Frenemies

RAVES FOR MEGAN CRANE’S NOVELS

frenemies

“A fresh, upbeat read … With tart, snappy dialogue, a keen eye for detail, and mordant wit, Megan Crane explores what it’s like to finally have it out with that friend we love to hate, and how scary it is to face the world outside our own small scope.”

—Martha O’Connor, author of
The Bitch Posse

“FRENEMIES starts out frothy and fun as all get out, but ends with its main character gaining a wise and insightful perspective. An illuminating and extremely entertaining portrait of a woman who makes the leap from drama queen to mature adult.”

—Karin Gillespie, author of
Bet Your Bottom Dollar

“Megan Crane’s smooth, skillfully crafted tale will make you feel like a member of this tight, realistic, and hilarious circle of friends … FRENEMIES is the ultimate girlfriend book!”

—Berta Platas, author of
Cinderella Lopez

“A witty and engaging tale … FRENEMIES proves that a coming-of-age story can be deeply relevant to the adult experience, and heroine Gus will have you laughing out loud … You’ll want Gus and her friends to be your friends.”

—Stacey Ballis, author of
Room for Improvement
and
Inappropriate Men

“A fun and frothy look at friendship, love, and growing up. Insightful and often hilarious, FRENEMIES is the perfect book club read for twentysomethings.”

—Jen Coburn, author of
The Queen Gene
and
The Wife of Reilly

“Megan Crane uses wit, style, and pizzazz to chronicle the often heartbreaking hilarity of turning friends into enemies, enemies into lovers, and lovers into friends.”

—Heather Swain, author of
Luscious Lemon

“Megan Crane captures the emotional angst of love and betrayal between friends in this heartfelt story about how your worst enemy might just be yourself.”

—Stephanie Lehmann, author of
You Could Do Better

“Funny, sharp, and poignant, like eavesdropping on a wonderfully intimate conversation between girlfriends at happy hour … Megan Crane expertly navigates the tangled path of college friendship in a grown-up world.”

—Melanie Lynne Hauser, author of
Confessions of Super Mom

“Perfectly captures the poignancy of a broken heart and betrayal, while simultaneously making the reader laugh out loud with dead-on observations and wit. I rooted for this heroine and was completely swept away by her too-real tale.”

—Erica Orloff, author of
Mafia Chic

“I’ve been a fan of Megan Crane’s since day one! FRENEMIES touches on so many themes—friends who stab you in the back, loving the wrong guy, anxiety over turning 30 … I related on so many levels.”

—Johanna Edwards, bestselling author of
The Next Big Thing

“A warm and witty coming-of-age story. Before you open the cover, make sure you’ve got a good bit of time blocked out for nonstop reading, apologize in advance to your neighbors for the hysterical laughter, have a couple of tissues on stand-by, and go ahead and schedule a get-together with your best friends. This may be one of my favorite chick-lit novels, ever.”

—Shanna Swendson, author of
Once Upon Stilettos
and
Enchanted, Inc.

“This is a book you won’t be able to put down until you get to the last page. Megan Crane spins a compelling story about the hazards of life, love, and friendship.”

—Cara Lockwood, national bestselling author of
I Do, But I Don’t

“With FRENEMIES, especially the trials and tribulations of its wonderful protagonist Gus, Megan Crane has scored a winner!”

—Julie Kenner, author of
California Demon

“Adorable! Megan Crane perfectly captures an underlying truth about the complexities of female friendships.”

—Diana Peterfreund, author of
Secret Society Girl

“A laugh-out-loud look at female friendships and the men who come between them.”

—Lynda Curnyn, author of
Bombshell
and
Confessions of an Ex-Girlfriend

“With heart, humor, and rare honesty, Megan Crane creates a story that every woman should share with her BFF.”

—Jennifer O’Connell, author of
Bachelorette #1

“Megan Crane is a delicious writer, and FRENEMIES is another treat to savor.”

—Laura Caldwell, author of
The Rome Affair
and
The Night I Got Lucky

ALSO BY MEGAN CRANE

English as a Second Language

Everyone Else’s Girl

Because I knew you

I have been changed

for good.

—Wicked

I am lucky enough to have been given the gift of very good friends, whom I hope someday to deserve. I am who I am thanks in large part to the phenomenal women and men who share, support, and enhance my life every day in their own peculiar and often marvelous ways.

This book is for you.

acknowledgments

A
million thanks to Julie Barer for finding A-plots, explaining everything, talking me off ledges, being so effortlessly wonderful, and being the best teammate anyone could wish for. All while also being the greatest agent in the world!

If I hadn’t already adored my fabulous editor, Karen Kosztolnyik, for her keen insights and ability to shape my stories so beautifully, I would certainly worship her for being a
Veronica Mars
fan and for comparing Henry to the delicious Logan Echolls. High praise, indeed!

Thanks to everyone at Warner Books (past and present) who help me in so many ways, especially Michele Bidelspach, Elly Weisenberg, Brigid Pearson, Mari Okuda, and Keri Friedman. Thanks also to Kim Dower and Allison Hunter at Kim-from-LA for so much help out on this coast!

Thanks to Michelle Kennedy Lower for answering so many Boston questions, and Charley Lower for chauffeuring me around on the hottest, most miserably humid day possible while Michelle gave me the insider’s tour. Any egregious Boston mistakes are entirely my fault and the less egregious mistakes are, let’s hope, creative license at work.

Thanks to Anna Marsh Schroeder for living in that apartment all those years ago. (I just added a room!)

Thanks to Ani Matosian of the Getty Research Institute for answering my questions about librarians, libraries, and library degrees—all mistakes or exaggerations are mine!

To all of you who send me e-mail or comment on my blog: thank you. You make my day.

I love (and owe a huge debt to) everyone who read this novel in one of its (many!) drafts. Especially Kim McCreight, who has read it almost as many times as I have by this point. You deserve a medal!

To the marvelous Liza Palmer. And all the other astonishingly talented authors I’ve been lucky enough to get to know.

But most of all, thanks to and for Jeff Johnson.

chapter one

I
blame it on Janis Joplin.

Because until that song came on, I was fine.
Fine.

So what if I hadn’t seen Nate since the memorable night I’d walked in on him kissing someone else two and a half weeks ago, which was seventeen total days, not that I was counting?

So what if he was supposed to be my boyfriend?

And so what if the girl he was kissing was none other than Helen Fairchild, my freshman-year roommate way back when?

Who, until that night, I’d thought valued our shared history and mutual exasperation enough to consider me a close friend—the sort of close friend who would find my boyfriend to be off-limits?

Seriously, I was
fine.

I took a deep breath, and told myself that I didn’t care
in the slightest
that Nate and Helen had just swept inside the bar together, looking flushed and giddy and bringing with them a swirl of cold weather from the fall night beyond. I didn’t care that every single one of our mutual friends, all of whom were gathered together to celebrate a birthday, looked from the two of them to me to gauge my reaction. I didn’t care that my heart—which I would have told you had broken into pieces too small to be seen with the naked eye and thus couldn’t possibly break any further—thumped painfully in my chest, clearly whole enough to keep hurting.

If I burst into tears, I would never forgive myself.

I was so busy trying to look as if I didn’t care and wasn’t close to tears, in fact, that Amy Lee had to kick me under the table to get me to notice that she and her husband had returned from the bar, bearing armfuls of drinks.

“Stop staring at them,” Amy Lee ordered.

“It’s
fine
,” I told her, which was surprisingly hard to do through a clenched jaw. “After all, who cares that we were together for almost four months after knowing each other since college? Who cares about
history
? I’m
perfectly fine
with this.”

Amy Lee sighed and exchanged what I could only describe as a
significant look
with Oscar. Then, she and Oscar settled themselves on either side of me on the plush banquette. In support.

Or, possibly, to restrain me.

The two of them were a perfect example of the whole
opposites attract
thing, I thought, looking at them through the big mirror on the far wall. Amy Lee looked crisp and pulled together at all times, while Oscar always looked as if he’d just stepped off a skateboard. They’d met in dental school and fallen in love, apparently over molars. It was to their credit that I found that story romantic despite my long-held dental phobia.

Amy Lee slid a beer in front of me.

“Listen up, Augusta,” she ordered me. Her use of my full, legal name—which I hated and therefore generally responded to only in places like the DMV—earned her a baleful glare.

But I listened.

“I get why you want him,” she said. “Everyone adores Nate. He’s practically made a career out of being adorable.”

“I don’t think he’s adorable,” Oscar said from my other side. “Not that he’s
not
adorable, of course. I just don’t think about it.”

“I think even I had a crush on him for like fifteen seconds in college,” Amy Lee continued, ignoring her husband. “How could you not? He was like the college version of the captain of the football team. All puppy-dog eyes and that bashful smile.”

“Yeah, that’s really adorable,” Oscar retorted. “Let’s talk more about his rugged good looks, so maybe I can have a crush on him, too.”

Amy Lee had all the delicacy of a steamroller. I assumed this served her well in dentistry, but tonight it made me want to upend a drink over her head.

“?‘Puppy-dog eyes and that bashful smile’?” I echoed. I glared at her. “Why do you want to hurt me?”

“But here’s the thing,” Amy Lee said as if I hadn’t spoken. “You’ve known the guy since we were all eighteen and only hooked up with him this summer. That’s hardly raging-hot chemistry, now is it?”

“He hasn’t been girlfriend-free since college!” I protested. “He was with that horrible Lisa for years!”

“I’m just saying it took you an awfully long time to get together with him,” Amy Lee said. “Okay, sure, you liked him more than the weirdos you usually date, but still.” She took a sip of her drink, which, unaccountably, appeared to be a Coke. I scowled at it, and she muttered something about designated driving.

As that was normally Oscar’s job, I looked at him.

“I plan to drink a lot tonight,” Oscar told me, his eyes across the bar on the Happy Couple. “I might toast Nate’s
bashful smile
a few times, too.”

Since he was staring at Nate, I gave myself permission to do the same. I watched as Nate peeled off his winter coat and exchanged manly handshakes with his buddies. I watched as Helen floated merrily on the end of his arm like a particularly well-tweezed balloon.

Seventeen days had not dimmed the pain even a little bit, it turned out, despite several bold proclamations to the contrary I’d made in the shower earlier that evening. If Gretchen, the birthday girl, hadn’t called me personally and begged me to come, there was no way I would have attended this party. It had been bad enough to stand there that night two and a half weeks ago, face-to-face with the evidence that he and Helen were on kissing terms. Sitting in a crowded bar with half of Boston looking on as I was humiliated with every snuggle and simper was, it turned out, worse.

Much worse.

Nate and I first met years ago when we both attended Boston University. We became members of a wider group of friends who fell into two rough and interwoven groups themselves: those who had originally gone to BU together and others who had met thanks to summers spent on Cape Cod. We all became one big group of people who were loosely connected and spread out across the greater Boston metropolitan area, leading to a rollicking social life with competing parties almost every weekend.

And in this big group, Nate was the favorite. Everyone loved Nate. He was so good-looking and sweet-faced at eighteen that some women (who will remain nameless) had been known to lurk around the bushes to take pictures of him on the sly. He was also nice, which was so surprising it often stopped people in their tracks. He was sweet to everyone, universally considered cute, and, unfortunately, taken. Girls mooned over him and treasured the intimate conversations they had with him every now and again over beers when his girlfriend was somewhere else. Guys pounded him about the shoulders when they met him and thereafter, inevitably, called him “solid.” Everyone loved Nate from afar until he’d finally broken up with Longtime Lisa (as she was known) for the last time in April.

The month of May was like the first season of
Desperate Housewives
, with all the girls playing Edie and Susan to Nate’s Mike the Plumber, in a pitched battle to soothe his broken heart. Amy Lee and our other best friend, Georgia, took bets and predicted—accurately—that it would all end in rebound tears.

By the time Nate and I hooked up at a Fourth of July party, I figured we were out of his rebound woods. I’d been waiting for Nate for a long time. Amy Lee had a point about the kind of guys I’d dated throughout my twenties—commitment-allergic “musicians” and banker boys had been my specialties, and I was over them. More than that, Nate and I were a good match. Even an obvious match. I might not have the kind of irritating (to other women) bland attractiveness that girls like Longtime Lisa had, but I felt I was cute enough. More to the point, we had all the same friends. We liked the same things. We’d even lived in the same freshman dorm. I liked the story we could tell about how, once upon a time back in college before he’d fully committed to Longtime Lisa, he and I had almost kissed outside Sicilia’s Pizza at 3:30 a.m.

Getting together with Nate
made sense.
It was the third part of my three-part plan for my twenty-ninth year, the one I’d come up with shortly after turning twenty-nine the previous January. The key to being a well-adjusted adult, I’d decided, involved three things: good friends, a good job, and a good boyfriend. I already knew that Amy Lee and Georgia were the best friends anyone could want—we’d been friends for over ten years and were practically family, and yet we had a much wider, active social group too, so no one had to feel claustrophobic. I was a librarian in a small museum near Boston Common, and I loved it. So what could be better than a boyfriend so perfect that other women plotted ways to impress him? A boyfriend who I’d actually been friends with for years? With Nate, finally, everything was as it should be. I could see our future stretch before us, one perfect fantasy after the next. I had nothing to fear from thirty. I was a
complete
adult, life was going along
as planned
, and there would be no need for the stereotypical I’m-about-to-turn-thirty breakdown.

And the fact that Nate was so cute that even Amy Lee sighed over him was just a bonus.

Across the room, Nate shifted position on his bar stool, so I could see his puppy-dog eyes for myself. And also the person those eyes were focused on: Helen.

I felt rage sweep through me, prickling along my scalp and then shooting along my skin to the tips of my toes.

The thing about Helen was that she was
that girl
, I thought as I knocked back my beer, and then helped myself to the rest of Oscar’s. He didn’t complain, he just raised his brow at Amy Lee and then launched himself toward the bar for refills.

You could say that I’d conducted a study of Helen, I thought then. It began the day she sauntered into the tiny, concrete-walled room we would be sharing for our freshman year, smiled at me and the remains of my high school hair, and claimed the bed beneath the windows. The better bed. I didn’t even put up a fight. I was dazzled.

Helen, with her fashionably ratty jeans and casual assumption that everyone wanted to hang out with her, was cool. Impossibly cool. Even the fact that she had one of those jarring donkey laughs like Janice on
Friends
just made her interesting, when on anyone else, a laugh like that would be dorky beyond belief. Nothing about Helen was dorky.

Helen had no qualms about walking up to the cutest boy in our dorm and asking him what was going on that terrifying first night at college, and then inviting herself along. She didn’t care if the more insecure girls hated her. She intimidated our RA simply by turning up and draping herself across a chair in that boneless way she had. She didn’t seem to notice any of the tension or envy she kicked up in her wake.

Helen was a guy’s girl. She never met a guy, in fact, who didn’t want to be her friend. She never met a girl who did. I, meanwhile, was very much the opposite. My knowledge of boys at eighteen came entirely from fantasy novels and certain classic WB shows. I was a girl’s girl. The moment I met Georgia and Amy Lee, I knew I would be friends with them, because we were all the same beneath the skin. Living with Helen was like seeing behind a curtain. I got to see what it was like to be everything I couldn’t be.

She was
that girl.
The one I had believed for eighteen years existed only in the imaginations of Hollywood screenwriters. And the fact that she was my roommate meant that I got to be
that girl
along with her, if only in my own mind.

Between worshiping her at eighteen and wanting to leap across a crowded bar to strangle her at twenty-nine, however, there was the entire span of our friendship. There were the random nights out we’d had in those chaotic years after college, just the two of us, where I would marvel at her near-superhuman ability to attract cute boys and she would tell me how much she relied on my friendship. There were the phone conversations when she’d tell me long, hilarious stories about her romantic exploits that always ended with some guy begging for another chance while Helen tried to extricate herself. These were the things that made me roll my eyes when I saw her number on caller ID, and they were also the things that made me smile when I thought about her. There was no one quite like Helen. I’d known that even as a teenager.

When she’d started playing her little games with Nate over the summer—all those sidelong glances and overly intimate smiles she was so good at—I’d just gritted my teeth and ignored it. That was just Helen being Helen, I’d thought. That was the sort of thing she did, it didn’t mean anything, she couldn’t help herself. I’d spent long hours on the phone assuring Georgia and Amy Lee that
of course
it was annoying that Helen had no boundaries, but that
of course
nothing would
happen
, because even though she drove me crazy most of the time, she and I were
friends.
Having lived directly across the hall from us freshman year and having been less enamored of Helen than I was, Amy Lee and Georgia were understandably skeptical. But they both loved me too much to actually come out and say
I told you so
now.

“Here’s a shot of Jägermeister,” Amy Lee announced, slapping the shot down in front of me. I blinked, unaware until that moment how far inside my head I’d gone. “I think you should view it as an anesthetic. Numb the pain, sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ and when you go home tonight, you’ll at least never have to face the two of them
for the first time
ever again.”

I was already feeling blurry around the edges, but I took the shot.

“Let’s stop staring,” Amy Lee suggested. I realized it wasn’t the first time she’d said it. “Let’s talk about how Georgia’s job is ridiculous. I’ll start. It’s ridiculous.”

Georgia was a lawyer and, like tonight, was forever traveling for work. When particularly morose—which usually meant she’d over-served herself vodka without the Red Bull—she could sketch the layouts of most major domestic airports on cocktail napkins. This time she was in Cleveland. Or possibly Cincinnati. Somewhere out there in the middle. She had left me several supportive voice mails and a largely profane text message, encouraging me to ignore Nate and remember that Helen wasn’t worth being upset about.

Though she didn’t use those words.