Ophelia London - Definitely, Maybe in Love

“He doesn’t know the first thing about my life. Him calling me a phony while he stands in a corner and doesn’t speak to anyone. That’s rich.”

I looked at Mel, who was being uncharacteristically unopinionated.

“Mel?” I said over someone talking into a mic. “Don’t you have anything to add—?” I cut myself off as a new thought occurred to me. “Wait, you don’t agree with him, do you?”

Her gaze darted around, down at her nails, up at a stop sign, everywhere but at me. When she finally settled on me, a sad, empathetic smile curved her mouth. “Okay, fine.” She took in a deep inhale. “That was quite the transformation last year, Springer. You have to admit that.”

I opened my mouth but didn’t speak.

“It’s like, one day you’re hanging out with your friends like any normal chick, wearing a skirt, pink tank top, and strappy sandals, and the next day you’re off meat, you’ve got those things in your hair, and you’re picketing City Hall to save some endangered mountainous tribe in Costa Rica that no one’s ever heard of.”

“ I heard of them,” I defended. “And I…I still wear skirts.”

“Change is good,” she continued. “And obviously college is the place to do it. You know me, I love your feminist passion and your adorable cynicism…” Her voice went singsong. “And your protests, your sit-ins, the occasional liberal rants—”

“Got it, Mel,” I snapped, rubbing my arms.

Mel and I had been best friends since we were ten. She was supposed to be the one person who loved me no matter what crazy things I did. I’d never been able to talk to my mother about my life—she was way too flaky, “emotionally stunted” as our family shrink called it. And my father, he’d never been around for me to rely on.

Mel knew my reasons—she knew I’d been struggling like hell to stand out last year, to really make a difference and get noticed. True, maybe some of my decisions brought the wrong kind of attention, but still, it made me a little nauseous to think that even Mel considered me some kind of joke. A phony, to echo Henry Knightly.

Angry tears pressed against my eyes, right there in the middle of the party. I clenched my stomach muscles, chomped down on the inside of my cheeks, and looked away. Right after my father left when I was ten, I used to cry a lot. I never cried anymore—didn’t solve anything.

“It’s just”—Mel sucked in her lips—“you can come off a little…abrasive.” She took a step backward, deliberately, comically, as if she were afraid I would retaliate with a karate chop.

“Hilarious,” I mumbled.

“Just remember, not everybody gets you like I do.”

“I know.”

She put a hand on my shoulder. “You okay, babe?” she asked, sounding genuinely concerned. “You are the coolest person I know, Spring Honeycutt. Do you realize that? And that’s saying a hell of a lot, because I myself am exceptionally cool.” She squeezed my arm. “Never, ever allow anyone to make you feel badly about your decisions, okay?” Her smile twisted. “Not even a ho-bag like me.”

“Ho-bag.” I knocked her shoulder. “And I won’t,” I promised, my voice hitching with emotion.

It was rare for Mel and me to wax sentimental with each other these days. My cynicism had become a barrier, the protective shield I wore, even around my closest friends. Sometimes I regretted that. Few were the times when that shield slipped and I allowed myself to be vulnerable with anybody.

“The dude’s a jackwad,” Mel said, facing the crowd.

I exhaled a cathartic snicker. “This is true.”

“Oh my.” There was a smile in her voice. “But he’s a jackwad who is totally checking you out. Jeez, though—he is gorgeous.”

I rolled my eyes. “Jackwad.”

“Hope you’re not talking about me.”

I whipped around. “Alex, hey.”

“Hey yourself,” he said. Somehow, he was even cuter than an hour ago. Or maybe I was comparing his pleasant expression when he talked to me with Knightly’s sour looks and ardent distaste of all things Spring Honeycutt related.

“This is a great song,” Alex said, pointing disco fingers in the air. “I simply must dance with you.” He held a hand out, gallantly. “Please don’t make me go out there alone. I have a sinking feeling I’ll make a super-ass of myself if you’re not with me.”

“Okaa—” Before I completed the word, Alex whooped, grabbed me around the waist, and pulled me to the dance floor in a whirlwind.

“Can you ballroom?” he asked after we found space between two gyrating couples.

“I don’t think so,” I answered, feeling breathless and giggly.

“I’ll teach you.” He picked up my left hand and rested it on the front of his shoulder. After taking my other hand in his, his free hand moved to my waist, then slid lower to curve around my hip. I gasped in surprise when he pulled me close. “Follow me.”

He took a step forward, causing me to step back.

“Excellent,” he said. I laughed awkwardly and gripped him tighter, enjoying the feel of his hard shoulder muscle under my hand, the aftershave, the lazy blue eyes as he box-stepped us in a circle. Right after he twirled me under his arm, he pulled me close, his other hand sliding to my hip.

“So,” he said, his voice dropping low. We were so close now that I could feel his breath on my neck.

“So?” I replied.

“So…” He turned his head to the side. “How well do you know him?”

I followed his eyes, then blinked in surprise when I realized he was peering at Henry Knightly.

It was late, and since I couldn’t imagine how my evening could possibly improve, thanks to those ten minutes spent in the arms of Alex, I considered going home, getting a jump on the sleep I wouldn’t be getting until late December.

Before taking off, I figured I should find Mel or Julia and let one of them know. Last time I’d seen them, they were on the other side of the dance floor. Instead of walking around the outskirts, it would be quicker to cut through the center, so I headed into the mass of mingling people. Someone knocked my shoulder. “Sorry,” I muttered, rubbing my arm. Someone else brushed past the other side, knocking my right shoulder. Next thing I knew, an arm looped through mine, much too tightly, and spun me around. Then my other arm was clutched. I was caught in the center of dance traffic—or was it some kind of demented conga line?—and going the wrong way. It looked like the line was headed toward the big sorority house on the corner, the one where Lilah lived. I did not want to end up in there.

But there was no free space or figurative light ahead, so without bothering to look behind me, I disentangled my arm, bent forward, hands on my knees, and started backing up like a reversed torpedo. My body bumped into other bodies, disconnecting them, while other bodies leaped out of my way, cursing as I torpedoed past. I didn’t stop moving until I was out of the core of gridlock and along the periphery of the dancers.

Finally free, I splayed my fingers across my chest and took in a deep breath, my heart pounding hard under my hands. I just needed to stand still for a few minutes, undisturbed, then I’d be okay—

“Impressive mode of escape.”

I squeaked and whipped around, my heart shooting right back up my throat.

“And pretty effective,” Henry Knightly added.

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to reply, even though he’d clearly addressed me. And what was he still doing here? Hadn’t he told Dart that he was leaving?

He tilted his head to one side, taking in whatever my expression was. “You look slightly—”