Page 44 of Holiday Love
Jamie, ever the peacemaker, throws up a hand like a ref calling a foul. “All right, kids, that’s enough trauma hour. Let’s get back to therealstory here.” He jabs a finger at me, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Teddy shacking up with the doctor he’s been drooling over since last Christmas.”
“Wh—what?” I turn to him and sputter, “Ihadto come here. It’s not about Helen.”
“Please,” Jamie says with an exaggerated eye roll. “I’ve known you forever. You think I wouldn’t notice how weird you’ve been? No women. Lights off by one a.m. You used to be the guy pouring shots at sunrise and dragging speakers onto the roof. You were my wingman, my crash-and-burn ride-or-die. Now you’re...what? Playing house?”
“I still do stuff.” Even as I say it, I know how weak it sounds.
“You go to bed early and drink tea. You’re like, a suburban dad.”
“I have to work, take classes. We’re not twenty-one anymore, Jamie.” I wince as I say it, hating how much I sound like Gwen. “Sometimes the hangovers last longer than the party these days. Don’t you ever feel like that?”
“Yeah, maybe,” Jamie says with a sigh, his tone flat. “It doesn’t always hit like it used to.”
I blink, shocked by that small admission. That was…surprisingly self-aware.
“Wow. Never thought I’d hear that from you. You’re like, thekingof parties. Remember those keggers you used to throw back in high school?”
He barks out a harsh laugh. “It’s easy to party when there aren’t any adults around to tell you no.” He rubs the back of his neck.
I tilt my head, studying him. He’s been off lately, more cynical, quicker to snap, a kind of restlessness buzzing beneath his usual cool. I even asked him about it a few weeks ago, but he just brushed me off with a dismissive, “Nothing’s wrong.”
Sure.Maybe it’s nothing, or maybe he’s just really good at pretending.
He nods at the stack of medical textbooks on the counter, like they’re a physical representation of Helen. “I still say she’s part of it, how you’re different these days. I don’t get it. What do you two evendotogether?”
I almost tell him how Helen and I have binged five seasons ofSex and the Cityover the past couple of weeks, breaking it up with anime and the occasional nature documentary like we’re playing an unhinged version of TV roulette. But that would mean explaining why she’s home so much, and I won’t divulge her secrets.
Besides, I don’t want to get into how awkward it is to sit next to a woman I’ve had sex with, a woman who now acts like that night never happened, while watching a show that’s basically hot actors hooking up in increasingly creative positions. I’ve perfected the art of staring straight ahead, refusing to glance her way. I don’t want to see the discomfort in her eyes. Or, worse, indifference. I don’t want proof that I’m the only one who still thinks about that night, who remembers every touch, every moan.
“I agree with Jamie. You’ve been off ever since you got together with her.” Anthony’s arms are crossed, his tone flat but edged.
It’s hard not to feel like they’re ganging up on me. For the first time, I regret telling them about Helen. It felt natural when Idid—they’re my best friends—but now the disapproval in their voices grates.
“That’s not true,” I tell them. “I still do all our usual stuff, just less. Less drinking. Less women.”
“Nowomen,” Jamie corrects. “Haven’t seen you with anyone since. Poor Gina’s been climbing the walls trying to get your attention.” His tone stays even, but his eyes flick toward Anthony, measuring the reaction.
Anthony’s jaw tightens. He says nothing, but his knee bounces, fast, hard, restless, like his energy has to go somewhere.
I ask, “How is Gina?”
The pause that follows is too long, loaded. Anthony doesn’t look at me. Jamie’s mouth twitches like he’s debating whether to respond, but he keeps his eyes on Anthony.
“Uh…guys?”
Jamie turns to Anthony and mutters, “Tell him.”
Anthony’s gaze flicks to him, then to me. He sets his jaw and crosses his arms. “I hooked up with her. Gina.”
My mouth drops open. I blink. “No way. Seriously?”
“Yep. A few nights ago.” He ducks his head for half a second, then looks back up at me. “Thought you might be mad.”
I do a quick internal check. No anger. No betrayal. Just…nothing. “Honestly? I’m not. Not mad at all.”
Anthony’s face shifts, subtle but sharp. His brows draw together, his eyes narrowing. “Figures,” he barks out with a humorless laugh, bitter, almost wounded. He shakes his head at me, full of judgment.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I bristle at his tone.
