Page 16 of Glitterland
“I’m consenting, meaningfully, to be a whinge recipient.”
Maybe this was why I liked Amy. She was very good at making me feel like I might be salvageable. That I could be something other than a burden to someone. That I might be—as a stranger I would never see again had so sincerely believed—all right.
She folded her arms and took a deep breath. “Just remember you asked for this. But it’s about Niall. Specifically about Niall trying to shag Max on the stag night, which I’m not okay with. Except I suppose that makes me some kind of evil straight girl stereotype.”
“Excuse me.” I gave her a sharp look. “Fidelity does not belong to heterosexuals. We queers can be boring and committed too.”
“So Max told me when he proposed.”
“Did he really?”
Now she was laughing at me. “Of course not. Though we did have the monogamy talk on a separate, less romantic occasion.”
“And how did that go?”
“I’m neutral. He’s pro. Niall apparently doesn’t care.” It was the closest to bitter I’d ever heard Amy sound. “Sorry. I know you all go way back and I don’t want to come between that.”
Something that, had I been a different person or lived a different life, might have been guilt stirred weakly inside me. If I’d thought about it for a second, I could have guessed how the stag might unfold. But, of course, I hadn’t thought about it. I’d only thought about myself. “You could set up some kind of … timeshare,” I said instead.
“Ash”—Amy was half-laughing again, but also faintly exasperated—“Max is a person. Not a listing on AirBnB. And if he wanted to be with Niall, he’d be with Niall.”
Sometimes the simplest truths could be the most difficult. Although I suppose it depended which side of them you were on. “I know. I even think Niall knows that. On some level.”
Amy’s eyes narrowed. “Oh he does. Or he wouldn’t have to guilt Max into bed. Well, not into bed.Towardsbed.”
She was quiet for a moment or two, her finger tracing a succession of fading abstracts in a puddle of spilled beer, while I tried to come up with something useful and/or comforting to say to her and failed on both counts. I couldn’t tell if it was because the problem was complicated and insoluble, or if I was just hopeless. Some friend. Some lover. I couldn’t even indulge in a one-night stand without having a panic attack. And here I was, still thinking about myself.
Finally, Amy looked up and sighed. “It just feels like whatever happens, someone is going to get hurt.”
“That’s just the way it is, sometimes.”
We stared moodily into our drinks.
“Did happiness always used to be this complicated?” Amy asked after a bit.
I shrugged. “I have no idea. Happiness and I are barely on speaking terms these days.”
Her eyes held mine for a moment. There was pity there, which of course I hated, but also warmth. I waited for the clumsy platitude, but I had, as ever, underestimated Amy.
“Well. Let me show you some happiness.” She slid her phone over the table. “Look. My wedding dress!”
“You curmudgeon.” She glared at me in mock displeasure. “At least pretend to care.”
I glared back. “I am not a curmudgeon.”
“What are you then?”
“Optimistically challenged?”
“You’re a curmudgeon,” she insisted.
It was becoming difficult to dispute. With a show of reluctance, I reached out, took the phone, and looked at the photograph.
“Such a curmudgeon.” She glared at me in mock displeasure.
With a show of reluctance, I reached out, took the phone, and looked at the photograph. A smiling woman in a white frock; seen one, you’ve seen them all. Except, no, it was different. It was Amy.
“You look pretty. And,” I conceded, “happy.”
