Kurt rephrases the question to bring my attention back: “Was James invited?”
“No—what? No.” I chew my lip, ignoring my brother’s pressing gaze. I’d much rather let my mind wander than discuss the party I somehow decided I was ready to host.
I’ve planned a lot of cocktail hours. You’d think I’d have this down to a science, but my stomach is a rolling boil of nerves. I wonder if it’s a good sign that my first reaction to the thought of having James here is a pulse of relief because I know he would step up without question and help. But the truth is … “I’m not even sure he’s around here anymore.”
With these words, my relief is doused with a flush of dread. What if I’m right? After all this work I’ve done to process things in sessions with Debbie, have I missed the real window to talk to James about what happened?
I think my brother might be setting up to drop some wisdom, but he just lets out a “Huh,” scratches his belly, and heads to the kitchen.
Peyton and Annabeth arrive at six exactly—I get the feeling they were sitting in their car, excitedly waiting for the hour to turn over. I’m a lucky woman, I think. Then immediately: At twenty-six, that might be the first time I thought of myself as a woman.
Annabeth bursts inside, pulling me into a hug. Peyton waits a few beats for Annabeth to let go and finally just makes do with putting her arms around both of us. I notice they’ve brought gifts: flowers, a set of wineglasses, and a tablecloth—none of which they bothered to wrap. And now I feel both lucky and tragic, because my two friends just saw me two days ago and here they are, embracing me with a tight, lingering warmth that tells me they weren’t sure I’d ever be in my own place, throwing a party.
“Okay, everyone,” I say into Annabeth’s shoulder, “I’m getting the sense that you were starting to worry about me.”
With a laugh that doesn’t dispute this, they step back and look around expectantly. I’m grateful they don’t point out that I have made very little progress on the décor, even for the sake of a party.
Kurt emerges from the kitchen and hands them their preferred drinks: a gin and tonic for Peyton, and a pilsner for Annabeth. With mumbled thanks, they each take a sip and silence swallows us.
For a tiny beat, I miss Melly’s exuberant hostessing skills.
“It occurs to me that I have more liquor bottles than furniture,” I say to no one in particular.
“And you’re not even really a drinker,” Peyton says.
“You’d think for someone with a design background, decorating your own house would be the fun part.” Annabeth looks at me. “And yet.”
“And yet,” I agree.
“Why do I get the sense that you’re dreading it?”
I shrug, even though the answer isn’t really a mystery. “I only ever had a bedroom to furnish and was never there to enjoy it anyway. This feels … bigger.”
“It is big, but it’s so bright,” Peyton says. “This would be my dream home.”
Because I don’t want to start the party off with an admission that, until recently, I didn’t really have dreams of my own, I say, “I have to figure out what’s next, I guess. Design-wise. Life-wise.” I move closer to the window and feel them follow. The four of us look out over the steep grade of the mountain. I love the craggy rocks and the way the trees struggle up through the unforgiving earth. There’s something creative in there, pushing itself into formation; the rich woods and modern lines that used to inspire me no longer get my brain buzzing. But these rocks do.
“Do I want it to look the way all my stuff has looked for the past ten years?” I ask the view. “Or is there a new style waiting to come out of my brain?”
“In case anyone is wondering,” Kurt says pointedly to my friends, “James isn’t coming.”
I turn to stare at him. “Well, that was random. Thanks.”
Annabeth’s dark eyes turn to me. “You didn’t invite James?”
“I don’t even know if he’s around anymore,” I say.
“He is.” Peyton sips her drink.
I gape at her. “How do you know that?”
“Saw him,” she says. Her casual shrug is totally maddening.
“How do you even know what he looks like?”
“Adorable lanky guy wearing glasses and a tailored suit? Yeah, he’s pretty easy to spot around here.”
I wait for more, but it’s like maneuvering a boulder up a hill with these assholes. “Where did you see him?”
She swallows another sip. “Grocery store.”
Their silence is the stony judgment of Mount Rushmore, and their faces are the expression equivalent of whistling innocently. I have no trouble at all imagining James doing his grocery shopping in a suit.
My pulse picks up, heavy and annoyed in my throat. “Why would I invite him?” I ask.
Peyton and Annabeth exchange a look with Kurt, who just shrugs and tilts his beer to his lips. I want to punch him for the first time since I was thirteen.
“Seriously, tell me why I should have invited him.”
“Because you like him.” Kurt’s voice echoes inside the bottle.
“I liked him, yeah.” I look between the three of them. “But did y’all miss the part where he—”
“Where he fucked up and tried to explain to you what happened, and you wouldn’t answer his calls?” Kurt asks, meeting my eyes.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say sharply, “is my newfound self-preservation making you uncomfortable?”
He looks immediately remorseful. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just mean you gave Melly a decade of bad behavior, and I hear you talking to her almost every day, but James doesn’t even get a text message?”
This feels like a shove, and I know he can tell because his face does that pinched thing he does when he’s trying to look casual, like he’s squinting out to the horizon, but the horizon here is the bare living room wall five feet away, and there’s nothing there to study.
“You think I should have invited James?” I ask quietly.
I get three Yeahs in unison.
I feel a little like the way I used to when I’d dump out a bin full of Lincoln Logs, both overwhelmed and excited—except this is my life, with all these pieces to choose from, and I’m not sure what shape I even want to build.
“Okay, well, I didn’t.” I turn back from the window and point to the spread of food on the other side of the room. “Eat something and stop judging me.”
This party already sucks and it just started. Maybe some music will help.
My stereo sits in the dining room on a low, plain coffee table I found at a yard sale. I’ve taken two steps toward it when the doorbell rings.
“Someone go let Mike in,” I say. “I’m gonna put on some music.”
“I’ll pick the music,” Annabeth says, jogging over. “You go get the door.”
I stare at her for a beat, on the verge of asking what the hell is up with all of them, but Kurt raises his beer across the room, eyebrows up like, Go.
“It’s Mike, Kurt. He can let himself in.”
He throws the next words at me with a grin. “Or, maybe it’s James.”