Chapter 6. Lenore
Lenore
My stomach flip-flops like a pancake on a griddle as I make my way over to the corner booth. My eyes dart around the different faces at the table, taking quick stock of everyone.
Callan looks good. A faded black T-shirt is snug across his chest beneath a buffalo check flannel that he’s left unbuttoned.
His hair is clean with that natural wave to it, an espresso-dark lock falling loose across his brow.
He’s sitting at the edge of the booth, his feet planted wide so that one jean-clad knee sticks out into the aisle.
A striking red-haired woman sits shoulder to shoulder with him. Her wide-set blue eyes and upturned nose lend her an almost ethereal look—like she cropped up in the middle of one of those fairy rings that grow in the woods.
Are they together? The specter of jealousy passes through me, turning my insides cold.
He’s not interested, I remind myself. I’ll forever be his best friend’s little sister, but he cared enough to invite me out tonight as a friend.
Cal rises from his seat. “Glad you could make it,” he says, lifting an arm toward me for a hug, which we’ve never done before.
I move in, expecting it to be fast and awkward, but instead he pulls me snug against the solid wall of his chest. His scent is clean, soap and laundry detergent mingling with the roasted, malty smell of dark beer.
We break apart, and Callan walks me through reintroductions.
I recognize Jesse Hackett, who used to run in the same circles as Damien when they were in high school.
His once greasy, shoulder-length hair is now cropped in a neat crew cut, and he’s traded in his vividly branded snowboarding gear for an understated navy blue T-shirt bearing a Maltese cross over the left side of his chest with the words WHITBURY FIRE DEPT.
Cal introduces the redhead as Dillon. When he said her name in the kitchen this morning, I assumed Dillon was a guy. “I don’t think we’ve met before,” I tell her.
“I’m not from here,” she answers.
Jesse snorts. “Yeah, because you’re from one town over.”
Seated between Dillon and Jesse is a short blond woman with plump arms, her heavy cleavage cradled in a gingham milkmaid dress. Her rounded cheeks have a natural pink flush, deepened by alcohol.
“Hello,” I say in a small voice.
A smile ghosts across her full mouth. “Hi, Lenore.” Her manicured fingers are curled around the stem of a cocktail glass, a princess-cut diamond sparkling on her finger.
It’s hard to believe that Shelby Murray ended up marrying Jesse Hackett, but I suppose that’s what never leaving your hometown will do to you. You give up on searching for the perfect fit, that person whose jagged edges meet yours in all the right places.
Even our erstwhile friendship was born more out of convenience than anything we had in common, though that never seemed to matter.
We were inseparable in high school, until our paths diverged.
I left for college with heartfelt promises to text every day and call once a week to fill each other in on the goings-on in our respective lives.
For that first semester of separation, we held steadfast to those promises, even as time moved differently for each of us.
New York was ever-changing, and Whitbury stayed the same.
Then one day Shelby called with news that eclipsed my trivial rants about professors or my college roommates: She was pregnant.
She seemed happy, and so I was happy for her.
In the spring, I rode the train to Burlington so that I could be there for her baby shower.
I gifted her a framed watercolor I had painted of a rabbit in a hot-air balloon to hang in the nursery.
We made plans after her daughter was born for me to visit over winter break, but she called me three weeks shy to tell me not to come.
“You don’t understand what I’m going through,” she had said.
“I want to,” I told her, through tears. “I’m trying. Help me understand.”
Except it was already too late. Our paths had drifted far enough apart that we couldn’t seem to find our way back to each other. Texts grew more and more infrequent. The phone calls stopped all together.
Everyone scoots over to make room for me in the booth. I end up seated beside Simon, a lanky and bespeckled man in a bowling shirt who’s all elbows. He was the same year as Shelby and me in school, but we didn’t spend any time together outside of the classroom.
From the corner, we have a clear view of the entire bar, television screens flashing through different games and shadow boxes filled with sports memorabilia. It’s warm in here from all the bodies, my legs sticking to the pleather seat.
Cal remains standing. “What are you having?” he asks me.
I shuck my jacket, stuffing it down around me. “I’ll have the Last Word.”
Simon snorts a laugh. A frown tugs at the corners of my mouth, but I resist the urge to ask what’s funny. I feel like a fish out of water, flailing around for some semblance of familiarity among near strangers. “How’s Avery?” I ask Shelby.
“Great,” she says. “She’s turning eight soon.”
Eight years since we last spoke, outside of the rare comment on social media. That gap between us yawns wider than ever.
Cal returns to the table a moment later with a chartreuse cocktail in a coupe glass, a skewer with two maraschino cherries balanced across the rim. “Thank you,” I say, sipping a little so that it doesn’t spill.
“Rick actually knew how to make that?” Simon’s voice is laced with skepticism.
“I, uh—” Cal scratches his nose. “I might’ve had to pull up a recipe on my phone.”
Warm tingles crawl up my body. I’m not sure whether it’s the alcohol or a rush of affection, but in case it’s the latter, I take another sip. Maybe, if I drink enough, I can numb these inconvenient feelings.
I’m three drinks deep when the pool table opens up. Cal stands to let Dillon scoot out of the booth. Simon takes a deep slug of beer before following her for a game.
“We’re probably going to head out,” Jesse announces, already scuttling out of the table.
“It’s only eight thirty,” Cal protests.
“Yeah, well.” Jesse lifts his shoulders and lets them fall. Behind him, Shelby adjusts her dress before standing.
“It was nice seeing you again,” I say.
Shelby hooks a tiny mushroom backpack over her shoulders. “How long are you in town for?”
“A few weeks,” I say. “Maybe we could do lunch or something?”
Her smile is polite but thin. “I’m not sure. Kids, you know. It’s hard to get a minute to myself.”
Jesse interrupts the game of pool to announce their departure. People hug and clap each other on the back. I settle back into the booth, nursing a near-empty glass, and watch it all from a million miles away.
I didn’t know anyone when I first moved to New York, but by the time I graduated college, I had a tight-knit group of friends who had everything in common with me on paper: creative, driven, eager to make a name for themselves and leave their mark on the city they’d chosen to call home.
We still have a group chat, appropriately named Starving Artists, but these days it’s mostly an outlet for them to share links to their latest gallery openings.
I’ll always root for them from afar, but it sometimes feels like they left me in the dust.
Callan lingers beside the table. “Did you need another drink?” he asks.
I blink out of my thoughts. “I think so.”
A moment later, he returns and sets a can of hard cider in front of me.
Maybe he’s had too much to drink and forgot. “I was drinking cocktails,” I remind him while trying my best not to sound ungrateful.
“I know that,” he says, “but Rick told me to tell you that he’s done making those ‘prissy little drinks’ for the night.”
We turn in unison to stare at the bar, where a disgruntled-looking man with a long ponytail pulls frothy beers from the tap.
I face forward again. “The Last Word has a long and storied history. It was invented during the Prohibition.”
Cal shakes his head with a pitying look. “I’m not sure whether that makes it more or less pretentious.”
“Less pretentious,” I say. “Obviously.”
He nods at the cider. “Give it a try. It’s not bad.”
I twist the can around on its coaster so that I can read the label. DISCORD SMALL-BATCH HARD CIDER it says beneath a black-figure painting of a winged goddess, the sort that belongs on ancient pottery.
“Eris,” I surmise aloud, “the goddess of strife.” I’ve always had an affinity for Greek mythology, which bordered on obsession in my early teens.
“We’re their supplier,” Callan explains.
“Who’s we?” I ask. “What are we supplying?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be drinking that,” he jokes, leaning across the table with his arm outstretched like he’s about to snatch the can away, but I slide it out of reach.
“Do you know the story?” I ask, before cracking the tab and taking a sip.
“Not really. I imagine there was an apple involved.”
I nod with a mouthful of cider. It’s dry and effervescent, almost like champagne.
“The golden apple of discord,” I say, once I’ve swallowed, “which Eris dropped at a party inscribed with the words To the fairest. At least, that’s one version of the story.
Either way, it caused a whole bunch of problems for gods and mortals alike. ”
Cal chuckles under his breath. “How do you remember these things?” he asks with genuine wonder.
I shrug. “I’ve spent a good chunk of my life with my own brain for company.”
“Technically, that’s true of everyone.”
I feign shock, leaning into the table so far that it digs into my sternum. “You mean other people have thoughts and feelings?” I stage-whisper.
A smile hooks the corner of his mouth. “So they keep telling me.”
I slump back in the seat, taking another sip from the can. Alcohol fizzes in my blood, emboldening me. “So,” I say, raising my eyebrows in the direction of the pool table, “Dillon.”
Cal tracks my gaze to where Dillon is bent across the felt, lining up her shot. His brow pinches in confusion. “What about her?”
“You and Dillon,” I try again.