A Tragic Kind of Wonderful. Eric Lindstrom

See you in twenty.

      “There,” I say to HJ. “Happy? I’m going out with friends. Friday Night Binge with my One True Love is postponed.”

      “Just friends, huh? It’s a start.” She stands tall and faces me, head cocked to the left, chin up—she knows her good angles. “Verdict?”

      I smile. “Amazing. The world is not prepared.”

      “Damn right, it’s not. I’m going to reel in a good one tonight, you’ll see.”

      I gesture vaguely. “Especially if you go out in just the bra and panties.”

      She puts her hands on her hips and winks. “Plan B.”

      As we head out of the bathroom, my phone vibrates again. A text from Annie this time.

       You home? I’m out front.

      Huh? I open the door and peek out. A gleaming white car, something fancy, is parked facing the wrong way at the curb. I see silhouettes of people behind tinted windows.

      The car’s front passenger door opens. Annie appears.

      Her sense of style has grown up some but still includes buttoned collared shirts and the French braid she’s always worn.

      She says, “You didn’t call me back.”

      Does she think her disappointed tone means something to me? Or does she not even know she does it?

      My heart’s pounding anyway. Not from her tone, but from her being here at all. It can’t be good. She walks to the trunk as it slowly opens with a hiss.

      I step out onto the porch. “What do you want?”

      Annie picks up a cardboard box the size of a microwave, and then she closes the trunk gracefully with one hand. She walks along the sidewalk and up to meet me without cutting across the grass. She doesn’t look remotely sick. She looks done up—beautiful, even. But supposedly so was Lucifer.

      “I have something to give you before we leave town.”

      “To Connecticut?”

      I’m not sure why I feel the need to tell her I know this. I’ve never liked how competitive she is, or how competitive I sometimes became when around her.

      “Paris.” She smiles.

      She doesn’t sound sarcastic. It seems like one of her self-important pronouncements.

      “Why’d you tell Zumi and Connor you were going to your uncle’s?”

      “We are, until we find our own place. He lives in Paris now.”

      “Your own place? You’re not coming back?”

      Annie holds out the box. “Here.”

      I cross my arms. “What’s in it?”

      “Mostly Zumi’s stuff. Some of Connor’s.”

      A loud hum from the car makes me jump. The driver’s window lowers two inches.

      “Annie,” her mom says impatiently.

      The window slides closed again. The skin down my neck and back tightens.

      Annie rattles the box. “Are you going to take this?”

      “Why don’t you give it to them?”

      She sighs and sets it down on the porch.

      I get it. Annie lied about being sick to keep Zumi and Connor away, so they wouldn’t see her family packing. It strikes me that Annie and I have both lied to them about being sick in order to hide something.

      I say, “You’re not going to tell Zumi?”

      Annie’s eyes roll. It’s genuine and crude—not one of her poised, choreographed looks. Then she walks backward toward the car and points at the box. “She can sort out what’s hers and what’s Connor’s.”

      Something about this doesn’t add up.

      I drop my arms. “Why didn’t you just mail this?”

      “I thought you and I could be friends again someday. When we grew up. After everything blew over. Maybe we still can?”

      She looks for something in my eyes. Whatever it is, she’s not going to find it. I’m not her minion anymore. I wouldn’t follow her if I was lost and she knew the way to heaven.

      “Guess it wasn’t meant to be,” she says, pouting her lips. It almost seems sincere. Then she shrugs. “C’est la vie.”

      “So …” I say, trying to wrap my head around this. “You’re just leaving?”

      Annie cocks her head. “Already sold the house.” She pats the hood of the car. “And the Beamer. All we have to do is drop it off. Plane leaves in three hours.”

      “You have to at least say good-bye—”

      “I am saying good-bye—”

      “To someone who cares. You …” I swallow. “You know how Zumi feels about you.”

      Annie shrugs. “I know how I feel about her.”

      I clench my fists. “God, you’re unbelievable. What would it cost you to tell her you’re sorry you have to go?”

      “Wow, Mel … it’s been a while since I’ve seen you this worked up. Don’t waste it trying to protect someone you’re not friends with anymore. Someone who hates you.”

      Annie opens the car door.

      I step down off the porch. “You really came here thinking … what? That I’d want to see you again? You don’t care about anybody. At least now Zumi will finally believe it.”

      “She’ll get over it. You did. Au revoir.”

      The instant she closes the door, the car accelerates away and turns the corner without slowing at the stop sign.

      I sit down hard on the porch next to the box. I can’t look at it.

      Ten minutes later the front door opens.

      “Mel?” HJ says. “Something wrong?”

      Only that I gave away Zumi, my best friend, to someone she wanted more, walked away, watched the bridges burn, and now it was all for nothing.

      “Mel?”

      I can’t explain it. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t know where to begin.

      

      HAMSTER IS RUNNING

      HUMMINGBIRD IS FLYING

      HAMMERHEAD IS CRUISING

      HANNIGANIMAL IS DOWN/MIXED

      Midway through the movie I look around again. I can’t say there’s not a dry eye in the house since only half of them are dripping. The rest are dry and distant, from rolling or from thousand-mile stares. Declan is slouched so far down I doubt his butt is on the seat cushion. Holly never slouches and her expression is less slack-jawed, but she’s restless like when she’s bored and trapped.

      They’d pulled into the driveway while HJ was trying to get me to talk—I’d completely forgotten they were coming. I ran the box inside, hid it in my closet, ran back out, and tried to act like nothing happened. I didn’t feel like Movie Roulette anymore but couldn’t cancel now without explanations I wasn’t willing to give.

      I hoped the movie might stop the conversation with Annie from looping in my head. It’s too