Crap. Ryan had no idea, truthfully; he’d been trying to work out what Columbia freshmen generally did at eight thirty on a Saturday night, and what Gabby might be doing along with them. “I was listening to the song,” he tried, gesturing up at the zitty dude in a top hat currently singing “Music of the Night” from his perch on top of a shiny red banquette. “This is a cool place.”
Chelsea rolled her eyes. “Are you still freaking out about Gabby?” she asked. “Is that what’s going on?”
“What?” Ryan asked, sounding like he was completely full of it even to his own ears. “No, of course not. And I wasn’t freaking out.”
“Then what is it, huh?” she asked. “It’s me; the whole point of this night is supposed to be that we’ve been together a whole year. You can talk to me. If something is bothering you, then . . .” Chelsea shrugged across the table, her hair frizzing around her face from the cold and the static, her mouth a bright lipstick red. “Just tell me about it.”
“All right.” Even as Ryan was saying it he knew it was a terrible idea, but it just came out, like word vomit. “Let me just shoot her a text, then, see how it’s going.”
“Just shoot—” Chelsea sighed. “Really?”
“You just said I could tell you!” Ryan protested.
“I—” Chelsea pressed her lips together. “You’re right,” she said. “I did; I’m sorry. Go ahead.”
Ryan set his phone on the table and spun it a little. “It’s just, the thing you gotta understand about Gabby is she’s never going to just ask for help or advice, even if she needs it. So you gotta just dig like a freaking archaeologist to find out what’s going on with her, and that’s the only time you find out that, like, she hasn’t eaten for two days because she has to give a class presentation or she’s obsessing about some awkward conversation she had in fifth grade or her whole relationship is in the shitter.” It felt good to talk about her, like lancing a blister or sneezing after you’d been holding it in. “So just because she was acting like a tough guy in the car doesn’t mean she’s not freaking out, is all.”
“Okay,” Chelsea said slowly. “I hear that. But meanwhile here I am sitting across this table from you, and you don’t need to be an archaeologist with me. I’m right here, and I’m telling you I don’t feel like I’m getting your full attention.”
“I know that,” Ryan said, trying not to sound irritated. “I’m paying attention to you. It’s just—I don’t know, it’s hard to explain.”
“What’s hard to ex— Are you in love with her?” Her features twisted unpleasantly; across the restaurant, Phantom of the Opera man was getting to his big finish. “I can’t believe I’m even asking you that. I can’t believe those words just came out of my mouth. I sound like a maniac. But I don’t actually think I am one.”
“Chelsea,” Ryan said. “Stop, no. Come on.”
“You come on,” Chelsea countered. He could tell by the tight, precise way she was modulating her voice that she was trying not to cry. “I have been so, so careful not to be, like, some crazy jealous stereotype of a girlfriend. And there have been lots of times my friends have given me crap about stuff and I’ve said, ‘No way, relax, Ryan loves me.’ But can you tell me honestly that all you feel for her is friendship?” Chelsea held her hands out, palms up and helpless. “Say that to me honestly, and I won’t ask you again.”
“Chels—” Ryan closed his mouth, opened it again. Closed it. He had no idea how to answer the question; every possible response felt like a lie. His feelings for Gabby were like a taped-up box in the back of his closet, ignored and unopened for so long he’d forgotten what was in there. Or, more accurately: he’d made himself forget. “It’s complicated,” he finally said.
Chelsea looked at him for a long moment, inscrutable. “Okay.” She pressed her lips together, like she was sealing a plastic bag. Then she reached for her coat. “I’m going to go,” she said. “We’re not that far from Grand Central. I can get a train back, okay? You can bring my overnight bag to school on Monday.”
“Chelsea—” Ryan started again, but Chelsea shook her head.
“Nope,” she said, holding a hand up. “Don’t even start.” She huffed out a noisy breath. “Because here’s the thing: I’m awesome. I know I’m awesome. And I think you know I’m awesome, honestly. I’m smart and I’m fun and I have a ton of friends and I’m probably going to make the swim team at college and rush a sorority and have a great life. I’m awesome. And I deserve somebody who never doubts for a second that there’s nobody more awesome in the room than me.” She looked at him for another moment. “I have really liked being your girlfriend, Ryan. But I’m not going to be in a relationship with somebody who has weird Facebook-status feelings for somebody else.” She stood up then, looking around the restaurant with pink cheeks and a slightly bewildered expression. “Yeah. Okay.”
Ryan watched her button her coat up and walk out of the restaurant, watched her hail a yellow taxi and climb inside. He knew he should have followed: fixed this, apologized, made some kind of declaration. But he couldn’t think what he could possibly say. Because Chelsea was right: she did deserve better. She deserved somebody who was 100 percent in.
Ryan watched until the taxi blended in with all the others on the avenue. Then he pushed his plate away and raised his hand for the check.
GABBY
Gabby hadn’t realized that spending the weekend with Shay apparently meant spending the weekend with Shay and Adria; the three of them ended up taking the subway downtown to go to Urban Outfitters and wait on a long line at a cupcake place that Adria said was the best, then back up to the dorm for a dinner of pizza and mashed potatoes and cereal in the cacophonous dining hall. After that they went back to Shay’s room to change their clothes before walking fifteen blocks in the freezing cold to Shay’s friend Carla’s off-campus apartment for a party. “I know you usually hate stuff like this,” Shay told her as they climbed a dingy, pee-smelling stairwell, “but I really want you to meet everybody. We won’t stay long. I’ll stick right next to you the whole time.”
Shay did not stick with her the whole time, actually; Gabby knew she meant to, but it wasn’t long before she got carried away by the flow of the party, leaving Gabby clutching a warm, sticky glass of wine and trying not to make a total ass of herself. She was listening to a couple of bro-type film majors talk seriously about Neil LaBute and contemplating mass homicide when Shay finally wandered back over, hooking her chin over Gabby’s shoulder in a gesture so familiar it almost stopped Gabby’s heart. “You ready?” Shay asked, lacing her fingers through Gabby’s and squeezing.
Gabby nodded eagerly, relief flooding her veins like some kind of powerful opiate. “Back to yours?” she asked.