Page 29 of Given Our History

“Teddy, I mean,” she clarified, nodding at the trail ahead, where Darvish had picked up a fallen branch and was brandishing it at his friend like a rapier. “I had a feeling last year, but I wasn’t sure, and then today, the way you guys kept looking at each other—”

I didn’t say anything, but her declaration made my heartbeat stumble, clumsy and awkward in my chest. Because it was true, but I hadn’t wanted to admit it even to myself, put words to this nervous jealousy that had taken over my life the past few months. I wasn’t just scared of Teddy meeting other friends. I was scared of him meeting a girlfriend, because then everything would change. But I was equally terrified of speaking those feelings out loud, because then our friendship would change anyway.

Slowly, I nodded.

“I knew it,” she hissed. “Oh my god, you have to tell him.”

Panic rose in my chest. “No,” I said, grabbing her sleeve. “Izzy, you can’t say anything, promise me.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, holding up her hands in surrender. “I won’t say anything.” After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “But you should.”

I shook my head, swallowing around a fist-sized lump. “I can’t.”

It was safer this way. Better to preserve what we already had than risk ruining it by admitting to something I could never take back. Something that didn’t quite fit into his careful life plan. It was only a crush. It would probably go away.

CHAPTER11

PRESENT

Frostburg Antique Mall always smells like an ashtray, mingling with the faint ammoniac odor of the litter box tucked behind the creaky door of the single bathroom. But a handful of the vendors offer Saturday morning deals and it’s right around the corner from a coffee shop, which means iced coffee and antiquing has become a semi-regular weekend pastime, when I’m not drowning in an ocean of ungraded homework.

Usually, it’s a pastime I enjoy alone, but today a very blond and nosey shadow decided to tag along—supposedly because she was bored, but she’s been interrogating me about last night. It was a few minutes past six when I got home from The Falconer, but I’m being scrutinized like I turned up after breakfast still wearing last night’s makeup. “Like I said, it was a work thing. I had a few drinks with some colleagues. Nothing exciting.”

“Bummer,” Reagan sighs, snatching a vintage bucket hat off the rack and trying it on in the mirror. “I was kind of hoping you guys had an actual date.” She poses, inspecting her reflection at different angles, and then flings the hat onto a nearby chair, startling one of the nameless shop cats so that it darts beneath a Victorian sideboard.

“I fail to see how my love life is any of your business, anyway.”

Reagan shrugs as we peruse a hoard of costume jewelry, all of it marked Buy One Get One Free. “I mean, it’s not. If you want to die alone, by all means. But getting railed every now and again might be good for you. It would help you, I dunno, loosen up.”

I snort into my paper coffee cup. “We are not having this conversation.”

We skip over a booth filled mostly with mid-century baking utensils—stained wooden rolling pins and metal cookie cutters so bent out of shape that it’s hard to tell whether they’re supposed to be bells or Christmas trees or snowmen—in favor of a vendor selling vintage clothes and shoes.

“Statistically, it’s less likely with each passing year that you’ll find someone, you know,” Reagan is saying as she bends to inspect a pair of scuffed-up Dr. Martens. “And even if you do find someone in the next five years, getting married in your late thirties tends to lead to a higher divorce rate than, say, if you had gotten married in your late twenties.”

Slightly depressing, from my vantage point. “Did you Google that?”

“Nope. I learned that in Psych 101, my last semester at Chesapeake.”

“So what are you prescribing me, doctor? Arranged marriage, stat?” I select a sport coat from one of the racks and check the size.

“A good old-fashioned friend-with-benefits.” She gives a meaningful waggle of her eyebrows.

“No way,” I say. “He’s not even my friend.” Even after all these years, it still stings to admit that. Last night, talking for the first time in a long time, I was almost able to convince myself that maybe we could be friends again. But after a long and restless night of grading HIST-252 reading responses and a series of hazy, stress-induced dreams, things look different by the light of day.

“You’re assuming he’d be interested,” I add. I pull the sport coat over my T-shirt and examine my reflection in the floor-length mirror, imagining how it might look with my usual work clothes. One of the lapels is moth-eaten and it’s got bad eighties shoulder pads that make me look like David Hasselhoff. Nope. Not going to work.

Leaning against an old vanity, Reagan arches a brow over the lid of her cup of coffee. “He’s a red-blooded male.”

“That’s … no.” I shrug off the coat and return it to the hanger, warmth crawling up my neck. I’m reminded of a different coat, of hangers clattering around in a musty closet. “Teddy’s different.”

“Oh, my sweet summer child.”

I can’t help but laugh. “I just mean he’s practically a robot.” I slide metal hangers out of the way in pursuit of something I might actually get away with wearing. “On his list of priorities, sex probably rates, I don’t know, somewhere in between doing the dishes and brushing your teeth.” Even as I’m saying it, I know full well that it’s a lie. But it’s a lie that I hope Reagan might buy, seeing as she only knows him as her professor. Not as a best friend. Not as something a little more.

“I think you underestimate the whole thoughtful, studious thing he has going,” Reagan says. “He’s probably a total freak in bed.”

“Okay, that’s enough.” I wave a hand to stop her, as though I can wave the images right out of my head. Warmth seeps into my cheeks, though I’m not totally sure what I’m embarrassed about. Sure, it’s inappropriate to be talking about my colleague this way, but it’s not like I’m the one hypothesizing about Teddy’s sex life. I stuff a pair of woolly pants back onto the clothing rack and grab my half-melted iced coffee off a nearby table. I’m not really in the mood for looking at a bunch of itchy old clothes.