Page 48 of Given Our History

An envelope arrived in the mail addressed to me the week before Christmas. Enclosed was a brief note from Teddy, along with the souvenir he’d promised: a reproduction Tudor sixpence on a simple leather cord. It wasn’t lavish or particularly high quality—more like the sort of thing I imagined they sold in the gift shop at Hampton Court Palace—but I took to wearing it anyway.

My mom dragged us down to Knoxville for Christmas to visit my grandma, and to my surprise, Dad came as well, though neither of them talked all that much on the car ride down. Teddy and I sent our respective Happy Birthday texts a few days later. Our eighteenth birthdays, a turning point in our lives. We were adults now. Perhaps him more than me, in some ways—while he was away at college, I was still plunking through my last few high school requirements.

But it was also a turning point for our friendship. The longer we put this conversation off, I realized, the greater the likelihood that it would be irrevocably complicated. Maybe he’d get tangled up with some girl at school, or I’d start dating some guy in my dorm next year, when I started college. But it wasn’t until the day after my birthday, New Year’s Eve, that I found the courage to actually bring it up.

My family had gathered around the yellowed oak table in my grandma’s dining room with plastic flutes of Martinelli’s, watching Times Square on the boxy old television set. My phone buzzed in my lap and I checked it beneath the table.

Teddy: Happy New Year’s Eve. Any resolutions this year?

Clara: Not exactly

Clara: Do you have time for a quick phone call?

Within seconds, my phone started ringing. Incoming call: Teddy Harrison. I got up from the table.

“Where are you going?” Dad asked, indicating the television. “You’re going to miss the ball drop.”

“I’ll just be a second,” I said before slipping out of the room. I wandered over to the living room, well out of earshot from my parents. The tree was still up, decked in multicolored lights and ugly, sentimental ornaments. I held the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

“Hey,” Teddy said, his voice low—like he, too, had stolen away to some dark corner to talk to me. “So what’s up?”

It was only a few minutes to midnight, so there was no time for beating around the bush. “Do you remember last spring, that thing that happened in the car?”

“Well, yeah.”

“We said we wouldn’t talk about it. Or that we’d talk about it later, I mean.” I was speaking fast, frantic, trying to get it all out before anyone came looking for me. “I’m tired of not talking about it.”

“Okay,” he said slowly. “What do you want to say?”

“I wanted to let you know that it’s been really confusing. I’m not blaming you, it just—” I broke off, twiddling a pink light on the tree, the bulb warm to the touch. “I’ve thought about it. A lot. And I think it’s pretty obvious that it wouldn’t work. At least not right now.”

Teddy chuckled awkwardly. “It’s not like I asked you to marry me.”

“I know, it’s just—” I lowered my voice, not quite a whisper, but quiet enough that I knew there was no chance of it carrying into the next room. “That’s the thing. We both want to focus on our futures. Right? We don’t want to end up like our parents did.”

“Right,” he agreed.

“But we kissed and we’re still friends.” I paused, waiting for him to understand what I was saying, the big eureka moment, but the line was quiet. “So, I’ve been thinking, you know, maybe—” I took a deep breath. “Maybe we can. Kiss. And do other stuff.”

“What, you mean just as friends?” he asked.

“Yes.” Another pause, but still he didn’t say anything. “You’re being quiet. What are you thinking?”

He sighed, a rush of air into the phone. “I’m thinking that I care about you. A lot. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Then don’t hurt me,” I said. “As long as you keep being my friend, I promise, I won’t get hurt.”

I wished I could see his face, get a better read on him, but even over the phone, I sensed his hesitation. In the other room, my family started counting down to midnight.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

My dad’s voice cut through the chant: “Where’s Clara?”

Six.