Good For You

I’m laughing and crying at the same time, and strangely, so is Gina, who hands me another tissue while she mops her eyes with her own. “Wow,” I say, stunned.

“I have a couple of days in a row off in September, so we’re planning to make a quick trip home then. I assume you can make it home from Berkeley for an evening?”

“Heck, yes. I wouldn’t miss it. When are you tel ing Mom and Dad?”

“As soon as we hang up, I’m cal ing them. But first, how are you doing with the Reid Alexander situation? Is the distance helping?” Hearing his name is a jolt.

“Yeah. I’m fine. Haven’t thought of him much at al .” I’m crossing my fingers under my leg.

“You haven’t heard from him, then.”

“No.” Like he predicted—he’s gone back to his life, and I’ve gone on with mine. “Out of sight, out of mind.” My voice rings falsely impassive in my ears.

“I can’t imagine any boy being stupid enough to put you out of his mind so easily, baby girl. Even him.” I’m real y glad that Gina, who’s stil eavesdropping shamelessly, can’t hear Deb’s portion of the conversation.

“Wel , thanks. But I think they’re al kind of the same.” Deb knows I’m referring to Colin.

“No, they aren’t, but guys like Brad are rare. It took me twenty-six years to find him, and look how far from home I had to go. What if I’d done my internship elsewhere? We’d have never met. Brad and I were meant to be.” I turn onto my side, repressing words I’ve said to Deb before, words I wil not repeat now because I’m determined not to take anything away from her happiness. I know Deb believes that God brought Brad to her. That they were fated to be. But if this is so, then were Colin and I fated? Was what he did to me meant to be? Or perhaps he was a test that I failed, foolishly trusting a boy who exploited some inadequacy that made me blind to reality.

I can’t believe either of these. What happened with Colin was simply a failure to heed my own common sense. I made a mistake in judgment, and I paid for it.

“I’m glad you found each other, Deb,” I tel her, turning onto my back. “I hope you’l be real y happy.” She sighs blissful y. “We already are. It’s almost too much joy.”

I shake my head and smile. “No such thing.”

“I hope you’re right. You can probably expect a giddy cal from Mom soon. I think she thought I was al ergic to boys—

or they were al ergic to me. I love you, baby girl.”

“I love you, too, and I’m so happy for you.” When we hang up, it seems that Gina has forgotten her altitude sickness for the time being. She tel s me she’s a hopeless romantic who drives her husband crazy buying every romantic movie ever made. “I think I’ve watched The Notebook about a thousand times,” she confesses, without even a hint of embarrassment. “I want to hear al about your sister and her new fiancé, but first—who is this boy you left behind? Was it a breakup? Not because of your volunteer efforts here, I hope.”

“No, nothing like that. We only went out once. It was nothing.” I’m crossing my fingers under my leg again, though I’ve spoken nothing but truth.

“Not meant to be, then,” Gina says, and it takes al the control I can manage not to rol my eyes. Holy cow, you’d think people never made their own decisions about anything, weren’t in control of any direction their lives took.

“Yep. Not meant to be.” I force myself to uncross my fingers. Nothing I’m saying is a lie or a fib or even a disputed truth. Whether or not my life is orchestrated by God or some form of fate or nothing but the choices Reid and I make individual y or together, we’re not meant to be.

Chapter 32

REID

In three days, I’m leaving for Vancouver, a two-hour flight away. I could jump back to LA often during the next three months if I wanted to, but barring any emergencies, there’s no reason to bother. I need a break from everything here. I definitely need a break from my best friend, who’s walking the ragged edge of shit-for-brains-annoying at the moment.

“Look, I can’t maintain the kind of muscle I’ve been adding while drinking and getting high every night. I thought you got that.” I’ve tried to explain this to John multiple times in the past several days, but he’s smashed and missing al of my drop-it cues. We just got back to his place from a party, the first one we’ve left together this week.

“I know, I hear you. It’s just… you’re just…”

“I’m just what?”

“You’re not only cutting back on alcohol or whatever.

You’ve been crashing here for the past week, and not only are you almost always stone-cold sober, which is kind of a damned drag, you haven’t brought a girl back with you at al . Not once.”

“And?”

He sighs. “Nothing, man. But you aren’t yourself.” Sometimes my best friend seems perceptive, though I’m never sure how much of his insight is actual comprehension and how much is guesstimated bul shit. We don’t have what you’d cal a dig-deep sort of relationship. “Maybe I’m trying to develop some self-control.”

“C’mon, man— no alcohol, no weed, no girls? What the hel is this? It’s like you’re someone else. I usual y work just to keep up with you, and now I’m drinking alone ninety percent of the time,” he gestures to my Perrier with his beer, “and I’m stoned by myself, and the only thing you’re screwing with is my head.”