Chapter 22
FELIX
It has been two days since I went on that motorcycle ride with India. Two days since I last saw her.
And I can still feel her in my arms.
This, obviously, is problematic. My emotions are all over the place—I’m fine one second and off-kilter the next. I was going to text Cyrus this morning to ask him about something completely unrelated to India, but I was worried he’d ask how things were going with her, so I didn’t.
I’m avoiding my best friend, just because I’ve been hanging out with his sister. I haven’t even done anything wrong. I haven’t kissed her or hugged her or asked her out. I’ve done nothing.
But I still feel guilty.
I’m going crazy. That’s what’s happening here. That’s the only reasonable explanation for what I’m experiencing.
Because I don’t like her. I don’t want to date her. Of course I don’t. She’s Cyrus’s sister. She’s too young. She’s not my type.
At this, two things pop into my head: the memory of India digging through her toolbox in her garage, and the thought I had weeks ago when I was first trying to convince her to help me.
I’m much more interested in the spark—the x-factor—than a prescribed list of characteristics.
I remember thinking that, and it was true at the time. But I’ve changed my mind. So what if I have a spark with someone? That doesn’t mean anything. I could have a spark with lots of women. There still need to be other factors in place.
Like the woman in question needs to not be India Marigold.
I grimace in irritation as I drop my bag on the floor next to my desk. The chair squeaks when I sit down in it, and somehow that annoys me too.
I just think it’s stupid, this online dating thing she wants to try—that’s all. Yes, I sent her a list of pick-up lines, but she can do so much better than giving access to any weirdo with an internet connection. Besides, how much can you really get to know a person without meeting them?
If I had a sister, I wouldn’t want her to join a dating site. So it makes sense that I don’t think it’s a good idea for India, either. She needs someone she can be with in the real world—someone who will buy her carrot cake and take her for a run when she needs to let off steam. She needs someone who will understand that she hates being vulnerable, someone who will answer the questions she wants to ask but is too afraid to for fear of revealing how much she cares.
Those aren’t qualities you can find on a dating site questionnaire. There’s no database for that sort of thing.
“Felix?”
“What?” I snap without thinking.
“Uh, Herb wants to start our meeting,” poor Donnie says—one of the two current interns, a timid guy with gangly limbs and giant glasses. He fiddles with his hands as he stands next to my chair.
“Sorry, Donnie,” I say tiredly. “I didn’t mean to snap. I was spacing out.” I glance over at the open door on the far side of the office where I know everyone is gathered, chatting. “I’m coming.”
Donnie nods, but he still looks a little skittish as he hurries back over to the table.
Crap. I need to get it together.
So I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, forcing India Marigold and her dating woes out of my mind. It’s none of my business who she dates or how. She can do whatever she wants, and I’ll support her the same way I would support any other friend of mine who wanted to date some creeper they met online in a random chatroom full of potentially seedy men.
I wince; I’m going to need to work on that mindset a little bit.
“Sorry,” I say to Herb after I enter the room and take a seat at the table. “I didn’t mean to hold us up.”
“No problem, no problem,” he says, waving his hand jovially at me. He appears to be in an especially good mood—I cannot relate—as he smiles around at us. “Since Felix is with us now, we’ll go ahead and get started.” He breaks off, shuffling sideways to the edge of the whiteboard, which is turned around for some reason—we’re all looking at the hardboard backing. “Veronda?”
From across the table, Veronda nods eagerly; then she hurries out of her chair and up to the front, where she takes a spot on the other side of the whiteboard.
“We are thrilled to present to you,” Herb begins, and then he and Veronda begin turning the whiteboard to face the group again, “the official outline for our upcoming TV spot!”
There’s a smattering of semi-enthusiastic applause, which Herb eats up; his smile grows impossibly brighter as he and Veronda get the board in its proper position. Then he points to the large words he’s written in fading green marker: HISTORY OF THE FOUR-LEAF GAZETTE. This heading is in the center of the board, a little lopsided, the handwriting becoming smaller by the time Herb got to the end of writing it. Coming off the heading are several more ideas, all of them surrounding the original: First mayor elected; Bicentennial Pageant; Estes Park earthquake; 1952 presidential campaign.
It’s the Bicentennial Pageant subheading my eyes linger on as a vague sense of unease creeps over me.
“This idea was presented by Veronda, and I think you’ll all agree it’s perfect—a history of our little paper, viewed through the lens of some of the things we’ve covered. From our first mayor to natural disasters to celebrations”—Herb taps each item in turn—“we’ve got a bit of everything here.”
“Why the 1952 election?” someone asks, and Herb bounces on the balls of his feet.
“That was the year that Dwight D. Eisenhower made Denver his campaign headquarters,” he says with excitement. “Our noble predecessors did a whole feature about it.”
A couple nods, a couple murmurs, and then Herb speaks again. “Anyway,” he says, “this is what we’re going to do. Veronda is going to start drafting our script”—Veronda smiles broadly, smoothing her hands down the front of her tweed dress jacket—“and I want Felix and Marsha on archive duty. Pull anything related to these topics, and we’re open to adding a few more if you think of something, aren’t we?” He looks at Veronda, who nods. “I’d like everyone else tracking down any sources that are still around, anyone who contributed to these stories, to see what they think about the story being retold. And content for the upcoming issue needs to be finalized soon,” he finishes, “so get all your other pieces in by deadline, please.” Then, turning his gaze to all of us, he adds, “Thoughts?”
It’s clear he’s not actually asking for our thoughts; he’s just waiting for our agreement. I nod dutifully, as do the rest of the group. It’s a good thing I’m almost done with the Lucky is for Lovers piece.
Almost done with the piece; almost done with asking India for help. I sigh and rub my temples, and when Herb dismisses us, I’m one of the first back to my desk.
By the time I head to my car at the end of the day, I’m exhausted, and I have no idea why. I trudge through the little parking lot with feet barely leaving the ground; I slump into the driver’s seat and let my head fall forward to rest gently on the steering wheel.
I need a nap. Or a run. Maybe both.
Unfortunately, neither of those options is available to me at this precise moment, unless I want to run home in my work clothes. So as I turn over the days’ events in my mind, I make a phone call instead.
I don’t call Poppy a ton; if we need to talk, we usually text. But I’m driving, and this isn’t a conversation I want to have texting anyway.
The phone rings twice before she picks up.
“Hey,” she says when she answers.
“Hey,” I say, and I’m suddenly weirdly nervous. Why am I calling her, again? For advice? That feels unnecessary, doesn’t it?
I speak anyway. “Uh, do you have a second?”
There’s a beat of silence, and then she says, “Yeah, sure.” Her voice is unmistakably curious. “What’s up?”
“Is Cyrus with you?”
“No,” she says, and I can hear the eye roll in her voice. “Contrary to popular belief, we are not always together.”
“Good,” I say, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. “Good.” But when I don’t say anything else, she tsk s.
“Are you gonna talk? What’s this about, Felix?”
“Uh, right. Okay. So.” I clear my throat. “There’s this thing happening at work. We’re doing a program on the history of the paper, sort of.”
“Okay,” Poppy says slowly.
“Yeah. And so we’re bringing in different features we’ve done over the years. And one of the things we covered years ago was the Bicentennial Pageant. I was one of the ones who covered it, actually. Back when I was interning.”
“Okay…?”
I take a deep breath and go on. “And I’m worried that something might come up about the—ah—the wardrobe malfunction that happened in the Peter and the Wolf dance.”
There’s another beat of silence from Poppy, but this time when she answers, I can tell she finally understands where our conversation is going.
“ Oh, ” she says, drawing the word out.
“Yeah,” I say. “And there was a time not so long ago that I actually threatened to tell everyone who that was if India didn’t help me with the article?—”
“Felix,” Poppy says, her voice full of disapproval. “That’s low.”
“I wouldn’t actually do it,” I say quickly. “And I told her that later. It was dumb. I shouldn’t have said it. But my point is ,” I go on, speaking louder because she shows signs of interrupting, “that now this has come up at work, and I’m a little concerned.”
“Yeah,” she says with a snort. “You should be. India cried for a week after that happened. You’d better lie if anyone asks about who it was.”
“I know,” I say. “I will, obviously. I’m just—” But I break off, because I don’t know how to explain.
“Just…?” Poppy prompts, and there’s something in her voice I don’t like.
“I don’t know,” I say defensively.
“You like her,” she says. “You like her, and you don’t want her to be embarrassed or upset.”
“Sure, I like her.” The words are uncomfortable as I go on, “She’s a great friend.”
“She is,” Poppy agrees, “but that’s not what I meant, and you know it. You like her. You have romantic feelings for her.”
“Of course I don’t.” I hesitate. “She’s off-limits.”
“Those things are not mutually exclusive,” Poppy says—sounding far too reasonable, I might add. “You can have feelings for someone who’s off-limits. I also happen to disagree about that part.”
My heart ticks up in speed. “About which part?”
“The off-limits part. I don’t think she’s off-limits, as long as certain conditions are met.”
Something deep inside of me jumps, hopeful, eager to hear more.
“Such as?” I try very hard to sound as though I’m only vaguely interested in her opinion. Casual—that’s what I am. I am casually asking a casual question, the casual answer to which probably has no bearing on me anyway.
“ Such as if you were ever to pursue India, she would have to be your endgame. You could not pursue her lightheartedly. Ever.”
“Obviously,” I say without thinking. “But some things you can’t tell until you’re actually with someone.”
“I agree. You would have to weigh the pros and cons,” Poppy says. “Is the possibility of being with her worth the risk of Cyrus’s wrath if things go south? Is it worth potentially messing up whatever friendship you and she already have in place? Those are questions you would need to ask yourself.”
“I don’t like her romantically,” I say again, a parrot repeating the same thing over and over.
“Of course,” Poppy says sarcastically. “My bad. You’re friends. You feel the same way about her that you feel about me.”
My nose wrinkles without my permission. I smooth out my expression at once and thank my lucky stars Poppy can’t see me.
“Tell me,” she goes on after a second. “How did you feel when I said that just now? Did it feel gross to consider me the same way you consider India?”
What—now she’s psychic?
“I didn’t—it isn’t—” But I break off. Then, finally giving up the act, I sigh. “I don’t know if I like her, okay? I don’t know.”
“Well, you’d better be sure if you make a move.”
“I know,” I say heavily. “I know.”
But when I get home and slump down on my bed, racking my brain for my next step forward, I can’t help but feel like I don’t actually know anything at all.