65. Bertram
Bertram
Bertram was doing an excellent job exercising Lovey.
He was pacing back and forth, with Lovey right at his heels.
It had been a big day of flying for Lovey, so it was important to not neglect her legs in favor of her wings. Helena would be disappointed if Bertram didn’t make sure Lovey had a balanced regimen. A growing owl-bear had to get all of her energy out, of course.
If Bertram wanted to sit still he could have, no problem. This was a choice—a very altruistic choice, actually, to put all of his focus into Lovey’s physical health. Nothing to do with Bertram’s own restlessness.
Lovey kept staring up at Bertram with those large, seldom-blinking silver-ringed eyes. She didn’t usually stare up at him this much. Maybe she could sense his nervous energy.
Not that he was nervous.
If he didn’t want Helena to go out with Diana, he could have just withheld the information from her that Diana was interested in the first place.
But he wouldn’t have done that. Trying to get her to choose Bertram by hiding other options was hardly letting her choose at all.
Bertram wondered if Helena would return home that night.
He wondered how he would feel if she didn’t.
He wondered why Lovey had curled up on the floor and gone to sleep, even though he was still pacing to exercise Lovey.
And then he heard the sound of footsteps clomping into camp—louder than Helena’s steps usually were.
The zipper of their tent—Bertram’s tent, that they had been sharing—started to unzip.
Then it stopped.
Then it started again. Then stopped.
“Ah, fuck,” said a not-so-quiet voice, with the tone of a whisper, as if the voice were attempting to be quiet but was failing in its attempt.
Bertram walked over and unzipped the tent. Helena smiled widely as she stepped inside.
“Thanks, thanks,” she said.
“Sure,” said Bertram.
Helena sighed happily. “This is such a nice tent.”
“You’re back late,” Bertram said, and he was happy that she was back at all and annoyed at himself for being happy.
“Nah.” Helena shook her head. “I’m back suuuuper early. Early, early morning.”
“How did it go with Diana? Better luck than I had?” Bertram struggled to keep his tone light.
“Guess it depends how you define luck,” Helena said. “I think I’m lucky to know her. Do you?”
“Um.” Bertram swallowed. “I guess that depends on how tonight went. I can’t speak for you—”
“No, no, no.” Helena shook her head. “Speaking for you. Do you—you’re lucky to know her. You know?”
“I . . . yes?” Bertram said.
“I think she wants us to be happy,” Helena said.
“Not for her sake, even. I think she genuinely wants us happy because that’s the kind of Person she is.
At least, I think that I think that’s the kind of Person she is.
I’m not always the best at judging People’s intentions. Figuring out what People want from me.”
Helena’s gaze was a little too heated for Bertram. Or maybe he only thought it was. Maybe he wasn’t good at judging People’s intentions either.
“She’s been a good friend,” Bertram said.
“And me?” Helena asked.
“ ‘And you’ what?”
“And am I friends?” Helena asked.
“With Diana?” Bertram asked.
“With you,” Helena said. “Am I friends with you? Do you like me and are we friends now?”
He looked at her, her eyes wide with hope, her lips slightly parted as if she were nearly breathless waiting for his response. “Yes, of course, you’re my friend.”
Helena broke out into a smile so relieved that Bertram found it both endearing and a little pathetic. There was something that tugged painfully at his insides that Helena had been that desperate simply to have his confirmation.
She threw her full weight against him and hugged him around the middle tightly.
“I’m so glad you’re my friend again!” Helena said, sounding like she was on the verge of tears.
“You’re drunk,” Bertram said, slightly amused.
“Only an eensy weensy bit,” Helena admitted, which confirmed beyond a shadow of a doubt that Helena was much more than an eensy weensy bit drunk.
“You didn’t tell me what happened with Diana,” Bertram said.
Just like that, a switch flipped, and Helena went from tears to hysterical chuckles.
Oh, Helena was drunk-drunk.
“She didn’t want to fuck either of us.” Helena giggled uncontrollably. “She wanted us, to”—further giggles—“fuck each other!”
Bertram wrinkled his nose. “What, like she’s a voyeur?”
“No, no, no.” Helena shook her head. “Just an interloper.”
“I don’t understand,” said Bertram.
“She’s a Puck. Cupid. You know? Like a love . . . sprite . . . thing . . . So she said she knows I’m in love with you and you also me, she says. So, she was trying to have fun. That’s what pucks do, you know? Meddle? They cupid? Is ‘cupid’ a transitive verb, do you think?”
Bertram’s heart hammered in his chest. The world had gone completely silent. Helena was still babbling on, he thought. At the very least her lips were moving, and she was shaking her head wildly as if still laughing.
But the last thing Bertram fully heard was “I’m in love with you.” Everything after that was a blur of noise, a jumble of consonants and vowels that held no meaning whatsoever. It was just noise. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t matter.
In fact, nothing made sense. Nothing mattered.
There was only one truth, only one fact of interest: Helena was in love with him.
Or at least, that’s what she drunkenly declared under the influence of who knows what substances.
No, wait.
It wasn’t even that—that’s what she drunkenly declared that Diana—quite possibly also drunk—had said about her.
Helena wasn’t even sober, and she was simply quoting someone else, not making a confession.
Still . . .
“Okay, nest time, nighty-night night!” Helena said chipperly, again startling Bertram from his thoughts.
Helena happily threw herself into their shared bed. Lovey bounced up next to her. Helena threw her arms around Lovey and passed out with breathtaking promptness, leaving Bertram feeling as if a fully grown owl-bear had just dropped from the sky onto his head.