Page 49 of Given Our History

Mom stepped into the living room, a flute of champagne in one hand, my Martinelli’s in the other. “There you are.”

“Give me five minutes to convince you,” I whispered into the phone.

Three.

My mom pressed the plastic flute into my hand and ushered me back into the dining room.

Two.

One.

“All right,” Teddy agreed.

I hung up just after the clock struck midnight, without ever wishing Teddy a happy new year. Grandma pulled the string on a popper, showering the table in confetti. My parents shared a quick, chaste kiss, like they were actors on a stage, trying to convince the rest of us that they were happy. Reagan blew on a paper horn, a relentless honk, honk, honk that drowned out whatever rendition of “Auld Lang Syne” was playing over the television. I toasted my plastic flute, downed it in two gulps, and excused myself to the bathroom, taking my phone with me.

I locked the door, peeled off my sweater, and checked my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I was wearing a coral-pink bra trimmed with lace, not a push-up or anything fancy like the stuff Izzy wore, but it didn’t look bad. I tousled my hair with my fingers and stepped back from the mirror for the full effect. I felt like it looked weird to leave my jeans on, so I shimmied out of them, revealing black boy shorts. It didn’t match. Was it supposed to match? But I only had a couple minutes left, so I didn’t have time to change. I opened the camera on my phone and snapped a quick picture. It actually looked pretty good. Pulse hammering, I pressed send.

Afterward, I dressed and went to tell my family good night, but all I could think about was Teddy. The minutes ticked by, but he wasn’t answering. I’d never sent anyone a picture like that before, and I felt suddenly more than a little self-conscious. Was he just going to ignore it? Maybe it wasn’t a good picture after all.

It wasn’t until I was lying in bed that he finally texted back. I reached for my phone on the nightstand, the screen blinding white in the dark.

Teddy: I’ve figured out your New Year’s resolution

I stared at the message, my brow knit. Maybe he didn’t receive the picture. Or maybe he was trying to change the subject. I started to text back, but then he sent a follow-up message:

Teddy: Wear that for me. In person.

CHAPTER18

PRESENT

A heavy rain on the day before the gala forces a last-minute change of plans. I checked the forecast for weeks beforehand, with consistent results: we were due to have a big storm roll through on Thursday, the night of Halloween, but the Saturday before was predicted to be partly cloudy and mild. So it made a lot of sense to set up tables and chairs on the sprawling lawn in front of the Alumni House. Especially taking into consideration the unexpected but enthusiastic response rate on our event page on Facebook. The house itself simply isn’t large enough to host this many people, but with the weather forecast uncertain for tomorrow, it’s looking like the house won’t have much of a choice.

“Mack, listen to me,” I say, phone pressed between my shoulder and my ear as I try to disentangle myself from the fall foliage garland I’m pulling down from the pediment. We decorated the outside just two days ago. If the weather app could’ve been a bit quicker on the uptake, it would have saved me a whole heap of trouble, but …

“Would you please stop inter—” The stepstool teeters beneath me and I break off mid-word to steady myself. “For two seconds, please, please just hear me out without cutting me off,” I beg, because the last five minutes have been a constant stream of complaints and vague threats like keep your scholarships. I’m on the verge of hanging up. “I know rolling out the food truck was part of your reason for agreeing to this gig”—make them feel heard, that’s the first step—“but people aren’t going to want to stand in line for a food truck in the rain.” I step down from the stool, gathering the garland in my arms and carrying it inside.

Teddy is in the great room with Bel, who has the orange twinkle lights spooled around her arms. She enlisted him to drape the lights around the hooks in the crown molding. Mack’s ranting in my ear about how this isn’t what he agreed to.

“I understand that,” I say. I deposit the garland on the coffee table and switch my phone to the other ear. Teddy arches a brow and I return the expression, blowing out a breath. “Well, if that’s the case, then I’ll just have to—” I’m interrupted by a fresh string of curse words. “I’m not sure that sort of language is necessary.” Teddy abandons the twinkle lights and moves toward me. “If you could just—”

The phone is snatched from my grasp before I have a chance to react. Teddy holds it up to his ear. “Hello, Mack?” he says. There’s that authoritative voice again. “I’m on the scholarship committee with Clara. What seems to be the problem?”

Everything goes quiet while he listens with his brow knit. I look over at Bel. She shrugs and pulls a face like at least you’re not having to deal with it.

“Uh-huh.” I can’t make out exactly what Mack is saying, but whatever it is, it doesn’t sound polite. A muscle twitches in Teddy’s jaw. “Fine by us. We’ll just have to remove your logo from the banners.”

The phone’s not on speaker, but there’s no mistaking Mack telling him exactly where we can shove those banners. Teddy draws the phone away from his ear, frowning at the screen.

And then he presses the screen to end the call.

I toss a hand in the air, dropping it with such force that it slaps my thigh. “Great. So we’re down a caterer.” I spin on the spot like I’m going to walk off, but then immediately spin back again. I don’t know what to do with all this pent-up frustration. I plant my hands on my hips and fix him with a glare. “I was trying to talk him down.”

“Very professionally, I might add.” Teddy hands me my phone, all easy posture, his other hand tucked into the pocket of his sweatpants. We all dressed comfortably today, but whereas my threadbare Phi Alpha Theta hoodie and black leggings make me look like I’m desperately clinging to my college years, he manages to look good in sweats and a T-shirt.

“What do you want me to do, cuss the guy out?” I ask.

“He seemed to have no problem cussing you out.”