know how to process that statement. I told myself I didn’t
want
to know how to process it, because I didn’t
want
to know why he wanted to see me. There was a whole part of the night after I discovered Nate and Helen together that I was actively repressing. Which was the other, equally compelling reason I didn’t want to go to the Halloween party.
“I don’t know what my plans are,” I told him, through my teeth. I was clenching them tight together once again, a habit that made Amy Lee cringe.
“Of course you don’t,” Henry practically purred. Like he knew I was almost lying outright. “Well, you know where we live, so by all means, drop by. If you aren’t too busy.”
And then he hung up, because he was the Prince of Darkness and had to have the last word.
I stared at the phone in my hand. I had actually managed to shove Henry Farland and his part of the night I’d found out about Nate and Helen out of my mind.
Okay, that was a big lie. I
wanted
to forget about the Henry part. I was so upset and horrified by the Henry part, and by the worry that Nate knew about the Henry part (even if, technically, Nate had no grounds to complain, having, at that point, literally
just
dumped me), that my mind veered away from it in a panic every time a stray thought crept in.
But blame Henry I could. And did.
Henry’s problem was that he had the great fortune to be both rich and good-looking, and he’d used those attributes to cut a wide swath through the female population of Boston, to say nothing of the Cape and Islands. He could be quite charming, and even entertaining, but only to those who weren’t foolish enough to fall for him. He could be hilarious, particularly when standing in corners offering social commentary at large gatherings. The girls who fawned over him (and, just as often, his wealth) didn’t think so. They adored Henry right up to the point where he stomped on their hearts and discarded them, at which point they loathed him, usually while crying. He, naturally, never seemed to be affected one way or the other by the women who loved him. He was womanizing scum, no matter how amusing he might occasionally be in between inflicting heartbreaks.
I knew all this from near-personal experience, thanks to the epic crush Georgia had had on Henry for years back when we first met him. (This would be yet another reason I was working so hard to repress.) She didn’t just see Henry somewhere and think he was hot, either. She
pined.
She constructed elaborate plans to spend time in his vicinity, even if it meant befriending his various floozies. We once drove all the way out to his parents’ summer place on the water in Dennis so that Georgia could monitor his comings and goings one memorable Memorial Day weekend. It was like Henry was Georgia’s ex, except without his own side of the story, because the thing about epic crushes was that they had nothing to do with the crush
ee
and everything to do with the crush
er
. Nonetheless, I was still mad at him, years later, on behalf of Georgia’s yearning, unrequited heart.
It just made his actions that night eighteen days ago all the more hideous, in my opinion. And would make the Halloween party equally awful.
I wasn’t prepared to deal with Nate, who I was still an emotional wreck over. I wasn’t prepared to deal with Helen, who I wanted very badly to harm—preferably in a permanent, disfiguring manner. And I certainly wasn’t prepared to deal with Henry, who of the three of them I hated in the most uncomplicated fashion, because he was the easiest to despise.
None of which I could really talk about to my friends. They had never liked Helen, had expressed doubts about Nate the moment Helen started cozying up to him, and had maxed out on insightful conversations about Henry years ago. (Slurs and mean-spirited rumors about him, however, were always welcomed.)
That was fine, I thought then, collapsing onto my couch.
I
was fine. I told myself to breathe. There was no need to get confused about the objectives here. I was going to attend the party because I needed to be seen having a carefree, marvelous time. Last night’s spectacle had to be erased. Or, anyway, mitigated. I would have to perform this same act no matter where the party was being held. The fact that I’d have to face Henry, too, just meant that I would have to prepare for the—
“Good God,” I told Linus. He thumped his tail against the floor. “This party is going to suck.”
T
he fact that Henry lived in his own brownstone in the same neighborhood as certain unsuccessful presidential candidates with ketchup-heiress wives just added fuel to my dislike, I told myself as we approached Henry’s house on Friday night. I couldn’t imagine
renting
in Henry’s neighborhood, much less
owning.
I couldn’t imagine owning anything, including nice furniture. Much less an entire house that was so spacious he rented out the top half to “friends” like Nate. It wasn’t that Henry went out of his way to rub his wealth in other people’s faces—it was more the fact that he didn’t
have
to do any rubbing. It was already right there, in your face, in the form of a brownstone in Beacon Hill.
We trudged up the front stairs and squared our shoulders. Or I did, anyway. I’d been to so many parties here, one more shouldn’t matter much one way or the other. Deep inside, however, I was thinking of the last time I’d been here, and my subsequent vow never to return.
“No one prepared me,” drawled a voice from above us, rich with sarcastic glee. “Gus Curtis? At my house? They said it wasn’t possible!”
I looked up and there was Henry Farland himself, lounging in the open doorway before us.
There was something mesmerizing about him, with his bright blue eyes, honey-blond hair, and a smirk that could draw blood. He looked dressed to kill. In his case, probably literally.
“Henry,” Amy Lee bit out in an abrupt tone. “A pleasure, thanks for the invite, beautiful home.”
Without bothering to wait for a response, or express her solidarity with me by—I don’t know—punching Henry in the stomach, Amy Lee barreled past him. Headed, I assumed, for the bar. Amy Lee had been tired of Henry when it was Georgia who wanted to rant about him all the time. This probably felt like déjà vu to her. Oscar shot me an apologetic look and hurried after her, just doing that manly head-bob thing with Henry as he passed.
“Great to see you,” Georgia murmured insincerely, sweeping inside. She, too, had better things to do than wait for Henry’s reply. After all, she’d spent years waiting for Henry.
Not that Henry cared. His eyes were on me, glowing. With malice, obviously. Later, I would have to check for scorch marks.
“I’m not sure I deserved all that hostility,” Henry said mildly. “But how are
you
, Gus?”
He glided forward to kiss me on the cheek, the treacherous snake, and I smiled as if delighted beyond words and did the same, because I was nothing if not fake in awkward social situations.
“You look great,” I told him, trying not to think about the fact I was touching him. Anyway, it was true, he really did look great. But then, you would expect Lucifer to be hot. I felt a flash of anger and something like guilt, and ruthlessly repressed it.
Henry leaned back and just looked at me for a moment, as if waiting for me to say something. As if
daring
me to say something.
“Stop looking at me,” I ordered.
Henry didn’t take orders very well.
“This is supposed to be a party,” he said. “Do you think you can keep things friendly?” He flashed me as patronizing a smile as I’d ever seen. “Didn’t I hear something about an incident at Gretchen’s party the other night? Another little piece of your heart, I believe?”
“You’re scum,” I said through a fake smile.
“It’s good to see you too, Gus,” Henry continued, his eyes especially bright, which always boded ill. “The last time you showed up at my house—”
“I bet you’ve been waiting at the door all night, hoping you could throw that in my face,” I said. It felt as if he’d sucker punched me. Which I assumed was his goal.
“Don’t worry.” His eyes felt electric when they swept over me. “I haven’t told anyone.”
The
yet
was implied.
I didn’t wait for more, I just pushed past him and into the house. I had to remind myself to unclench my jaw before something shattered or Amy Lee diagnosed me with Henry-caused lockjaw.
I risked a glance back anyway and, sure enough, Henry was watching me with that little crook of his mouth that managed somehow to be hotter than a smile. Not that I wanted to notice his hotness, however omnipresent it seemed. I was glad he found himself so funny. Somebody had to.
I moved carefully through the crowd, which was divided into three different sorts of people:
There were the Halloween diehards, who painted themselves blue or sported elaborate costumes involving much thought and papier-mâché. These people could often be seen sneering at each other, or saying things like, “Um, I think you’ll find that
season four
Buffy had the curly hair, which means your
season three
leather with that hair is
totally
inappropriate.”
Then there were the
cutely costumed.
These were almost all girls—the long-legged, bored-eyed girls Henry collected, for example. They had names like Eleanor or Maggie, and they liked to tell incomprehensible stories about their prep schools, their East Coast elite colleges, and their summers on the Cape or in Maine. And for Halloween, they liked to dress in pretty or slutty outfits that accentuated their bodies, so they could flaunt themselves in front of anyone who cared to look.
The other group—the majority I was pleased to be a part of, as I had no desire to attract any further attention to myself—had foregone costumes altogether.
I found my friends huddled in a corner about three feet from the bar. Georgia handed me a martini without comment. I made a face and handed it back to her.
“Please,” I scoffed. “After my last outing? I’ll have water, thanks.”
Georgia rolled her eyes, and poured my drink into hers without a word. Amy Lee waved her hand at the room and sighed.
“This is lame,” she said. “I don’t know anyone. And if I were almost thirty years old and wearing Quidditch robes, I don’t think I’d laugh
way
too loud like those guys by the window.”
“I hate Henry,” I said, without sparing a glance for the fully dressed and decorated Gryffindor Quidditch team, complete with broomsticks and goggles. “It’s like someone showed him
Pretty in Pink
at an impressionable age and he’s been channeling James Spader ever since.”
“Oh, good movie,” Georgia murmured from behind her drink. Because it truly was a great movie and also because, as a redhead, she viewed early Molly Ringwald films as a personal shout-out.
“Henry wanted to know if I could keep stuff on a happy, party level and not throw any scenes.” I couldn’t let it go. “As if having public dramas is something I really enjoy.”
“As if you cause the public dramas!” Georgia retorted, scandalized. “And as if Henry, who is himself a public drama, should comment!”
I was more than prepared to throw myself into an orgy of trash-talking, as usual, but Amy Lee had other ideas.
“There was a really cool restaurant in DailyCandy today, did you guys see it?” she asked. “Some Asian fusion thing, very hip, apparently. I think we should check it out.”
I couldn’t process the change in subject. I drank my water in a big gulp and put my glass back on the bar.
“I feel oppressed by DailyCandy,” Georgia confessed with a sigh. “Isn’t that terrible? Every morning my in-box is swamped with a level of coolness I can’t attain. Restaurants I will never eat at, clothes I will never buy—I can’t take the pressure!”
“You could—I don’t know—cancel your subscription,” I suggested. “No one’s forcing you to read it.”
“And then what? Accept that I’m intimidated by daily e-mails?” Georgia shook her head.
“I think you’re overthinking the DailyCandy,” Amy Lee said. “And I’m making reservations for us because I don’t care if we’re almost thirty—we
are
that cool.”
“If you say so,” Georgia said, but her expression said something else. “But I’m warning you right now, I’m not dressing up like one of those Simpson chicks just to blend in.”
The image of Georgia dressed as Ashlee Simpson was one I knew I would treasure for years to come. I could feel myself grinning.
“Because normally, you blend so well?” Amy Lee eyed her. “Since six-foot redheads are so common here in Boston?”
“I’m five-ten, thank you,” Georgia retorted. “And don’t pretend you’re not jealous. You dream of reaching five feet, and that’s when you have heels on!”
“I’m five-two!” Amy Lee cried. Georgia just looked at her. “Fine. Five-one and seven-eighths.”
“And those seven-eighths make a huge difference,” I added, and laughed. “They elevate Amy Lee far above the usual short person.”
So it made sense that just then, just as Amy Lee made a rude gesture and I was beginning to think it was safe to be back in that house, something caught my eye from across the room.
Sure enough, there was Nate, standing at the foot of the stairs that led up to his rooms on the top floor. He scanned the crowd, and then turned back to take the arm of the woman behind him—as if precious Helen couldn’t be expected to maintain her own balance without his assistance.
I watched as Helen whispered something into Nate’s ear, something that made him smile and noticeably squeeze her hand oh-so-supportively. I racked my brain, and couldn’t think of a single time Nate ever squeezed
my
hand. He liked to hold hands, though—and play with my fingers as he did so, as if each curve of each fingerprint was individually fascinating to him.
I must have had some of my feelings on that subject plastered across my face, because when Helen’s gaze drifted to mine, she blinked. And then she smiled.
Directly at me.
“What was
that
?” I demanded out of the corner of my mouth.
“Ignore it,” Amy Lee advised at once.
“Seriously,” Georgia agreed. “Fuck her and her sweet little
smiles
—”
“Yeah, but … guys?” I was at a complete loss. “She’s
coming over here.
”
Impossible, but true. I watched as Helen detached herself from Nate and made her way through the party. Okay, I told myself, I was standing right next to the bar. Maybe Helen had as much interest in talking to me as I did in talking to her—which was to say, none at all. Maybe the bitch was just thirsty.
That sinking feeling in my stomach, however, knew better.
“You have to hand it to her,” Oscar said then. “She has balls.”
“My ex-boyfriend’s balls, to be precise,” I snapped.
From across the room, I could see that Henry’s smirk had sharpened as he watched the show. Terrific, I thought. Another drama for him to witness and then use to mock me.
And then Helen Fairchild,
that girl
in all her glory, was standing directly in front of me. Close enough so I could notice that her peach camisole top really suited her. I also noticed that she’d attached wispy little fairy wings to her back, the better to look ethereal and fetching. I wanted to smack her.
“Gus!” she said in her sweet, almost breathy voice, the one that inspired otherwise perfectly normal men to spring to her aid like some kind of modern-day white knights. The idiots. “I’m
so
glad you came!”
I heard what sounded suspiciously like a guffaw from Amy Lee, and I could feel the chill emanating from Georgia, but I knew better than to look at either of them. Despite some behavior that might suggest otherwise, this wasn’t
actually
the seventh grade.
“Hey, Helen,” I managed, with what I thought was extraordinary calm. Given the circumstances.
She reached over and grabbed my hands in hers, and I had to order myself not to leap back in fright. It was a close call. I
really
didn’t like her touching me. For all sorts of reasons, but not least because she had her usual perfect manicure and I knew my own nails were in their perpetual state of scraggly disrepair. Like I needed further reasons to feel inadequate.
“Come on,” she said.
At that point, I went into what I can only describe as an out-of-body experience. Because I didn’t jerk away from her, or tell her where she could go. I just let her lead me away from the party, to a secluded little corner of the unused sewing room—once Henry’s grandmother’s refuge, if I remembered the story correctly. And if Henry’s grandfather was anything like Henry, I could definitely see the need for refuge.
I stopped contemplating Henry’s family tree and shifted my gaze to Helen, who sat down uncomfortably close to me on the rigid little settee. Her wing scraped against my shoulder.
“What was the other night all about?” Helen asked, gazing at me with what looked like pity. Of all horrible things. “Gus.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to scare you, or make you angry, but I wanted you to know I’m a little worried about you. A lot worried, to be honest.”
Oh my God.
She wasn’t trying to apologize, which I’d sort of assumed she’d been planning. Because she had to at least pretend to be sorry, didn’t she? This, however, sounded much more like tough love than the tearful appeal to my tender sensibilities I’d had every intention of throwing back in her face.
This wasn’t going to be tearful at all, at least not on Helen’s part. Not if I read that tone of hers correctly.
This was an intervention.