Austentatious

I was already there, so I answered.

“How about now?”

While this sort of surprise drop-in would have jolted my heart rate sufficiently to require resuscitation, Gabe took it in stride, turning in his chair, flicking his gaze to the phone in my hand, and finally shrugging.

“Works for me.”

Lunch with Gabe was comfortingly familiar, despite the fact that we’d mostly been dealing in teasing jabs and text messages ever since Sean and Beck had bulldozed themselves into our lives. One of us had gotten scooped up, one of us had gotten flattened—I hadn’t been the lucky one, and I didn’t want to talk about it.

“How is Beck faring with the Q and A?” I probed once we’d ordered.

“Is that all we’re ever going to talk about?” he countered, one eyebrow raised, swirling his iced tea with a straw.

“Right now it’s the most interesting thing about you,” I told him honestly. Surely he realized that Beck was a colorful force of nature.

“True,” he conceded. “Okay, fine. The most recent question, from potential match Jana, was ‘What two celebrities, living or dead, would you invite to dinner and what would you serve?’ ”

“Match-up’s answer?”

“Martha Stewart and Katie Couric. Pumpkin-sage ravioli.” Gabe’s opinion on this inspired a curled lip and a couple of quirked eyebrows.

I made a face. “And Beck?”

“Jane Austen and Colin Firth, buffalo wings, sweet potato fries, and coleslaw. And key lime pie.” Gabe shook his head slightly, whether in confusion or disbelief, or a combination of both, I couldn’t tell. But I could totally relate: It was downright mind-boggling how Ms. Austen was suddenly popping up everywhere. I wondered if her recent run-in with Fairy Jane had anything to do with Beck’s top picks.

“No contest. So things are going good, huh?”

With a rueful smile, he confided, “We’ve sort of decided to keep things ‘friendly’ until she graduates. And then we’ll see where it goes.”

“How friendly?”

“That’s a little personal, don’t you think?” He was giving me the eye, implying, I guessed, that he too could get personal.

“You’re right. Sorry.” I’d rather back down than deal with a possible trouncing later. “Whose idea was it to be ‘just friendly’ for another year plus?”

“Mutual. But I was just being chivalrous.”

“That’s admirable, Gabe. But if you step back, someone else is bound to step forward.”

His eyes held mine for a long moment before he came back with, “Is this the voice of experience talking?”

Refusing to meet his eyes, I answered quickly, “You could say I have some recent experience in stepping away.” Suddenly parched, I reached for my lemon water and gulped.

Gabe’s eyes speared me. I couldn’t tell if he was still playing the chivalry card or if he was busy deciding how best to broach the subject of Sean. I broke under the pressure.

“Sean and I are done. Turns out, he’s from Scotland.” I sounded bitchy without intending to.

Faced with Gabe’s puzzled stare, I widened my eyes and nodded.

“Seriously? You didn’t know that?” he said. “They’re a Scottish band, Nic—they’re an import.”

“Yeah! I know that now.” The bitchy just kept on coming. “I assumed that they were originally from Scotland and were inexorably drawn to the sunny weather and quirky melting pot lifestyle of this, the Live Music Capital of the World!” After this little tirade I promptly shut up, pressed my lips together, and fought against the onslaught of tears.

“Aw, Nic. It never occurred to me that you didn’t know. Then again, maybe I’m off my game—I’m still reeling from the news that The Plan is waving the white flag. I’m planning a victory parade. With baton twirlers and marching bands.”

I could see the tears edging my lashes, but Gabe managed to lure a smile out of me without one falling.

“I thought about resurrecting it, but it didn’t take.”

“Thank God.” The sentiment came punctuated with a sympathetic smile.

Our food showed up rather conveniently at that moment, and we each concentrated on keeping our mouths full for a very long time.

I’d expected to feel a sense of relief to have my life back on my own terms, but ironically, I was constantly cranky and on edge, overwhelmed by the feeling that everything was just “off.”

I’d set the calendar back on the counter on Wednesday morning, the front page curiously current with the day’s date. I can only assume that the displayed quote, “ ‘Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love.’ Northanger Abbey,” was largely what compelled me to agree to go to dinner with Laura and Leslie. Only a bit of quick thinking saved me from untold awkwardness—I invited Beck to tag along. As far as I knew, the Ls were unaware of Sean’s sudden disappearance, but it was bound to come out over dinner, and I was relieved to have a little backup. Beck agreed to swing by early to get the whole story.

Hunkering down at the kitchen table, we dove right in.

“Wow. So he just left? And you just let him?” Beck was obviously as crushed as I by the fairy tale gone awry.

“We hit a snag,” I reminded her. “It was all I could handle when he was a phone call away. A continent is out of my league.”

Leaning toward me, eyes wide, she whispered, “What does Fairy Jane have to say?”

“Plenty. And none of it helpful.”

Her eyes grew impossibly wider, but glancing at the clock, realizing we were already running late, I pulled the journal and the key out of hiding and hustled her out the door as she queried, “Why do you still own maroon bridesmaid pumps?”

In the pale glow of twilight, under the spotlight of streetlamps, Beck turned the key. And judging from the sparkle in her eyes, she was thoroughly enchanted. Making one of us. I indulged her as long as I dared, but eventually we had to step away from the magic and into the restaurant. And mum was most definitely the word.

Leslie took Beck’s appearance in stride, promptly putting out feelers as to the nature of our relationship. I could tell she was optimistic that our “friendship” would mutate into something more to her liking eventually.

Shortly after dispatching that topic, Leslie’s trademark “touch of crass” invaded the dimly lit elegance of our little corner of Chinatown, hitting on the subject I’d most been dreading. “I haven’t heard the roar of a motorcycle on a booty call recently. Trouble in paradise?” Beck’s eyes flitted toward me in silent shock, and I smiled blandly, hoping to convey that as chats with Leslie went this was relatively tame.

“Paradise lost,” I confirmed matter-of-factly. “Well, technically I suppose not lost, just out of range.”

Laura gaped at me, and Beck’s eyes were sad. Rather than look at them, I let my eyes blur, watching the candlelight flicker and wink. For a single exquisite moment, even Leslie was stunned speechless.

She quickly recovered.

“Is it possible you’ve decided to transfer your name to another team’s roster?” Across the table, Leslie’s eyes were twinkling with mischief.

“For God’s sake, Les! Give the lesbian press-gang tactics a rest, will you?” Laura turned back to me oozing supportiveness, clearly waiting for the story.

“That can’t be your actual team name,” I insisted, tongue firmly in cheek. No reaction.

The arrangement of Leslie’s lips put me in mind of an old-fashioned snap-closure coin purse. Her eyes were snapping too. I optimistically assumed it was with amusement. And judging by her eventual response, she wasn’t holding any sort of grudge.