Definitely, Maybe in Love

cutting off circulation to my feet.

Almost out of obligation, I stood.

When he saw me, Henry Knightly’s expression barely changed. There was a hint of mild surprise in his eyes, but otherwise, he seemed unfazed.

A more fainthearted person would have walked away and made a beeline for the nearest keg. But I never cowered from a challenge. As I wove around the tables, nearing him, Knightly pulled his hands from his pockets and took a step back, giving me a wide berth.

“Snakes,” I said, when I was close enough that I knew he could hear.

He tilted his head like he was listening to a child. “Pardon?”

“Just so you know, referring to someone who loves the planet as a tree-hugger is just about the lamest thing I’ve ever heard. This isn’t nineteen-eighty.”

“Loves the planet,” he repeated slowly.

“That’s correct,” I said. “And I’m so sorry you haven’t met anyone hot. Especially someone who isn’t a phony, right?” When he didn’t speak, I shook my head in dismissal and turned away, spotting Mel heading in my direction. “And here’s a piece of advice,” I threw in as I started backing up, “be careful whose opinion you trust.”

“Springer, I have to tell you—”

“Shhh,” I hissed, looping my arm through Mel’s and leading her away from the scene. By the time we reached the bar, I’d told her everything.

“So, to recap,” she said, grabbing a Diet Coke from a tub, “the guy thinks your braids are repulsive.”

“He called them snakes,” I confirmed and took a sip from her can.

“And you care because…?”

“I don’t.” I stroked one of my precious blond ropes between my fingers. “The guy’s toxic, just like Lilah. They’re a perfect couple. You should’ve seen him, standing there with his arms crossed, pinned to his body like he was in a straightjacket. Probably afraid to touch anything that wasn’t properly sterilized.”

I kicked an empty plastic cup that bounced my way.

“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.