Chapter 8 #2
“He was your first love,” Lily said, making a face that meant she was growing tired of talking about Jared.
“But I think soon, you’ll find someone else!
You’ll be able to look back on this and realize how poisonous it was with Jared, sometimes!
Seriously, sometimes, I think back on my relationship with Liam, and I shiver with dread. I’m so glad I didn’t end up with him.”
Molly nodded furiously, probably thinking about her own romance.
But Shelby struggled to think about Jared as anyone but someone who got away.
She got up and went to the bathroom, splashing water on her cheeks and making eye contact with herself in the mirror. He’s going to find a way back to you, she told herself. She had to believe it was true.
During the two weeks before fall semester began, Shelby did everything Lily and Molly said was “right,” given the fact of her breakup.
She went to parties. She let boys flirt with her.
She focused on herself and her time and her energy.
She did this because she didn’t know what else to do.
When she met with her professors, she fell back into the scholarly attitude that had been dormant during the summertime.
She told herself: this is who I am now. this is who I’ve always been.
But throughout, she couldn’t believe Jared still hadn’t called her or texted her, not once.
And it pained her to think that already, he was at Harvard, probably dating someone else, probably telling that girl everything he’d already said to Shelby as though Shelby had never existed.
Why had he been so reckless with her heart? Why had she let him?
Shelby had the sense that she wouldn’t be able to get through this, not soon. Maybe she’d write her first novel about this breakup. Maybe she’d make a bunch of money on this heartache. Thinking this, of course, didn’t make anything better.
It often occurred to her that maybe she’d never love again, although when she said this to Molly, who of course already had another potential boyfriend lined up, Molly scoffed and said, “Don’t do this to yourself.”
At the start of September, Lily called her from Nantucket. “I have a guy for you.”
Shelby was in the middle of writing a paper, trying to make a big theoretical leap that probably didn’t totally work. “I don’t know,” Shelby said. In some ways, she was rather enjoying her anti-romantic life. She was certainly enjoying feeling bad for herself.
“I think you’ll like him,” Lily pushed. “Just go for one drink with him? You have to prove to yourself that Jared wasn’t the end-all, be-all of guys. Please.”
Shelby agreed, if only because she didn’t have anything better to do.
Shelby met Orson at a little bar in the East Village.
He was cute, if not handsome, about five-ten, with round glasses and a dark blue sweater that brought out the color of his eyes.
They sat, Shelby with a glass of wine and Orson with a beer and talked for a while about what they were studying.
Orson was an artist at Pratt University, which meant he was much more like Lily’s boyfriend, Mick, than anyone Shelby had ever gone on a date with or met at Columbia.
But Shelby found that he was funny, that she laughed often, and he was open and honest, not braggadocious like other guys she knew.
When she mentioned books she liked, Orson wrote down their names into a note on his phone, as though he really wanted to read them.
She couldn’t remember Jared doing that. Then again, Jared had already read almost everything and didn’t need her guidance.
After a half hour of invigorating and funny conversation, Orson blushed with excitement. “Do you want to grab another drink? Or get some food?”
“That sounds great,” Shelby said. She knew of a pizza-by-the-slice place down the road, one of her favorites, so they put on their jackets and headed for the exit.
Shelby half wondered if Orson would take her hand on the walk.
She half wondered if he’d kiss her tonight, drawing her into his warm embrace.
Maybe I was wrong about Jared, she thought now, squeezing her eyes shut. It almost felt sacrilegious to think something like that, as she’d built a shrine around Jared in her heart.
But before they reached the bar exit, she heard her name through the throng of people.
“Shelby? Shelby Vance?” It was a voice she didn’t recognize, but it was insistent, demanding that she turn and look.
A guy in his mid-twenties strode toward her, his cheeks plump and his mustache curled at the ends.
She’d never seen him before. How did he know her name? How did he know what she looked like?
“Yes?” Shelby asked, furrowing her brow.
“So you are Shelby Vance,” the guy said, proving it had been a long shot for him.
“Who are you?” Shelby asked. Beside her, Orson flinched, eager to get on the road.
“I’m a grad student at Harvard. Max Brett,” he said. “Just wanted to say how sorry I am about what happened.”
Shelby gaped at him. Her anxiety skyrocketed. “What happened?”
Max seemed to fake his own surprise. His eyes swam with curiosity and intrigue, as though he’d wanted to step into the drama of her world and was now pleased that he’d made a mess.
“I thought you knew. I mean, I thought somebody would have told you by now,” Max said. “I’m sorry.”
Panic wrapped itself around Shelby’s neck, and she found it difficult to breathe.
“What’s up, Shelby?” Orson asked. But already, Shelby’s worldview was narrowing, and all she could focus on was this Harvard grad student, his lips wrinkled, his eyes illuminated.
It was clear that something was wrong with Jared. Something had happened. And nobody had thought to tell her till now.
Shelby reached out a shaking hand and pressed it against Max’s shoulder. “You need to tell me everything,” she rasped, sounding like a stranger to herself. “Now.”