Lucky Break (16 page)

“But,” I asked, “am I ready to see him?”

“Short and sweet, Flan,” Morgan coached. “Like ripping off a Band-Aid. And if at any time you need a boy boycott—” she said.

“I know.” I cut her off. “I know where to find you guys. Hopefully it won't come to that,” I said.

The bell rang and we all looked at our watches, slurping up the last of our hot chocolate. I knew my
friends were thinking that we had to book it to first period in under two minutes, but all I could think was that in under eight hours, I was going to have to reach out to Alex. I was going to have to take the Jerk of New York to task.

When Alex agreed to meet me after school at our normal spot in the park, I had an unsettling bout of déjà vu. I always texted him right after lunch, and he always got back to me right before his lacrosse practice. Now I know people always say you can't read tone of voice into a text message, but those people probably never had their hearts trampled. The textual tension between us was palpable.

I don't know why I took the train down to the Fifty-ninth Street entrance only to walk back up to our meeting spot near Sixty-eighth. Maybe because I knew that, coming from Dalton, Alex might also go in through the Sixty-eighth Street entrance and we might unexpectedly meet up before the meeting place. Awkward.

I didn't want to think I'd gone all the way down there because I was sappy enough to want to pass our
favorite hot dog vendor once more, for old time's sake. Not that I'd ever be able to eat a hot dog again without thinking about what a pig Alex was …

“Two hot dogs, extra relish.” A guy was ordering from Hank, the hot dog vendor. Hey, that was
our
old order! And hey, that was my ex-boyfriend! Why did he have to look so amazing in his green Tod's turtleneck and frayed Diesel jeans? Why was his hair that perfect length exactly two weeks into his monthly haircut? Why was he ordering
two
hot dogs?

“Work up an appetite at lacrosse?” I asked, a bit more icily than I'd meant to. It was the first real exchange we'd had since the breakup, and I was not setting the civility bar very high.

“Flan!” He swung around to face me. His eyes were puppy dog wide. “I didn't, I wasn't … Itwasforyou,” he finally blurted. “Dumb idea. Unless you want it … “

He held out the hot dog like it was some sort of weird, relish-covered white flag. I didn't want it, but I wasn't sure what to say. Would Alex think it was rude if I denied him?
Just take the hot dog, Flan.

Instead of walking ten blocks north up to our favorite spot (for its view of Manhattan's only redtailed hawk), both of us silently plunked down on the nearest bench. It was clear that we were both eager to
get this over with. But it was also clear that neither one of us knew where to start. We sat facing the street, watching the city go by. There was the woman getting splashed by a bus driving through the winter sludge. There was the dog walker chasing after three miniature poodles who'd gotten loose outside the Plaza. There were the cabs cutting each other off to get one car ahead in gridlock. And there was the unhappy couple (us) finishing off the breakup. Sometimes Manhattan could be so cruel.

“So, how was spring break?” Alex finally broke the silence. “I heard you were in Australia?”

I whipped my head to look at him. He heard? Had Cookie already told him about the awful scene at the haute barbecue?

“The guys, you know, they texted me from Paris,” he went on. “It wasn't like I was stalking you or anything—I just meant, it sounds like you had a lot of fun.”

I looked at Alex like he'd just implied that the ninth circle of hell was probably a lot of fun too. Ugh, this fake small talk had to end.

“Actually, my spring break sucked,” I said bluntly. “I couldn't get a certain picture out of my head.”

“What picture?” He squinted at me.

OMG, was he really going to make me spell it out for him?

“The picture,” I exclaimed, “of you kissing Cookie Monsoon!”

That was when Alex spit out his mouthful of hot dog, sending the relish-filled bite directly into a lucky pigeon's path. “Excuse me?” he said. “Kissing what? I have no idea what you're talking about.”

I rolled my eyes. “I almost deleted this when Kennedy evilly forwarded it to me last week to rub it in as much as possible,” I said, reaching into my coat pocket for my iPhone. “But if this is what it takes to get you to admit it …”

I pulled up the infamous picture and shoved it under Alex's nose with the same vengeance with which Kennedy had shoved it under mine last week. Alex brought it closer to his face, squinted, then started laughing.

“This is funny to you?” I huffed.

“It's so unfunny,” he said, cropping the photo to zoom in. “
Kennedy
sent this to you? Kennedy, your sworn enemy?”

“So what?” I said, crossing my arms and hating that he was making me defend her. “A picture is worth a thousand bitchy words.”

“Flan, I don't even know who this girl in the picture is. She looks vaguely familiar, in that we-were-at-the-same-party-as-two-hundred-other-people kind of
way. But I didn't even talk to her that night, let alone kiss her, as this—excuse me—very, very poorly doctored photo might suggest.”

“What?” I gasped, grabbing the phone. “Doctored photo?”

Alex nodded. “Clearly whoever's behind this never took Photoshop 101 with Mr. Keys at Dalton. Exhibit A—the entire leg and arm of the person sitting in between me and this girl.” He pointed at the screen. “I was sitting next to my lacrosse buddy, Dane, the entire night and that, right there, is his varsity championship ring.”

Whoa. There
was
a phantom hand and kneecap hanging out right in between Cookie and Alex in the photo. I'd been so obsessed with what was going on up top that I'd never even let my eyes wander to the bottom of the image.

“Oh. My. God,” I said, as the reality of this whole wasted week apart hit me. “But that night when we broke up—you were being so weird. You never denied cheating on me—”

“Flan, I would
never
cheat on you. But that night, you never brought cheating up once! I know that because I've had all week to torture myself memorizing every single thing you said.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Look, I know that night was weird.
Kennedy found me at that party and said all this stuff about overhearing you tell your friends that the pressure was on me to make Paris perfect and romantic for you.” He paused and shot me an embarrassed look.

“What?” I asked, barely able to keep up with him.

“It's crazy, I know, and the look on your face makes me feel even stupider for believing her. But that's what I came over to talk to you about that night. Before I knew it, you were breaking up with me. Then I started getting texts from the guys saying what a great time you were having all over the world. I guess I just thought you were over it.”

“Unbelievable,” I said. “You should have seen the terrifying breakup specialist that SBB threatened to sic on me if I didn't get ‘over it'—and I still couldn't even come close.” I shook my head. “So then you sent the postcard—”

“I knew the postcard would come back to haunt me,” Alex said, blushing. “So lame. I know. I just couldn't stand not talking to you. But I also didn't know what to say to you.”

“Clearly,” I joked, cutting the tension for the first time all week. It felt so good to be able to do the thing that came most naturally to us: laugh.

“You need to put down that hot dog now,” Alex
said, taking it out of my hands and setting it on the bench beside me.

“Why—” I started to say, but before I knew it, Alex had swooped me up in a full-body hug. Our eyes locked.

“Because it's time to kiss and make up,” he said, pressing his lips to mine.

Tingly feeling!

For a split second, I thought about the last time I'd been kissed—by Dave the Creeper on the beach in Sydney—but only for the sake of comparison between what a horrible kiss felt like and what the world's best kiss felt like. I forgot to breathe. I forgot to care that I was now sitting on my hot dog. I forgot everything about this entire wreck of a week. And when I opened my eyes, my prince was back.

“There's something I've been meaning to tell you for a while,” he said softly, still holding me tight. “And for reasons I can't explain, this week I wanted to tell you even more than usual. And I really don't know when I started stammering so much but I guess I'm just nervous and—”

“Alex?”

“Flan?”

“Just say it,” I said, feeling my heart race under my sequined Moschino cardigan.

Alex took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, then opened them.

“I love you,” he said, with this incredibly endearing combination of nervousness and sincerity. I opened my mouth, wondering whether I was actually going to say the words that had been on the tip of my tongue since I first heard the name Alex Altfest, when Alex started speaking again.

“Oh, crap. I'm probably not supposed to say that right after we had this big fight. Now it sounds like I hadn't meant to say it all along. But I had. Did I blow it? Should I have waited to say it at some romantic time—?”

“Alex?”

“Flan?”

“Shut up.”

“Shut up?”

“I mean …” I laughed. “Shut up, I … I love you too.” I pulled him in for another kiss. “And for the record, I don't care what Kennedy says about Paris and romance and whatever—there is nothing more romantic than being right here, right now, with you.”

We stood up, grinning, holding hands, and brushed the hot dog remains off our coats. This time, when we rejoined the scene on the street, I noticed all the beautiful things about the city. The
rose vendors on the street, the click of horses leading carriage rides through the park. The sky had turned dark and all the city lights were glowing. We were glowing too.

“Our friends are going to freak out when we tell them,” I said, squeezing Alex's hand in the cold.

“We should think of a fun way to surprise them,” Alex agreed, buttoning up his coat. “How about tomorrow night?”

“Perfect,” I said, as we kissed one last time—make that two, no, three last times—before parting ways.

Hmmm, I thought walking south on Fifth Avenue. Not technically closure, but I felt better about this convo than I'd ever felt about anything in my life.

Oh my God, was I really in love? I was really in love!

Now, all that was left was the gravy: relaying the good news to the girls, making up for lost time with Alex, and putting the whole Cookie Monsoon spring break debacle behind me.

Just then, I got a text from SBB. Leave it to my gladiatrix to make all of the above a reality. A very quickly approaching reality:

GREAT NEWS—JUST PILATE'D WITH AMBER … AND THE COOKIE FORMERLY KNOWN AS YOUR NEMESIS WAS THERE. CALL ME ASAP FOR DETAILS, BUT WE HAD HER
ALL WRONG. I ONLY WENT SLIGHTLY BALLISTIC ON HER BEFORE AMBER CONVINCED ME THAT SHE'S ACTUALLY AS SWEET AS HER NAMESAKE. SO CEASE AND DESIST GETTING OVER ALEX. AND PUT ON YOUR PARTY SHOES, PRINCESS—THIS CALLS FOR A CELEBRATION!

And …
go
,” SBB shout-whispered, practically shoving Alex and me through the white double doors of the roof deck at the Peninsula Hotel. “Wait,” she hissed. “Flan, come back! Your couture is crooked. You know what Eminem says—you only get one shot!”

It was Tuesday night, and the four of us—me, Alex, SBB, and … wait for it … Cookie Monsoon—had spent the last couple of hours chilling in the penthouse suite SBB had reserved for the night.

After we'd cleared up the massive misunderstanding yesterday, SBB had pounced on this last-minute opening at the Midtown hot spot and immediately invited everyone we knew to throw down at a mystery-themed party. She'd even sent out mystery invitations via messenger, without a return address, so none of the guests knew who the host was. As SBB
said: it wasn't like New Yorkers knew why they ended up at half the parties they attended; this one would be totally memorable since its raison d'être would be unveiled during cocktail hour.

Only the four of us knew the real reason for the upscale gathering, and after SBB straightened the bow on the back of my sparkly red Jade Moodswing dress, and tightened Alex's paisley Hermès tie for the fourth time, we decided to give our little mystery one more toast.

“To the happy couple,” SBB chirped, “who learned the hard way that whatever doesn't kill you makes you love each other. Awwww.”

Alex winked at me and we clinked glasses of Perrier.

“And to Cookie Monsoon,” SBB continued. “Object of
much
misdirected hate this week. Thank you for forgiving us, for being so cool, and for teaching me that amazing butt crunch move at Pilates yesterday. Have you considered patenting that yet?”

When Cookie laughed, her long layered Honora black pearl necklace jingled a little in the moonlight. She looked really gorgeous in a floor-length floral black silk gown, which last week I would have hated her for, but which this week only made me want to insist that she tell me where she shopped.

She turned to me. “I still can't believe this whole story. I swear, Kennedy was on my last nerve before this. But now I'm seriously going to have to delete her.”

“The Lord taketh away, but then he giveth a replacement,” SBB said, scratching her head. “Is that the way the saying goes? I swear, all this working out is turning me into a dumb jock.”

“What SBB means,” I said to Cookie, “is that now you'll have room in your phone to add new friends. Wait until you meet the rest of the girls.”