Over You (17 page)

“Oh, God, what?” Max asks, lifting a grocery bag off the chair and motioning for her to sit.

“I was ambushed. Our coach asked us, since we sucked so hard at Monday’s game, if we’d volunteer for an extra practice this morning. Taylor was waiting for me when we got out. At least at a game I’m flushed in context. Now I’m just rank and—”

“Over him,” Max declares forcefully.

“I mean, this took research. Only a few people knew I’d be there.”

“No, no, no,” Max says, hearing the wavering in Bridget’s voice. “He’s just flailing through how over him you are,” she reiterates. “We told you that every guy tries to get in touch right after the Moment. Remember, it’s designed to confuse him. Blast a hole right through his conviction.”

“But this isn’t right after. It’s been a whole week. Maybe—” Bridget dares to voice a newly forming thought. “Maybe he’s changed his mind. Maybe—”

“No,” Zach interrupts.

“Not even,” Phoebe says.

“Bridget.” Max says her name firmly as she and Phoebe and Zach lock eyes, suddenly at DEFCON 1. “First of all, you
are
over him.”

“Right …”

“Second, his ego has just taken a big blow. So he’s falling back on some Hollywood moves, thinking if he just springs himself on you—”

“Was he sweaty?” Phoebe inquires urgently.

“Out of breath?” Zach follows up.

“It’s Thanksgiving break,” Max states the obvious. “He’s stuck at home with his family, bored, can’t jerk off ’cause the cousins keep running in and out, so he puts on his sneakers and jogs a few blocks. It’s the ultimate sign that your Moment succeeded. Why deal with himself when he can call you? And why call when showing up improves his odds of—”

“Getting some,” Phoebe says as Zach offers Bridget a glass of water and a damp paper towel for her green mustache.

“Getting you back,” Max expands the point. “
But
”—Max holds a finger in the air—“back for all of two, maybe three hours before he turns once again into a rotting, commitment-phobic pumpkin. So he shows up when he heard you have practice, doubling his odds because his knee-jerk action has all the appearances of a grand gesture.”

“Sounds like a grand gesture, in the absence of any previous thoughtfulness, even feels like a grand gesture,” Zach adds as he pulls the top off a tin of turkey-shaped butter cookies.

“But it’s just a big, fat half ass in disguise!” Max declares passionately. “That will shred your fresh muscles to tatters as one show-up leads to a late-night call, leads to a later-night text, leads to a lobby hookup, ending in you standing on the curb in the rain screaming for him to love you as he walks off to meet his real date. Go home. Shower. And then ask your grandmother to tell you about her coupon system and don’t look at your phone until she’s done. Just get through today. You have seared your awesomeness in a brand that doesn’t wash off from a little sweat.”

“Seriously, it’s even vomit proof, we’ve tested,” Phoebe adds.

“And no matter what, Bridget,” Max says as she escorts her toward the door. “No matter how, you do not do anything but smile and keep walking, are we clear?”

“This is a slippery slope,” Zach adds over a passing fire engine’s alarm.

“A dark, humiliating, ripped-stocking-and-broken-heels-in-a-rainstorm slope,” Max confirms, her face darkening. “No one has ever come back from getting rejected by the same guy twice.
No one
.”

“Twice?” Bridget asks in horror.

“Angie. Riverdale,” all three say in unison.

“Finished the program,” Zach explains.

“Rocked the program,” Phoebe adds with a nod from Max, who has drilled this cautionary tale into them. “Then,” Phoebe continues, “her ex left a love letter in her locker.”

“Which, I might add, was typed,” Max tosses in.

“And she wouldn’t listen to Max.” Phoebe puts a hand on Bridget’s arm.

“Max pleaded,” Zach says.

“And pleaded,” Phoebe echoes.

“What happened?” Bridget asks, looking scared.

“It got ugly,” Max says like a weathered war reporter. “There were love songs played outside windows, there was a late-night visit in
just
a coat—that blew open in front of the garbage man. There was begging. And then …” Max quickly finishes the story, eager to move them along. “She followed him to college, where he got a restraining order against her. Look, this isn’t about Angie, it’s about you.”

“But—”

“No buts, Bridget.”

“Turkey cookie?” Zach offers.

“Ew,” Bridget responds succinctly.

“Turkey-shaped,” Zach corrects himself.

Bridget takes one. “Okay. Angie Riverdale. I get it,” she says, not sounding entirely convinced. “I trust you.” She eats her cookie pensively as Max picks her knife back up. “So how is your Moment coming, Max?”

“Well, unless I can find a unicorn to vanquish on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange while I design a sports arena in which I win the World Cup topless—it’s not. I’m about as tranquil as a Missoni dress.”

Zach takes a cookie and bites off its frosted, wattled head—his eyes suddenly going as wide as Max’s.

“What?” Phoebe and Bridget ask.

“Missoni!” Zach and Max raise their hands toward each other, hooking fingers. “Missoni!”

“Can you fill the rest of us in?” Phoebe asks.

“It could be perfect,” Zach marvels.

“Perfect. But can we?” Max asks him as the logistical challenges of sneaking Max into
Teen Vogue
’s benefit for the upcoming Missoni exhibit at the Met unspool before her.

“I don’t know—can we?”

“What?!” Phoebe and Bridget cry.

Max and Zach nod at each other, ready to drive off the cliff rather than give up. “Okay, ladies, get your Tom Cruise on,” Zach exhorts. “We’re going Moment: Impossible!”

The following night, the brunette from Model UN, the one Ben ran into at the Cabin, is talking to him. She has broken away from the clique of girls huddled in the corner of his friend Vance’s (short for Vancouver, city of his conception) living room. Vance’s parents are spending Thanksgiving weekend at their ski house, having left their son behind to get a jump on his college applications, unknowingly freeing Vance to hold court over a game of beer pong in their kitchen. Those not beer ponging are gathered around the living room’s flat-screen in a virtual ultimate fighting championship that predominantly entails slouching into the L-shaped couch. And leaning on the back of this couch is Ben—completely unaware that the smile he is smiling is being received on the wrong frequency by this rogue girl.

Ben is smiling because, for a brief momentary respite, he’s only remembering what it felt like to hold Max against him that night at the store. He reaches for a handful of chips, and his brain flips back like a pancake that’s burnt on one side. Why did she seem hurt by him yesterday at the deli if she has a boyfriend?

“So did you guys end up staying at the Cabin the other night?” The brunette tilts her ear to her shoulder and tugs at her necklace, a metallic lightning bolt pendant. “Ben?”

“No, my friend wasn’t too into it.”

“That Taylor guy? Doesn’t he skate with Vance?”

“Yeah.” Ben glances at the wedged-open front door in search of Taylor, who’s over half an hour late.

The brunette grabs Ben’s hand. “Oh my God, I have the exact. Same. Phone,” she states with an awe appropriate to discovering she and Ben share a parent. “Wait right here. This is so crazy! I have to show you.” She backs up and around the couch, eliciting a rolling wave of
“Move!”
from the gamers.

Ben drains his cup and then adds it to the cluster covering the nearby dining table. He wonders if Max is staring at a similar spread of abandoned plastic cups right now.

“Ben.”

He looks up to see Taylor, hat pulled low, hands pushed deep into his vest pockets, dodging over—
“MOVE!”
—in front of the TV.

“Finally.” Ben leans in for a hug, but instead of the usual, quick, two-back-pat greeting Taylor is stiff. Ben looks at him and sees that the rims of his eyes are red. Taylor’s definitely been out of it this week, but this is—“You okay? You look like hell.”

“I, uh, ran into Bridge.”

“On your way here?”

“Yesterday morning. Dude, why didn’t you answer your phone?”

“My two-year-old cousin hid it in her diaper bag. Don’t ask.” It was actually the least of his stresses on a day when his parents were in the same room for hours on end, his extended Italian family needing to pretend divorce doesn’t happen on Thanksgiving, Christmas, and the Feast of St. Anthony. “So what happened—did she finally lose her shit on you?” Ben asks.

“Yeah, no. I mean, not like that, she—”

“See? Same. Exact. Cover.” A phone is thrust between them, clutched by five black fingernails. The brunette pushes herself through the opening she’s made and looks up at both boys. “I was going to go all black, too, but I thought the blue case was way prettier. So Taylor made it! This is Gwenie.” She pulls her friend forward, forcing Taylor to take a step back. “I’m Kim.”

Gwenie tugs at Taylor’s vest. “Oh my God, aren’t you so hot?” The music stops, and Gwenie’s adjustment from screaming to talking happens three words too late. A few guys turn with mild interest from the couch before a driving hip-hop beat blasts the room. “This is my joint!” Gwenie shrieks and starts grinding on Kim’s hip. Kim flashes Ben a grin before reciprocating.

Ben takes in the floor show while simultaneously taking in everyone else doing so. He doesn’t even recognize half these kids. Some are pudgier versions of their senior selves, back from college for break, with an air of owning the place. Whatever. Okay. Yes, these two are cute. Cute enough to get his mind off Max—maybe. Kim has a brown ponytail swung over her popping shoulder that’s almost the color of Max’s. Do this. Stay with this. “So, uh … let’s get out of here,” Ben suggests.

“And go where?” Gwenie asks, including herself in the directive.

Ben shrugs, knowing the girls will fill it in for them.

“Ooh, let’s go to Silk Road. I’m
starving
,” Gwenie asserts. “We’ll grab our coats. Hold on,” she says dramatically as though if she didn’t, the boys might race to get there first. Ben nods, and the two dart away.

“I’m not really feeling greasy Chinese and banter about your cell soul connection,” Taylor says as he leans into Ben. “I’ll hang for a few and then you can take this one solo.”

“Dude, what happened when you ran into Bridget?”

“Okay, I didn’t run into her so much as … look, her mom saw my dad at the market, told him Bridge was at practice—I jogged over to catch her before she left.”

Ben stares at him, his face conveying the “what were you thinking?” it would feel mean to say out loud.

“I thought she’d do that little Bridget hop when she saw me—the one she used to do when I met her after school,” he says defensively. “I miss watching her play—you wouldn’t think it ’cause she’s so little—but she’s fierce on the court.”

Ben doesn’t know what to say.

“Being in my bedroom is like some game where I try to look everywhere but out my window. I never see her there anymore, like, her lights are never on. I needed to see her. See her do that hop.” Taylor cups his hat brim. “I’m gonna bail.”

“Do you want her back? I mean, you know I think she’s cool.”

“No way.” Taylor shakes his head like this is an insane question. “I just miss her. I don’t know, I thought we could be friends. But now … She turned and ran away, dude. Ran away.”

“I’m sorry, that sucks, Tay. It really does.” Ben lifts his elbow at the girls pulling on their short leather jackets by the door, not wanting to end the night staring at the Halloween pics on his phone again. “But, look, they’re cute.”

“They’re wasted.”

“BOYS, COME
ON
!” Gwenie falls back against the door frame like she’s fainting. Kim fake pouts.

Denying Taylor the chance to protest, Ben follows the girls out.

“Your friend’s kind of a mess,” Ben says to Kim as Gwenie, yet again, stumbles into Taylor as they walk about ten yards ahead.

“Yours is kind of a downer,” Kim counters with a grin. “Together they’re
adorable
.”

“Right.” Ben laughs.

“Cute smile,” Kim says, giving him a glance as they mosey along. “I remember that from Model UN.”

“Thanks.” Ben blushes.

“What was your thing? Uzbekistan?”

“Kurdistan. I drew it out of the teacher’s briefcase.” Ben shrugs.

“Do you remember mine?” She steps in front of him, walking backward.

“Um, France?” he lies, having not a clue. “Someplace with style.”

“That’s funny. Uganda.”

“Uganda.” Ben nods. “Of course.”

“Totally the same as France.” She grins, her hair tilting seductively into her face under the streetlight. “So note to self: I need to be more memorable.” And before Ben knows it she has placed a hand on either of his arms and stopped him with a hot kiss.

Meanwhile, forty blocks north, the elevator raises Zach and Max higher and higher inside 4 Times Square. “Nice jacket,” Max comments approvingly.