Seventeen

Sam had to work on New Year’s Eve.

“Can’t ask anyone else to do it,” he’d explained with a note of regret.

Which . . . okay. New Year’s had never been my favorite holiday, anyway. All that pressure to have an amazing night, and then what? Standing around at a party in an uncomfortable bra and impractical shoes, drinking Cook’s champagne until midnight, when some random drunk would catch me by the restroom and stick his tongue in my mouth.

Covid, and Gray, had spared me that, at least. Last New Year’s Eve he had gone off to a “faculty only” dinner party while I stayed home alone with a book. Until his inevitable two a.m. text (Am I bothering you?) followed by his equally inevitable appearance at my apartment twenty minutes later. “God, what a boring evening,” he’d murmured, nuzzling closer in my bed. “You don’t know how much I envy you, getting to stay home.”

I pretended to believe him.

So. Sam was working. Reeti was in London. Toni was out with Fiadh and her friends. (Fiadh had invited me along, but a pleading look from Toni persuaded me not to play chaperone.) And I was home with a book. Again. No bra, no shoes, no pressure.

Honestly, it was fine.

Maybe I didn’t have anyone to kiss, but I had Anne Lamott for company. Our class was reading Bird by Bird. “If there is one door in the castle you have been told not to go through, you must. Otherwise, you’ll just be rearranging furniture in rooms you’ve already been in.”

I reread the passage, feeling it settle into my brain. This was what I’d originally loved about school, even more than the stability of the routine or the chance to be good at something. I felt the words take up residence in my head, pushing out walls to make room.

And I thought about my story, about my protagonist, Rose, stranded in the magic kingdom, and I wondered what was behind the doors of her castle and if she’d ever find her way home.

Just before midnight, my phone pinged. Reeti.

I smiled. She’d sent a video from her parents’ house, a party, with high-energy music and dancing in the background, and Reeti, glowing and gorgeous in a chrysanthemum sari with twists of gold embroidery. I tapped the screen to take a closer look at the young man next to her. Her rishta? Slim, with liquid dark eyes and a neatly trimmed beard.

His name’s Vir, she’d told me over Christmas without offering any supporting details. I’d worried she didn’t like him. I hoped she wasn’t being pressured into anything.

Happy New Year! I texted. Is that him?

My screen lit. A smiling, blushing emoji. Not bad, right?

He’s cute! I typed, and waited for a reply.

But there were no more dots. No answer. Which was . . . good, right? It meant she was having a good time.

I turned on the television, picking up the BBC countdown to midnight. Big Ben chimed. Fireworks exploded over the Thames as London rang in the New Year in the aftermath of the pandemic.

“Happy New Year,” I whispered.

I didn’t want to be there in that crowd. But maybe, after all, I wished Sam were free tonight.

My phone chirped. Reeti, again. Happy New Year, didi!

And a selfie from Toni, accompanied by a burst of emojis, with her arms around Fiadh and some other girl, all of them grinning under sparkly party hats.

See? I was loved. I wasn’t lonely. I typed replies, hearts and fireworks and kisses.

All the world was celebrating. Almost all the world. I messaged Aunt Em, too, even though it was only dinnertime in Kansas. The ball drop in Times Square was still hours away, but there was always the cooking channel. I left it on for company, for comfort, and picked up Anne Lamott again.

But reading couldn’t hold my attention any longer.

Restless, I opened my laptop, resisting the urge to check my email, to search for Gray or check the bestsellers rank of his stupid book. That was over. We were over. I was finally over him. I had better things to do. Like working on the assignment for my Structure in Fiction and Poetry class. At least it was something new.

I clicked on the file. I’d managed about three hundred words, waiting up for Toni, when a noise from downstairs penetrated the apartment. Raised voices. A scuffle. A grunt.

“Get your fucking hands off me!”

My heart quickened in alarm. I shoved my feet hastily into boots. Leaving the chain on, I inched open the door to Reeti’s apartment.

“Easy, mate.” That was Tim’s voice.

I slid open the chain. Ventured into the hall. Peered over the railing in time to see the man with Tim shove him away and take a swing at his head. I squeaked. They grappled, crashing into a wall.

“Hey!” I yelled. They glanced up. “Um. Hi.”

“It’s all right,” Tim said.

The guy with Tim scowled. “Who are you?”

I eased down a step. “I’m Dee.”

He squinted. “Oh, the new bird.”

“Dee, Charles Lynch,” Tim said stiffly. “Charles, my upstairs neighbor.”

“Nice boots,” Charles said. “Big bum.”

“Shut up.” Tim steered him into the apartment. “Sorry,” he said over his shoulder.

I followed him cautiously through the open door. “I’ve heard worse.” He supported Charles toward the couch. “Can I do anything?”

Charles swiveled his head. “You’re American.”

“Um. Yes?”

“Thash not . . . You’re not his usual type. Big change from Laura.” His hands curved in front of his chest, sculpting the air. “Big, big change.”

“Put a sock in it, Charles.”

“Sorry.” He smiled and then lurched in my direction. “Whoops.”

I steadied him. “It’s all right,” I said, the way Tim had, even though I was pretty sure it wasn’t.

He breathed gin fumes in my face. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” he confided.

“Right,” Tim said, tight, controlled. “This way, then.”

He manhandled him down the hall. I listened as a door opened and closed.

I wasn’t helping. I should go.

I went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

---

—

Sorry for ruining your New Year’s.” Tim, emerging from the shadows of the hall.

I popped up from his couch. “You’re not. You didn’t. It’s not like I had plans.” Which made me sound like a total loser.

“I thought you’d be out with your friend Sam.”

Was that code for, Why are you still here? “He had to work,” I explained.

“Ah.” A pause. “I’m sorry.”

All this politeness was getting awkward. “No, it’s fine. My aunt always says that whatever you do on New Year’s, you’ll do all year long.”

“Let’s hope not,” he said, very dry.

I grinned. “Well, I think my aunt was making a case for finishing your chores and going to bed early. But I was actually up writing. Or trying to write.”

“Assessments?”

I’d forgotten he was taking classes, too. Executive management something. I nodded. “A short story. Due at the end of the month.”

“What is your story about?”

“Two little girls. On an orphan train.”

“Sorry?”

“Back in the late 1800s, early 1900s, they shipped orphans from New York City out west. They were supposed to find families, but a lot of them were used as free labor on farms.”

“That sounds . . .”

“Very literary, right?”

“I was going to say depressing.”

“Well, it was sad. Sad and hard. They used to separate siblings. But that’s what I love about writing. I can fix things. I can give them a happy ending.”

His mouth relaxed. Almost a smile. I felt the pull of it in my chest. “Did you ever read that Diggs book?” he asked.

“Not yet.” I searched for another subject. “I made tea.”

“Tea sounds wonderful. Or I should have a bottle of bubbly around.”

“I’ll have tea, too.” I hurried to the kitchen to get it. “Unless you want something stronger.”

“I think there’s been enough alcohol tonight,” he said, following me.

“Will your . . .” Friend? Were they friends? “Will he be all right?” Are you all right?

“Right enough.” He got out milk. “He’ll sleep it off now. Sugar?”

“Thanks.” I busied myself with the mugs. “Why do you put up with him?”

“We served together in Afghanistan. I owe Charles my life.” A pause, while he stirred his tea. “Quite literally.”

We carried our tea back to his boring square couch. “Does he do this kind of thing often?”

A glint from steel-rimmed glasses. “Get drunk and pick fights, do you mean?”

“Need you to take care of him.”

“Infrequently. Poor sod.”

“That poor sod tried to punch you.”

“Er, yes. But, in his defense, he was provoked tonight.”

Something wasn’t right. I studied his down-bent head as he blew on his tea. I couldn’t imagine Tim—careful, kind, polite—provoking anybody. “Who provoked him?”

His face was carved from oak. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Then why not tell me?”

“I’d prefer not to have this discussion with you.”

From another man, at another time, that would have been enough to shut me up. But I wasn’t Old Dee anymore. And Tim wasn’t Gray.

“You can tell me,” I said. “I can give you a woman’s perspective.”

Our eyes met. Did he remember? We were sitting on this exact same couch when he’d fed me buns and I’d cried and asked for his male perspective. That kind of thing created a bond. At least, I hoped it did.

“How did you know there’s a woman involved?”

I blinked. “I didn’t, actually. But now that you’ve said it, you can’t stop there.”

“We were at a party. Charles misunderstood something someone said. I attempted to explain, but he’d already had a bit too much to drink, and Laura suggested I bring him home before the situation . . . escalated.”

“Laura, from-the-London-office Laura?”

“Yes.”

We were back to one-word answers, I noticed. “So, do you all, like, work together?”

“No.” I thought that was it, and then he added, “They met when I was in hospital.”

“When you were in the army.”

“Laura and I knew each other from before.”

“Oh.” Apparently this one-word thing was catching.

“Our families are neighbors.”

I nodded.

He ran a hand through his hair, making a dark cowlick stand up in front. “Also . . . We were engaged at the time.”

Oh. I waited. “So, what happened?”

He frowned at his tea. “It didn’t work out, obviously.”

My heart tugged. I wondered if he were haunted by her memory, the way I (still) sometimes thought of Gray. That feeling you had lost the one person who claimed to love you the way that no one ever had. The ache for what might have been. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be. She never . . . That is, we didn’t suit.”

“But you were engaged.”

“Yes. Well. As it happened, I didn’t meet her criteria for a partner after all.”

“That’s stupid. You’re good-looking, kind, principled, educated. You have a job. You don’t live in your parents’ basement. Unless you wrote her into your novel or keep a pet snake next to your bed . . . You don’t, do you?”

He smiled faintly. “No.”

Encouraged, I continued. “Maybe your communication skills could use a little work, but what does she want?”

“A whole man.”

“Oh God.” The scars. I grasped his hand. “When you were hurt, were you . . . Can’t you . . . ?”

He looked at me, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. Or maybe that was a reflection on his glasses. “I’m quite capable, thank you. But I was in hospital for three months. Rehab for six months after that. At the time, Laura felt—based on the doctors’ reports—she hadn’t signed on to take care of an invalid for the rest of her life.”

“So she broke up with you.” I squeezed his hand again.

“Actually . . .” Another pause, as if he were debating how much to tell me.

“You broke up with her,” I said. “To set her free.”

Unexpectedly, he laughed. “Nothing so noble, I’m afraid. Laura expected me to work for my father after uni. She was willing enough to wait while I did my military service. But when things went south, she was afraid she’d made a mistake. She didn’t believe in me. She didn’t believe in us.”

“And Charles?” I asked.

“He came to see me in hospital. Rather frequently. They both did. I believe they comforted each other.”

“Cheated on you, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“Ouch. And now she wants you back.”

He tilted his head. “I didn’t say that.”

But I’d seen them together. How she touched him. The way she’d warned me. “Be careful with this one. He has no heart.”

I waved my hand toward the hall, where, presumably, Charles was sleeping it off. “He was provoked, you said. So there must still be a chance for you and Laura to get back together.”

“None at all. I don’t have your forgiving nature.”

“Me?”

“You said you could have forgiven cheating. When we were talking about that Kettering fellow. Who’s an arse, by the way.”

“He’s actually considered brilliant. A new lion of American letters.” It was in his bio.

“Full of himself, I thought.”

“Wait.” I thought back desperately, trying to sort out what I’d said to whom. “You know who he is?”

“Gray from Kansas. It was obvious once I’d read the book.”

“Shit. You read it?” I cringed, recalling Gray’s descriptions of Destiny Gayle’s “long, udder-shaped nipples” (page 73) and “lusty barnyard sexuality” (page 219). Her parrot-like intelligence. That horrible horned-mask scene. I covered my face with my hands. “Oh my God. You must think I’m—”

“Nothing like the character in the novel,” Tim said firmly.

I lowered my hands.

“I may not be an English major,” he continued. “But I recognize a complete fiction when I see it. That girl isn’t you.”

“Thanks.” I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed to hear someone say it like that. Flat out. “You’re the only one who thinks so.”

He frowned. “Surely your family . . . Your friends . . .”

“Haven’t read the book. Or they pretend they haven’t, because they don’t want to hurt my feelings.”

“You want me to pretend.”

“Um. No? Honestly, it’s kind of a relief. Being able to talk about it with someone who doesn’t confuse me with Destiny.”

“No one who knows you could do that.”

“They did.” I swallowed. “Everyone in the department assumed Gray must know me better. We were together for two years.”

“You could sue him. For defamation. He damaged your reputation.”

I shook my head. “There’s just enough difference in the names—Dorothy, Destiny. And there’s that bit the publisher always puts in the front, about it all being fiction or used fictitiously. ‘Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.’ ”

“Bollocks,” Tim said.

“Anyway, the damage is done.” I winced, remembering the reviews. “All I’d get from suing would be more publicity. I just want the whole thing to go away.”

He was silent.

“I know that sounds cowardly,” I said.

“It sounds very normal. Most women are reluctant to report sexual harassment because they’re afraid it will affect their advancement at work.”

He sounded so cool. So factual. Like he didn’t care.

Or . . . I snuck a look at his carefully blank face. Like he was giving me space to feel my feelings without worrying about his reaction.

Gratitude loosened my chest.

“The thing is, I was complicit. That’s the part I can’t get over. I trusted him, and he dismissed me as someone unworthy of love or trust or respect. Publicly. In print. And now they’re making a movie about it.”

“He abused your trust. That’s on him, not on you.”

“No, it’s me.” My throat was suddenly tight. “That’s what I do. Yeah, Gray wrote a book that made me out to be something I wasn’t. But even before he wrote it, I made myself into somebody else to be with him. Nobody forced me to put my thesis on hold so I could cook his dinner or grade his papers.” Or have sex when he wanted it. “I made myself less when I should have made myself more.”

“We all want to meet the expectations of the people we care about,” Tim said.

“Your family?”

He cleared his throat. “Yes.”

I waited, but apparently that was all he was going to say. “I do it with everybody,” I confided. “When I was younger, I was always trying to fit in. To make people like me.”

“Why wouldn’t they like you? You’re very likable.”

Another compliment, I thought. A good one. “I have a big butt.”

“Yes.” A near smile. “And a large heart. Quite attractive, that.”

I grinned at him. “My butt or my heart?”

“Both.”

He set down his tea and leaned forward, giving me plenty of time to pull back or move away. Giving me space. His lashes dropped, veiling his eyes.

Mine were wide open. His face blurred as I closed the distance between us and pressed my mouth to his.

His lips were slightly parted. I could taste the tea we’d been drinking, warm and sweet. One second, two seconds, three . . .

Something inside me stirred. Fluttered. Hitched. I drew back, inhaling shakily.

Tim watched me from behind his glasses, a small half smile on his face. “Happy New Year, Dee.”

I gulped. “Yeah. Absolutely. Happy New Year.”

It was New Year’s. I had to kiss somebody.

But I thought it would be Sam.

“I should go,” I said. “It’s getting late. Toni will be home soon.” Maybe. “And I still have lots to do. Writing. I have to write.”

“Tell me about it.”

“My writing?”

“Yes.”

“Well . . .” I wanted to, I realized. It was the space he made for me, around me, a kind of No Judgment Zone. As if I could say anything, and it would be okay. I opened my mouth.

My phone pinged in my pocket.

“Sorry.” I fumbled for it. “That must be Toni now.”

It wasn’t Toni.

SAM: Just finished closing up. Happy New Year, Boots.

As messages go, it was certainly better than the usual, U up? Better than Gray’s, Am I bothering you?

But a text at two in the morning could only mean one thing. “If you want to be friends who have sex, I’m here for that,” Sam had said.

Was that what I wanted? How I was going to spend my New Year?

I looked up at Tim. “It’s Sam.”

His face rearranged itself to its usual blank politeness. “You’ll want to get that.”