Page 17 of Holiday Love
“You’re staring at Caleb right now. Aren’t you?” I accuse.
“Can you blame me?” Gwen laughs. “He’s so nice to look at.”
It’s hard to argue with that. Calebwasnamed sexiest man alive byPeoplemagazine a few years back.
I chuckle along with Gwen, shaking my head indulgently.
She changes the subject. “Are you home now?”
I pause, glancing around Helen’s living room with its bleached hardwood floor, beige slipcover couch, and pastel throw pillows. It’s like I’ve stepped into a page in the Pottery Barn magazine or maybe Restoration Hardware. I honestly don’t know the difference. All I know is that everything matches and nothing is ripped or stained. So different from what I’m used to.
“Umm.” I drum my fingers nervously on my thigh, the one without the cast. “Funny story. Iamhome, but not at my usual place with Jamie and the crew.”
“I’m not following. What do you mean?” Gwen questions.
“Your friend Helen took one look at the house in Venice Beach, deemed it unfit for human occupation, and demanded I move in with her. So bossy, right?” I let out an anxious laugh. Too high-pitched. Too forced.
Way to play it cool, jackass.
I’m sure I’m making this a bigger deal than it needs to be. It’s just that I hate hiding secrets from my big sister, and the fact that Helen and I hooked up at Gwen’s wedding is ahugeone. Gwen had specifically told me Helen was off-limits. I believe Gwen’s exact words were to “leave Helen alone because she’s sweet,” which, of course, implied that I’mnotsweet. Needless to say, that didn’t sit well with me, and we’d argued. A fight I’d like to not repeat anytime soon.
Gwen’s silent for a beat. When she does speak, her words come out slowly. “I’m confused. You moved in withHelen?”
“Just for a couple of months,” I rush to explain, repeating the same spiel Helen had given me. “I’ll have my cast on for two months. I can’t get up and down the stairs at my place in Venice, but Helen’s condo has an elevator. I’ll give her my disability checks to cover rent and food.”
“ButHelen?” Gwen’s voice rises at the end. “You have a million friends. Last time I visited you, it was like walking around with the mayor of Venice Beach. WhyHelen?”
I bristle. “I have lots of friends, but they’re mostly hang-out-and-have-fun friends. Not I’ll-carry-your-stuff-and-take-care-of-you friends.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, they hit me.
Hard.
Jamie, Anthony, all my other friends, they love me, sure. But could I really count on them? I picture Jamie or Anthony helping me into the shower or driving me to a doctor’s appointment and come up blank. They’d probably get high and forget aboutme. Leave me wrinkling like a prune in the shower or getting sunburned on the sidewalk at the doctors. It’s not that they’re bad people—they’re just more focused on having a good time.
A slow, sinking feeling creeps into my gut.How have I never thought about this before?
Maybe it was easier not to.
Shit.
The truth is I’ve been so busy with the parties, the bonfires, the weekend trips that ended with people puking on the beach that I never had time to wonder about thequalityof my friends. Only the quantity.
Lots of friends = busy. No time to think too hard, about anything important.
Lots of friends = validation. Women want me in their bed. Guys want me on their sports teams, beach volleyball, ultimate frisbee.
“Damn,” I mutter. “That’s kind of messed up, huh?”
Gwen doesn’t soften the blow. “Yeah, it is. Wasn’t thereanyoneelse who would have taken you in?”
“I mean sure. Lots of people, but not anyone who’d do a good job of it. Most of my friends are kinda irresponsible.”
Just like me.
“Helen’s uber responsible.” Gwen connects the dots.
“Yeah, she is.”
