Page 80 of Given Our History

“Feeling nice and vindicated?” I ask. “Because we’d like to get out of the cold.” Teddy shoots me a questioning look. “Izzy knew that I had a thing for you since we were like—”

“Sixteen!” she exclaims.

Reagan materializes behind her, her hair in twin braids and her lanyard slung around her neck. In contrast to Izzy’s form-fitting thermal wear, everything Reagan’s wearing looks like she bought it three sizes too big on purpose.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Someone had to drive me,” Izzy points out.

Teddy looks at me, then tosses a thumb at Reagan. “Are we sure she’s old enough to drink?” he teases.

Reagan rolls her eyes with a groan, throwing an arm around each of our necks and dragging us inside.

There’s something magical about a crowded pub on a winter’s night, the air warm and thick with friendly chatter. A Christmas tree stands beside the fogged window, strung in colorful lights and popcorn garlands; silver tinsel dangles from the exposed beams; and the whole place smells like peppermint schnapps, thanks to the holiday-themed cocktails scribbled on the menu. The four of us grab a booth and I order a round of eggnog for the table.

Izzy pulls a face when a mug is placed in front of her. “I forgot people actually drink this stuff.”

The server delivered a fifth mug to the table, as requested, but there’s no one here to claim it. It looks like Bel decided not to join us after all. I’m a little disappointed—maybe because it was my first time trying to establish a friendship outside of work in I don’t know how many years—but I’m not going to let that put a damper on my mood.

I lift my mug in a toast. “To old friends.”

“Hey,” Reagan says.

“And their annoying kid sisters,” Izzy amends. We clink glasses. Izzy plugs her nose before taking a sip, but stifles a gag anyway, beating her chest with a fist and coughing. “Oh my god, that’s worse than I remembered.”

Teddy clears his throat. “You know, I think there’s actually a rule that says faculty aren’t allowed to drink with their students.”

Reagan shoots him a sardonic smile across the table. “Good thing I’m not your student anymore.”

“What grade did you end up giving her?” I ask.

“B.”

Izzy and I gasp in unison.

“I didn’t know that!” Reagan cries.

He mimics her former smile, and somehow it’s a lot more convincing on him. “That’s because I haven’t put it in the system yet.”

The door to The Falconer swings open again. Snow chases Bel Jones inside. She scans the busy room, unwinding her long scarf before pushing through the crowd. “I hope you appreciate the lengths I’ve gone to for this friendship,” she tells me, standing over our table. “First I join a subcommittee, now I drive to a pub in the middle of a snowstorm. That’s love, right there.”

“And I hope you know that I appreciate you more than I know how to articulate,” I say.

She doesn’t take a seat, but her eyes dart around the table, curious.

“Oh, right.” I gesture at the other side of the table. “My sister Reagan you might’ve met, but actually I don’t think so … and this is Izzy, an old friend from camp. This”—I lean across the table to nudge the last glass of eggnog toward her—“is Bel. My favorite coworker.”

Teddy shoots me a mock-reproachful look and I shake my head. Technically, he’s not my coworker. Though also, technically, Bel isn’t either, anymore.

With Bel standing and Izzy sitting down, they’re almost the same height, and they opt to shake hands on this equal standing—or seating.

“Together we almost form one whole name,” Bel observes. “Izzy. Bel.”

Izzy scoots over to make room on her side of the booth, wedging Reagan against the paneling. “My name is actually Isabel. But no one calls me that except for my grandma.”

“What if we’re both Isabels?” Bel asks.

Izzy arches a brow. “Are we?”