Page 25 of I'm Not Done with You Yet

“Holy shit,” Ani says. “Girl, if you don’t take him, I will.”

Thalia laughs. “Jesus, is he even real? Those eyelashes.”

“Fuck his eyelashes, look at his biceps! That jawline, oh man. I could bite him. And I’ve been to Vin+. That place hementioned he owns? It’s so trendy and like, just so chic.” Ani narrows her eyes. “Seriously, are you gonna go with him? ’Cause if you aren’t, then I am.”

Thalia bites down on her lower lip, her eyes shining with something—laughter? Desire? Then she says, “You hardly know him, you tramp.”

They both laugh. My heart is thundering, hammering against my rib cage. This conversation can’t be happening. I want to scream. They both look at me like they’ve just remembered that I’m there. Oh, it’s you. Our hanger-on. “What do you think, Jane?” Thalia says kindly.

I shrug. “He seems okay.”

“Okay?” Ani squawks. I really hate her. “OKAY? Girl, are you blind? Have you seen his face?”

I press my lips together and don’t say anything. Ani turns her face toward Thalia and rolls her eyes. I don’t know if she meant for me to see it. It makes me feel like shit. Thalia is for sure not going to invite me out again after this. The thought spurs me to say, “Yeah, I guess he’s good-looking.”

“Fuck yeah he is!” Ani says.

Thalia grins. “He really is ridiculously handsome, isn’t he?” And then she shushes us and I turn to see Antoine walking back with a tray of wine, smiling that smile that has no doubt dazzled hundreds of women, and I wonder, fleetingly, if I could push him off the roof. Only four stories up, but they’re tall stories. His skull versus the cobblestones. I’d put money on the cobblestones.

Then he’s sitting down, again between me and Thalia, always between the two of us, his masculine presence thick and suffocating. I’m being squeezed out and I hate him, I truly do. I pick up one of the wineglasses and take a long, deep gulp. They talk andlaugh and drink, Ani and Thalia gazing at him with shining eyes, laughing at his every word. At some point, another guy joins us, another Frenchman, pleasant to look at, though not quite as shiny. Good enough for Ani, who’s pleased that she’s got a Frenchman for herself; it had become clear very quickly that Antoine was only interested in Thalia.

I sit on the edge of the circle, gulping down wine so I don’t have to make conversation. My head is heavy, the voices coming from all sides around me, a maddening circle of noise. There’s no place for me here. Later, as we lurch back to Pemberton, Thalia clinging to Antoine’s strong arm as she stumbles over the cobblestones, I wonder who I should get rid of first: Antoine or Ani?

As it turns out, I get rid of neither. The days march on, the skies turn from late-summer gold to a dreary gray, and still I do nothing. We’ve slumped into a comfortable routine. Classes, coursework, tea and scones. Sometimes, Thalia and I write together at a café, our fingers flying over our respective keyboards. There’s just something about her presence that ignites the words inside me, and I like to think it’s the same for her, that part of her aches for me in the same way and spurs her to write too.

But then classes end for the day and she disappears, leaving me with nothing but her lingering scent—mulberries and smoke—and the remnants of her hastily written scenes. While I’m left alone, replaying bits of our conversation over and over, I know she’s out there with Antoine and Ani and Olivier. I know, because I often follow them, hiding behind trees and statues like a fucking creep.This is what you’ve done to me, Thalia. This is what you’ve made me do.

I should stop, I know I should, but I can’t. Not yet. And it’s not even like I’m the only pathetic one. Really, I’m not the worst out of all of us here. Ani is, because I know for sure she’s not even that into Olivier. I can tell Ani’s going along with it because it’s the only way she gets to spend time with Thalia. Because in the end, that’s what we’re all vying for, isn’t it? Time with Thalia. I bet Olivier, too, is secretly in love with Thalia. As I observe from behind a statue of whatever dead white guy, I often catch little looks of derision from Ani, as though she’s wondering why the hell she’s putting up with a greasy Frenchman like Olivier. She must know she got the short end of the stick; but maybe that’s favorable to ending up like me—left out, single, alone.

But I am patient. I know Thalia well enough to know that she will soon tire of Antoine. He’s just so wrong for her. That first night, they’d fallen under his spell, that heady mixture of French accent (Dis eez ah-may-zeeng, eez it not?No, Antoine, it fucking is not.) and impossibly blue eyes. But I’ve gone out for meals with them twice more now—pity meals, I think, that Thalia invited me to only because she has a heart of gold and can’t stand to see me suffer—and it’s become painfully obvious that he is so wrong for her. He doesn’t understand her sparkling wit; whether it’s because of the language barrier or because he’s a moron, I don’t know or care, but he doesn’t appreciate her for her brilliance. The only thing they share is physical lust, and while it makes me want to rip my skin off, it’s also a relief because how long can lust last?

She’ll get sick of him soon. She will. She must.

But the days tromp on, and now we’re in proper winter wear. Ani has gotten rid of Olivier and moved on to Geraldo, and then to Jason, and still Antoine hangs around, a wart that refuses toget gone. I want to grab Thalia and shake her. What is it, Thalia? What’s stopping you from seeing the truth? That you can do so much better? He calls herma chérie, and I do believe any judge would acquit me for stabbing him in the ear just for that alone.

Then one day, on a quiet, dark November morning, all of us fed up with the lack of sunlight, glumly sipping our coffee in Haygrove Hall, Ani says the words that would bring our Oxford days to a bloody end: “My brother’s coming for a visit.”

13

Present Day

New York City

As it turns out, SusPens Con is a lot bigger than I had previously thought. It’s at the Javits Center, a behemoth of a building made of glass and steel with an aura that makes me think of ancient stadiums built for bloody fights. Or maybe I’m just in a dark mood. What else is new? When I finally went back to the hotel room last night, I’d told Ted that Toni took me to a fancy dinner and we talked shop all night, and then I’d immediately gone into the bathroom so he wouldn’t ask me too many questions. This morning, he’d had the audacity to ask if there was a ticket for him as well. I only just managed not to laugh in his face. A ticket for him as well. As if. He, the man who reads one book every five years, thinks he should get a ticket to SusPens Con just because... what?

As I got dressed, carefully applying makeup in the bathroom mirror, Ted had leaned against the doorframe and watched me. Leaning against the doorframe is something I read about a lot ofmale love interests doing in books, but when Ted did it, all it did was make me nauseated. I wanted to shove him out of the doorway.

“You look nice,” he said in a tone of voice that made the back of my neck crawl.

I glanced at him before muttering, “Thanks.” I have given a lot of thought to what I should wear when I see Thalia. I’ve fantasized about this way too many times to count. One of my biggest fears is that I would bump into her while I’m running an errand in sloppy jeans and a tea-stained T-shirt. Now that I’m actually getting the luxury of prepping before seeing her, I need to make sure that I look as flawless as I can.

My outfit was designed to take us back to our Oxford days—a mustard yellow dress that ends just above my knees paired with black tights, brown booties, and a black cardigan. As a finishing touch, I put on the diamond necklace to perk up the otherwise dark fall colors. Or should I say, dark Michaelmas colors? I wonder if she’ll notice.

“I haven’t seen you wear that necklace before, wow,” Ted said, coming inside the bathroom and tracing it with his index finger. At some point in time, my husband’s touch must have warmed me. Or at the very least it must not have repulsed me. But now all I can do is remind myself not to flinch.

It was a relief to get out of that hotel room. I told Ted I was running late and rushed out, only to finish doing my makeup at a Starbucks bathroom. Of course, now that I’m actually at the Javits Center, I feel simultaneously under- and overdressed. There are people here who look like they’re ready for New York Fashion Week, and then there are others who are schlepping it in baggy jeans and shirts, and I should feel happy with my outfit,but I just want to tear it off because it isn’t good enough, and just what the hell was I thinking, coming out here?

I stand outside of the convention center, watching people streaming in and out. Their bright red tickets hang from their necks, and part of me wonders if I could just reach out and snatch one off. I gnaw on my lower lip and pace back and forth. What do I do? Can I steal inside? Or—ah, I know. I’ll approach one of the people coming out of the convention center and offer to buy their ticket off them. Yes! That’s perfect, because presumably they’re coming out of the thing because they’re done anyway, right? Right.

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