Page 23

The party took place on Friday, August 1, and the first thing to go wrong was the limes. I’d decided at the eleventh hour to make a key lime pie for dessert—Ros’s favorite and coincidentally Oliver’s as well—but the little grocery store in Lovesick didn’t have key limes in stock, so I drove forty-five minutes to the bigger, fancier grocery store, only to discover that they didn’t have them, either. I settled on regular limes. 20 According to the internet it wouldn’t make much of a difference anyway, though being a purist I had my doubts—and the limes I found were puny and rock hard, more like avocado pits than actual fruit, but by that point I’d already bought condensed milk and graham crackers and butter at the first grocery store, plus I’d lost an hour and a half driving to the bigger grocery store, and most importantly, it was Ros’s and Oliver’s favorite, so it was just too late to change course. Key lime pie it was.

The rest of the menu we’d agreed upon via text. The main event was risotto, carrot and feta, a dish Ros’s mom used to make, a double recipe because there would be seven of us in total: me, Ros, Touchstone, Audrey, Jess Orlando, Phoebe, and Oliver Teller. For sides, Phoebe would bring green beans and garlic, and I’d make a salad, too, since Oliver, not unlike Touchstone, was obsessed with getting nutrients. Oliver Teller was actually a last-minute addition to the guest list: I’d finally taken the ball that was in my court and asked him if he’d wanted to come to dinner as my date. I’d told neither Ros nor Touchstone that I’d invited him—Touchstone because I wasn’t about to incur his wrath/be audience to another diatribe about the quality of Power Jam . I hadn’t told Ros because—if I’m being honest—I wanted to make them jealous.

On the day of the dinner, I’d panicked we wouldn’t have enough food, so I’d decided to add the artichoke dip that my mother made on Christmas, crackers and cheese, some sort of paté, 21 grapes because you needed grapes on a cheeseboard, and then also some cocktail shrimp, as an ode to Ros’s ode. That was my third trip to the grocery store. Let no one say I wasn’t rooting for Ros and Jess. I just wanted Ros to, you know, rue the day they’d chosen Jess Orlando over me.

There was no juicer in the kitchen. There was no Ros in the kitchen, either, which was a little annoying, since they’d promised to help me not only shop but also cook, but honestly the lack of the juicer was a more immediate problem, and it would be better if the pie was a surprise anyway. I imagined myself delivering the pie to Oliver, Ros looking on with a bewildered, envious expression. I crushed the graham crackers for the crust, which was messier and more labor intensive than I might’ve liked, but I got to use my hammer for the first time since hammering down that rogue nail; popped the crust into the oven; and shifted my focus toward the filling. I tried to squeeze the limes by hand, but they were so tough that I barely got any liquid out. I attacked them next with a spoon and succeeded more in spraying juice into my eye. In a fit of pique, I attempted to stab the juice loose with a fork, but my hand slipped and I stabbed myself in the palm.

It was at this point that I remembered my mother had told me to be patient.

I checked my phone while I ran my hand under cold water. There was blood, but nothing major—certainly not a Phoebe/hospital situation. I slapped on a Band-Aid that struggled to stick to my damp hand and texted Ros and Touch, hey—where are you??

Touch texted right back: hung up with show prep, be there as soon as I can

From Ros, there was no response.

At that point—with hardly any juice at all and our first injury of the night under our belts—I realized I’d bought evaporated milk instead of condensed, which led to me switching off the oven in the middle of baking the piecrust and heading out on my fourth trip to the grocery store that day. It would’ve been smart, on that trip, to buy more limes, but have you ever cooked dinner for seven people and stabbed yourself in the hand with a fork on the night you’ve set out to bowl your best friend over with your cooking skills and good looks? Your brain just kind of ceases to function.

When I got back from the grocery store, Ros and Touch still weren’t home.

Another text to Ros and Touch. ETA? Need risotto expertise!

Touch: hopefully out of here in twenty minutes

Ros: radio silence.

I had the pie filling done (it didn’t taste like much—I had three-quarters of the lime juice I was supposed to, but what was I going to do, go back to the grocery store?), but I’d forgotten to turn the oven back on, so the piecrust still wasn’t finished. I chopped onions for the risotto while I waited for it to bake, but they were so strong and the knife was so dull that the only way to keep from crying was by wearing a not-terribly-clear child’s snorkeling mask that I found in the basement while breathing through my mouth and hoping that no creative spiders had laid eggs in the mask’s rubber rim.

There came a knock at the door. It was Phoebe, holding an enormous bowl of green beans and garlic in one hand and two cases of LaCroix with her fingers. With. Her. Fingers. Talk about superhuman strength.

“Oh dear,” she said.

“It’s going badly,” I said, though through my mask it sounded more like bits boing badbee .

“I see that,” she said.

She put her stuff down onto the counter and surveyed the mess in the living room and then the kitchen, scowling at the puny lime rinds, the bloody paper towel, my floral hammer. The flour that I’d spilled. She cocked her head and sniffed the air.

“Is something burning?”

“ Diz it? I cabn’t really sbell—”

She pulled the smoking piecrust from the oven and set it onto the stovetop. I yanked the mask from my face. The pie’s edges looked like pumice.

“We’re screwed,” I said.

She cracked open a can of LaCroix, drank half, and rolled up her sleeves. “This,” she said, “is salvageable.”

She took over the kitchen while I worked on the living room, gathering all the trash into a bag, throwing shoes into the foyer, piling Touchstone’s sides and stacking them on the spiral staircase. In my frenzy I pierced my lower back on the corner of a slat of the staircase, which was so extremely painful I wondered temporarily if I had pierced a kidney. I pushed the chairs into a circle and formed a makeshift dining room table by pushing the antique trunk and coffee table together and draping it with a frog blanket for the tablecloth. I set seven places: seven pink wineglasses, seven knives, seven forks, seven napkins, seven plates.

“Was Snow White just constantly drenched in sweat?” I said, fanning myself with one of the pillows from the couch. “I know she had her animal friends helping her, but it’s not like they had opposable thumbs.”

Phoebe laughed. She never ceased to amaze me: In the time it’d taken me to overhaul the living room, she’d managed to scrape volcanic edges off the piecrust so it resembled something actually edible; chop the carrots and the rest of the onions for the risotto ( without the aid of goggles, mind you); put shrimp into a bowl of cool water to defrost; and arrange slices of prosciutto like little rose blossoms on a cutting board. She was sponging down the countertops as she went; the kitchen looked tidier and more organized than it had the day we arrived.

“Phoebe. How did you do this?”

“I like cooking,” she said. “My mom and I do it a lot. During the year I work in her restaurant after school.”

“Is there anything you can’t do? You’re a literal goddess.”

“Oh, I know. Go shower and get ready if you want. I can get the rice started—honestly, this much will probably take a while to cook.”

“No, no—it’s not your job—look, I’ll call Ros and Touch—”

“Celia. Go , before you develop heat rash.”

Under the thin stream of water, I tried my best to relax. I pictured the end of the night, tried to see it in my mind’s eye, like an episode of Power Jam . Ros would take a bite of their pie—the key lime pie, a labor of love I’d baked mostly for Oliver and only a little bit for them—and suddenly, in candlelight, they would see me in a new way, in a Cinderella dress that revealed all my curves and felt a lot like revenge and just a little bit like hope. Maybe, just maybe, if everything went according to plan, they would leave with their head spinning, wondering why they hadn’t gone for me when they had the chance.

Time worked in a funny way at Jess Orlando’s house.

It was as though her room were a vortex, one of those tourist traps where trees grew at strange, unnatural angles and clocks went haywire trying to keep good time.

Friday night, lying in bed, her skin against mine, I felt a buzzing, faint, in the distance—a vague sense I’d forgotten something.

“Holy shit,” Phoebe said when I emerged. “You look incredible.”

“Is it too much?” I said, smoothing the dress over my hips.

“It’s definitely a statement,” Phoebe said. “Spin. The fit is perfect. It’s like it’s made for you. Is this vintage? Where did you even get that?”

Before I could answer, the door to the Lily Pad swung open, and I felt my heart soar, anticipating Ros’s eyes on me—but it was only Touchstone and Audrey.

“Sorry we’re so late, we got totally hung up putting up scenery—whoa,” Touchstone said. “That’s a dress .”

“Thank you?”

“I just mean—that’s a dress ,” he said again.

“Yes, Touchstone, you’ve correctly identified the article of clothing I’m wearing.”

I kicked myself for being sharp with him. Since lunch the other day, even though I’d apologized, something still felt stiff between us. I kept thinking of the way my fingers froze around a tennis racket in the late days of fall, how I needed to blow on them and stretch them to warm them up.

“I just meant… you never wear dresses.”

“Oh my God, you look so pretty ! You too, Phoebe! Andrew, you didn’t tell me we were supposed to dress up,” Audrey said, looking back and forth between their outfits in dismay. Of course she looked incredible—she always did—her curly hair loose, in a long skirt printed with daisies and a tiny T-shirt, a sunflower tucked behind one ear. Touchstone had gone with his traditional shorts and T-shirt combo, the T-shirt a stunning blue-green color that reminded me of the color of the Lovesick Falls spring itself and brought out the gold tones in his hair.

“You only wear things with bibs ,” Touchstone said, whose brain seemed to have short-circuited.

“Should we go change? Andrew, do you have anything fancier than that?” Audrey said.

“There’s no dress code. You look perfect, both of you. I just got carried away, that’s all.”

“Full Celia Gilbert,” Touchstone said with a smile. I was relieved that he was finally able to talk about something other than my outfit.

“The good news is, I managed to sneak some wine from my parents’ stash,” Audrey said, pulling a bottle from her tote bag and shimmying her shoulders. “Let’s get this party started! Where’s your opener?”

“Here’s a better question,” said Touchstone. “Where’s Ros?”

A rap on the door came as if in response.

“Seriously?” he said, moving toward the door. “I know you’ve basically moved out , but it’s not like you have to knock , you still live here, you can just let yourself in like a normal person—oh. It’s you .”

The surprise in his voice was palpable, which meant it could be only one person at the door. I shoved Touch out of the way before he could say anything offensive about Power Jam and held the door open wide for Oliver, who was standing on the lawn in his glasses, pressed linen trousers, and a pink short-sleeve button-down, holding a plate of deviled eggs and looking a bit wary.

“I wasn’t sure I was in the right place,” Oliver said. “You look—wow, Celia. You look stunning.”

“What is he doing here?” Touchstone whispered to me as Oliver passed by us and walked into the house. “I thought tonight was supposed to be about us . You, me, and Ros.”

“You invited Audrey,” I said.

“Yeah, because you told me to, and as a friend ,” Touchstone said.

“Oliver’s my friend.”

“Tell him that,” said Touch, rolling his eyes.

“Is that my yeti friend?” called Phoebe.

Thank God for Phoebe over and over and over. She hugged Oliver like an old friend, popped a deviled egg into her mouth, and spent the next ten minutes insisting we all try them. Audrey uncorked her bottle of wine and poured it into the pink glasses for all of us except Oliver, who begged off saying he had to drive home and rehearse the next day (“Ooh, how responsible,” Touchstone muttered, which prompted me to kick him in the shin under the table, which probably hurt my bare toe more than it hurt Touchstone’s sharp-ass shin). The wine tasted a little funny to me—was wine really supposed to have that much of a sting ?—but I figured at the very least it would help me calm down, so I glugged a half glass and waited to feel more relaxed.

Oliver hugged me hello. He smelled amazing, like the outdoors—cedar and just the faintest hint of moss—and I let the hug linger for longer than I might have otherwise. I wished that Ros were there to see it.

“No wonder you dressed up,” Audrey whispered to me, throwing a dramatic, meaningful glance in Oliver’s direction.

I smiled, washed down another (delicious) deviled egg with another sip of (painful) wine, and didn’t bother to correct her, that the person I’d dressed up for wasn’t even here, that I was still waiting for them to come through the door and lose their mind at the sight of me.

The dinner.

Oh, God.

The dinner.

It’s Jess who remembers. She sits up in bed and throws a hand to her forehead.

“Oh, shoot,” she says, “wasn’t your friends’ dinner party tonight?”

It’s Jess who remembers, but it’s me who makes us rush. Quick, quick, as fast as we can: Clothes thrown on our bodies. Keys shoved in pockets. We ransack Jess’s pathetic pantry for contributions. We grow wings. Then we fly as fast as we can to the Lily Pad, hoping that we’re not too late.

By eight p.m., the rice was refusing to come together, the temperature had soared because I’d forgotten to turn the oven off, my arms hurt from risotto stirring, and Ros still hadn’t shown up.

Patience. Patience. Patience.

“So, Oliver,” Touchstone said, his teeth turned slightly purple with wine, “how does it feel to be on the worst show on television?”

“Andrew, why would you bring that up?” Audrey asked.

“Yeah, come on, man,” said Phoebe. “We haven’t even had dinner yet.”

“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before,” said Oliver. He turned to Touchstone. “You think you’re the first person to ask me that? Even I used to think it about my own show sometimes. You know, I originally wanted to do a Shakespeare festival this summer to prove I could be taken seriously—I wanted to put some distance between myself and Power Jam , to prove that I was better than the TV show. But now I think—well, I think that was kind of bad of me, honestly. Is Power Jam Citizen Kane ? No. But it’s a show that people show up for every day and work really hard on. That kind of care—that kind of investment—that’s love.” He took a sip of his water. “Besides, if all our fans are as thoughtful and kind as Celia, I think we’re the luckiest group of actors on the planet.”

“Oh, that’s so moving,” Audrey said.

“Truly touching,” muttered Touchstone.

I wished Ros had been there to hear it. I kept my eyes on my risotto. I highly doubted he would have the same take if he knew that part of the reason I invited him here was to make Ros jealous.

Jess drives us through the night, rolling through stop signs, her foot heavy on the gas.

“Should we make up an excuse? Something wild?” she says.

“Up to you,” I say.

“Do any of your friends know about our plan yet?” she asks.

I shake my head no.

“What are you so scared of? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“ I’m not scared,” I say. “I’m just worried about how Celia’s going to react.”

“If she really loves you, she’ll be happy for you,” said Jess, though I have a sneaking suspicion that the opposite may be true.

In what seemed like a peace offering, Touchstone offered to take Audrey and Oliver down to the river. It was like the whole house exhaled. Phoebe joined me over the pot of rice.

“How’s it going?” Phoebe said.

“Still badly,” I said.

“At least you’re not wearing a scuba mask.”

“No, but I’m not sure sequins are the most breathable fabric.”

“But you look fabulous. Um. Celia—I hate to ask, but is that dress from the Togshop? It’s really not a big deal, as long as it gets back. But because I’m the one who gave you the key…”

“ Oh ,” I said.

“I know you probably weren’t thinking,” Phoebe said. “And again, it’s a minor infraction, probably not a thing I’ll get in too much trouble for if they find out it’s missing, but…”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“It’s okay,” she said slowly.

“I’ll take it off right now.”

“You can keep wearing it—like—truly, you look incredible in it, and Ros should see you in it.…”

“It’s not worth it,” I said. “You’re you. And this is just a dress.”

“Thanks,” said Phoebe. She took a hard look at the risotto. “I mean, it definitely should be absorbing faster than that.”

She bent and peered beneath the pot.

“Aha!” she said. “I’ve figured out the problem!”

She clicked on the burner, and the flame caught. I left to change into my overalls, and by the time I got back, Ros had arrived.

Ros was sweating profusely. Their T-shirt was on inside out and backward. It was obvious they’d forgotten about the dinner party entirely and come in the middle of whatever—or whomever—they were doing.

They offered me a half-eaten bag of tortilla chips. “We brought you these,” they said, and they seemed to be breathless, gasping for air, like they’d sprinted all the way from Jess Orlando’s. “I’m so sorry we’re late.”

“You’re never going to believe this,” said Jess. “But the reason we’re late is that there was a wolf on my lawn!”

“ What ,” said Audrey, “Seriously!? Should I worry about the goats?”

“A wolf,” I said incredulously, looking right at Ros.

“There are wolves here?” Touchstone said.

“There used to be,” said Phoebe, “but that was a long time ago.”

“Maybe they’re coming farther south? I was reading this thing that as food sources become scarcer…,” Oliver said.

“Oh my God,” cried Jess. “I didn’t even notice you were here! Blade, again!”

I linked my arm with Oliver’s in a way that I hoped looked both natural and proprietary. I checked to see if Ros was taking note of our closeness, and much to my delight, they looked surprised to see the two of us behaving, albeit momentarily, as though we were together.

“Oliver, this is my friend Ros,” I said, adding a little extra relish to the word friend .

“Hi,” said Oliver, extending his hand to Ros, “I think we may have met at Lovers’ Lagoon. It’s a pleasure.”

Ros shook his hand and looked to me in disbelief—what on earth was I doing linking arms with Oliver Teller? I pressed myself closer to Oliver and hoped Ros took note of exactly what they were missing.

After that, for a moment, for one brief shining moment, everything was convivial. Sure, I’d had to change out of the Cinderella dress, but I was on Oliver Teller’s arm, and that seemed to be tickling some part of Ros’s reptilian brain the same way the Cinderella dress would have. Jess hounded Oliver about whether they were going to be renewed for a third season, told him about all the fan boards she participated in. Touchstone had taken over stirring the risotto, and Audrey and Phoebe were out on the porch, looking out over the river. The house was filled with the sounds and smells I had imagined. The dinner was happening; it was really happening.

And there was Ros.

“Hey,” they said, touching my free arm to pull me away from Oliver Teller. “I’m really sorry we were late.”

Their apology hung between us for a moment. I wanted to yell at them. I wanted to kick them in the shins, take them by the shoulders, say, What the fuck, we planned this, and you showed up with some bullshit excuse about a wolf when you were off having sex, which you already do, constantly, while I’m probably going to die a virgin . I wanted to say, I wore a dress for you, but you were too late to see it . I wanted to say, Maybe you don’t want me, but I thought at least we were friends .

Ros looked at me with their big amber eyes.

“I’m really, really sorry,” Ros said.

“You were late,” I said.

“I know,” they said.

My anger threatened to boil up and over. We’d planned this . We’d planned this, and they were late.

But I didn’t want to make a scene. I didn’t want to ruin the party. So I tugged on the tag of their T-shirt, the place where their chain used to be, and pushed my anger down the way we’d learned to press down coffee grounds in Henry’s french press.

“It’s fine,” I said. “Let’s just eat.”

No one was hungry. It was too hot, for one thing, and for another, we’d gorged ourselves on the deviled eggs and the artichoke dip and the cheese. Everyone managed a few polite bites, but for the most part the risotto sat in gluey lumps on our plates, developed a kind of skin-like sheen that reminded me of sci-fi movies—something horribly alien and natal.

I strategically squeezed myself next to Oliver, practically sitting in his lap, across from Ros and Jess and Phoebe, while Audrey and Touchstone took the head of the table. My elbow bumped Oliver’s every time I moved. No one wanted to eat, but we felt obligated to stay at the table, munching on Phoebe’s green beans with our fingers.

“How’s Abominable going?” said Audrey.

Oliver, Phoebe, and I groaned.

“It’s now called Snow Walker ,” Oliver said. “And it’s going to be fine. The lead actor has stopped bickering with the director long enough to learn his lines, so we’re in a much better place than we were a few weeks ago.”

“I heard they’re getting back together,” said Audrey.

“It does seem like that’s happening,” Oliver said. “But whatever’s going on with her, it seems her vision is finally coming together. She decided to stop taking the play so seriously and have more fun with it.”

“Have you learned all your lines?” I asked.

“Ook, ook,” Oliver said, and everyone at the table laughed, me the hardest and longest of anyone, and I lay my hand on his forearm to indicate just how funny I found him. Touchstone rolled his eyes at me dramatically. “See? The whole thing works much better as a comedy than it does a really serious play. There are still moments of emotional resonance, but overall it’s much lighter. It’s not the disaster I thought it was going to be.”

“ No ,” said Phoebe. “Now it’s just the costume that’s the disaster.”

I was legitimately shocked to hear the doubt in Phoebe’s voice.

“What are you talking about?” I said. “It’s going so well. Every time I see you, you’re over there sketching or coming up with a new prototype.”

“I mean, Phoebe’s a genius,” said Audrey. “We know this.”

“Yeah, well, it’d be great if some of that genius decided to show up,” said Phoebe.

“Wait,” I said. “Do you really think it’s going badly?”

“I’m just… I really shouldn’t be saying this in front of the actor, so just promise me you won’t remember this, okay, Oliver?”

I cupped my hands over his ears in what felt like a very ingeniously flirty move. Again, Touchstone shook his head at me, like he couldn’t believe my outlandish behavior. Ros, unfortunately, failed to notice; they were picking at their risotto, like they’d rather be anywhere else in the whole entire world.

“Um, Celia? You can stop,” Oliver said.

“Sorry!” I said, and let my hands trail along his shoulder. This time Ros saw, and I swear a flicker of disbelief crossed over their face.

“I just don’t know if it’s going to come together,” said Phoebe. “I’m so behind. Honestly, I feel a little bit like I’m being chased. We open so soon, and I have no idea how I’m going to get it all done. I know it’s this incredible opportunity, and I don’t want to let Benna down, especially now that she’s given me this chance. I’m just so disappointed in myself. I mean, sure, it’s not, like, awful . I just know that I can do better, and I can’t figure out how. It feels like there’s some missing ingredient I haven’t landed on yet. I mean—Oliver.”

I took my hands away from his shoulders.

“Did you feel, when you put it on, that you were fully the yeti?”

“Not yet,” he admitted.

“I believe you mean not yeti,” muttered Touchstone. It was the most disparaging I’d ever heard a pun sound.

“I really do think it’s going to come together, Phoebe,” Oliver said.

“I can help,” I said. “Seriously. Whatever you need. Just ask.”

“Thanks,” Phoebe said.

“She’s a good helper. Just ask Ros. They would have failed physics without Celia’s help. In some cultures, that’s known as cheating,” Touchstone said.

To this sudden barb, no one had any response—the room was full of the sounds of people half-heartedly eating their risotto. Touchstone reached for more wine; he was nearly finished with his second glass. He was in a mean mood, no doubt perturbed by Oliver Teller’s presence, and he seemed determined to cause a scene tonight.

“Can I ask about this house?” Oliver said.

“Please do,” I said, batting my eyelashes at him and hoping Ros noticed.

“It’s sooooo cool,” Audrey said. “It’s funny—I’ve lived here my whole life, but I never knew this little road was back here.”

“Me neither,” said Phoebe. “It’s so sneaky. Like a weird little hidden pocket.”

“I didn’t trust Touchstone when he told me this was the turn. I was sure we’d have to back out and keep going,” I said.

“Well, I’m jealous,” said Audrey. “Living in a house with your friends for three months? My parents would never let me do anything like this.”

“Seriously,” said Phoebe. “Talk about lucky.”

“We’re really lucky,” I agreed, resting my head on Oliver’s shoulder.

“We are lucky,” said Ros. “But we also have Celia.”

It was the first thing they’d said all dinner. Everyone turned to look at them.

“What do you mean?” said Oliver. I lifted my head to give them my full attention.

“I mean, like—we wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. Not just the dinner. But here, together. She organized the whole thing. Came up with the plan in like an entire afternoon. It was kind of amazing. She just, like… sprang into action.”

“It wasn’t that big a deal,” I said.

“You made a fully developed proposal with appendices,” said Touchstone.

“And gave a presentation,” said Ros. “That you practiced .”

“Which was ultimately unnecessary. They just sort of said yes.”

“Yeah, because they were saying yes to you ,” Ros said. “You think they would have let me and Touchstone come out here on our own? You’re the whole reason we’re here. You’re the whole reason we’re friends in the first place. So—yeah. We’re definitely lucky to be here. I mean that in every sense of the word. But we also have something that’s better than luck, and that thing is Celia.”

I felt it in my body, like the sun rising in my rib cage. Better than luck. Had there ever been a better compliment?

“Whose house is it?” said Oliver.