8 Gemma
F or a second, I’m shocked to hear that Celeste knows about James. In my head, the two of them exist in separate universes. But we all went to the same school and had some of the same friends. Of course Celeste heard about him.
“Did Kayla tell you?” I ask.
“Yes. I still talk to her from time to time. She also told me you got engaged recently. Although I guess you aren’t anymore, since you were on a first date with another guy.”
In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised. It’s been several years since Kayla and I have had an actual conversation, but we still follow each other on social media, liking each other’s posts from time to time. And as her former roommate for two years, Kayla was always more Celeste’s friend than mine.
I let out a quick breath to reorient myself. My thoughts are all jumbled up together, but I start from the first thing Celeste mentioned and take it step by step. “You’re right. I did block you on social media. That was childish of me, and I apologize. I was young, and I was hurting a lot, and that’s the best way I could think of coping. And it’s true that I moved on quickly from you, I admit that. But, Celeste, you didn’t tell me you were coming back. You didn’t tell me anything at all, no matter how much I reached out in the first couple of months. The only reason I even knew you were still alive is because the little ‘1’ disappeared on KakaoTalk every time you read my messages.”
Celeste’s eyebrows knit together. For a moment, I think she’s going to keep being mad at me. But then she takes a deep breath and exhales softly.
“I’m sorry I ghosted you,” she finally says. “The first few months back were hell for me. My emotions were all over the place, and I was in so much pain that I lashed out at the people who loved me the most. It was to the point that my best friend in Seoul almost disowned me. Luckily, he didn’t, but I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and accidentally hurt you , too. In retrospect, I should have just said something simple like ‘Hi, I’m still alive. Will reach out later.’ Hindsight is a bitch. Other than that, well, I naively assumed…”
She trails off and downs the remainder of her beer.
“Assumed what?”
“It sounds so silly now, but I thought a few months wouldn’t be that big of a deal, since we promised we’d spend the rest of our lives together.”
My heart sinks. I almost want to stop Celeste from telling the rest of her story. But I don’t, because I need to hear this. I need to hear her side of what happened eight years ago.
“When things finally got better around April,” Celeste continues, “I felt weird replying to messages you’d left me months ago on KakaoTalk. So I tried to DM you on Instagram instead, but I discovered you’d blocked me. I reached out to Kayla, and that’s how I found out about you and James. It… absolutely broke me.”
Tears spring to her eyes, as if the memory alone is too much to bear.
My gut twists. Every excruciating emotion ranging from sadness to remorse rushes inside me.
All things considered, I don’t regret jumping into a relationship with James. I wouldn’t be who I am— where I am—without the choices I made in the last eight years. If I hadn’t moved up to San Francisco, I would have never met Val or Kiara, two friends I can’t even imagine my life without now. I would have never met Evelyn or any of my coworkers at Horizon . But I do wish things between Celeste and me hadn’t happened the way they did.
I regret hurting the person that was once the love of my life.
“I’m so sorry, Celeste,” I reply, because that’s the only thing I manage to say out loud. It’s my turn to drink.
“Hey, everyone, we’re the Irish Fighters!” announces the Dave Grohl look-alike onstage. “We’re usually a Foo Fighters cover band, but in the spirit of the holiday season, we’ll be bringing you some good ole holiday music, along with some crowd favorites that you’ll probably recognize. So, sing along, be jolly, and get drunk! Happy holidays!”
Cheers erupt from all around us. Celeste wipes away her tears and relaxes her shoulders. She looks visibly grateful for the distraction.
I also try to relax and take another sip of my beer.
“Are we good now?” Celeste asks when the people around us settle down. Her gaze is softer now, even though it’s still a little tense. “Or at least, good enough for us to work together? I don’t know about you, but to me, it sounds like we both fucked up. I mean, our frontal lobes hadn’t even fully developed yet, so I guess it’s not surprising. I’m willing to put the past behind us if you are, since I know this project is important for both you and me. I’d hate for what happened eight years ago to get in the way of it.”
Before I can even formulate a response, Fake Grohl shouts into his mic, “Let’s start off with a song I know you all know the lyrics to! Here’s ‘Mr. Brightside’!”
I groan and cover my face with my hands. A burst of laughter escapes from Celeste. I look up in time to see a small, knowing smile flash across her face before it disappears. She must remember how much I hate this song—because it’s so overplayed, no real offense to the Killers.
Drunken cheers fill the pub as the band plays the all-too-familiar opening riff. People start bouncing up and down, belting the lyrics and rendering all conversation impossible. A single song has somehow unified everyone at the Irishman’s Jig. Once-strangers now have their arms around each other’s shoulders as they scream-sing in unison.
As much as I hate “Mr. Brightside,” in this moment, I’m grateful for the song, because I have no idea how to answer Celeste’s question. We’re not “good,” but we’re no longer “bad,” either. My emotions were already a jumbled mess after the last several weeks. And our conversation only made things worse.
Celeste orders another round for us, and we both down our drinks. Before I even know what’s happening, she has her arm around my shoulders, loudly singing the chorus along with the rest of the pub. I roll my eyes, but I join in anyway, because of course, I’ve heard “Mr. Brightside” enough times to know all the lyrics. Even though I prefer “Somebody Told Me” over it any day.
The small building shakes from all the yelling. Celeste and I laugh as one drunk woman tries to stand up on one of the tables, only to be waved off by a waiter.
We get a few more songs and drinks in when suddenly, my stomach lurches. The ground spins beneath my feet, and I sit back down.
“I think I need to head home,” I hear myself saying. My own voice sounds far away, like it’s on the other side of a tunnel.
Celeste takes the beer glass from my hand and sets it down on the table.
“Okay,” she says, “let’s get you home. Where do you live?”
Even in my drunken state, I panic, realizing that if I tell her my current address, there’s a good chance that she and my friends will cross paths. Which is something I can’t deal with right now.
“I don’t know,” I lie.
Celeste’s eyes widen in concern. “You must be more drunk than I thought.”
Trying to tell her I’m fine, I get out of my seat and stand up, only for the ground to come rushing toward me.
“Gem!” Celeste grabs my arm so I don’t crash onto the floor. The sudden change in momentum makes me careen toward her. She grabs me before we hit each other, but not before my lips almost graze hers.
My eyes widen. Hers do, too. Celeste has gorgeous eyes, a rich, mocha brown that are several shades darker than mine.
I drop my gaze to her red-painted lips.
If I were sober, I would have pushed her away and wiped my mouth in disgust. If I were sober, I’d have even thrown salt behind my back.
But I’m not sober. And in this one moment, I really want to kiss Celeste.
So I do.