Second Chance Friends (17 page)

S
utton made an amazing Éponine. Tough, street-smart, boyish, but somehow fragile and gentle beneath. The way she pined for Marius was tragic and lovely. Her voice was reedy, would carry the audience to the point of breaking, but never fall over the edge. No one ever doubted her loyalty to the one she loved.

Joanna watched every performance the first week, telling Stephen that she was working doubles in her new job at Café Fellowship. He trusted her completely, never doubted her for a second. She'd earned that, or at least that was what he believed.

Not that she had done anything to betray him. Sutton never even knew she was in the audience. Never knew that she had her every line, every lyric, every move, memorized.
Never knew that the patchy beret she wore as Éponine brought back memories of the first time they'd met, and that those memories buoyed Joanna through the rest of the evening.

By the time she got home, Stephen would be waiting for her with a glass of wine and a movie cued up, but instead she would eagerly fall into bed with him, thinking,
Beret, beret, beret
.

But tonight when she came home, Stephen was waiting not with a glass of wine but with something else.

“Hey,” she said, dropping her keys on the kitchen table. She untied her apron, which stank of the catfish special, and dropped it on top of the keys. She didn't feel like washing it tonight. She was too tired, too full of watching Éponine's death—“A Little Fall of Rain” so wrenching, not an eye in the audience was dry—too wrung out to think about domesticity. She would have to stink for one more day. She kicked off her shoes under the table and sprang her hair from its ponytail.

It was only then that she noticed something different.

Stephen wasn't in his usual waiter-wear: white button-down, open to reveal a T-shirt underneath, and black work trousers. He was in jeans and a rugby shirt, green and yellow, perfect for his dark hair and olive complexion. He looked gorgeous and clean. She could smell the cologne across the room.

He was holding a glass, but it was a champagne glass, and the neck of a bottle poked out from the top of an ice bucket, rather than the usual wine box taking up half the coffee table.

Joanna noticed candles as well. Every candle she had
was lit, and a few more had been brought in. The lights were turned low, and the TV was off.

“Champagne?” she asked. “Are we celebrating something?”

“I hope to be in a few minutes,” Stephen said, leaning over and kissing her neck. “How was your day?”

“Long,” she lied. “I thought my last table would never leave. Catfish brings out the dedicated eaters.”

He chuckled, still nuzzling her neck. Goose bumps rose on her arms. “Yes, it does,” he said.

She backed away a step. “Didn't you work tonight?”

“I called in,” he said. “I had some things to take care of. No big deal. We've been pretty dead. No catfish at LaEats.”

“What kind of things?” Joanna asked. She still hadn't taken the champagne glass, and Stephen set them both on the coffee table. He looked nervous, tortured. “What's going on?”

He grabbed both of her hands in his and pulled her toward the couch, sat her down, and then sat next to her.

“It's our four-month anniversary,” he said.

“Right,” she said. He'd reminded her that morning with a text.

“And four months doesn't really sound like all that long, but it seems like it's been so much longer. You know what I mean?”

She nodded. “We've been friends for four years—that's probably why. You're not getting bored already, are you?” She wasn't sure whether an affirmative answer here would be a good thing or a bad thing.

“Of course not,” he said. “Actually, quite the opposite. I loved meeting your family over the holidays. And I loved having you meet mine. They adore you, by the way.”

Joanna smiled. “My mom would date you herself if she could get away with it,” she said.

“Anyway, do you remember the infamous
While You Were Sleeping
wine night?”

How could she forget? Stephen was fond of bringing up that night every chance he got. How he'd put it all out there for her, and how she'd jilted him. Left him with lips pouched and heart in hand. She nodded.

“You remember what we were talking about before I admitted liking you?”

“Secret crushes,” she said, feeling like her mouth was barely opening. He knew. He had to know. Her secret crush on Sutton was not so secret, and he knew. God, was he about to do something really stupid like ask her to have a threesome or some awful bullshit?

“Secret
marriage
fantasies,” he corrected. “So even though four months doesn't sound like that long, I've been thinking about this since before that night way back then.”

Joanna's mouth went dry as she realized what this was really about. It wasn't the
secret
part that he was focused on tonight. It was the
marriage
part. Her legs tensed, as if to run. But instead she sat still, mute, wide-eyed, as her best friend lowered himself to one knee next to the couch.

Details were lost on Joanna. She didn't know if Stephen gazed deeply into her eyes or if his hands shook as he reached into his pocket. She only half heard the words that
were coming out of his mouth—
known for a long time
 
. . .
meant to be together
 
. . .
best moments of my life
—but all she could really hear was a terrible ringing in her ears.

An hour before, she'd been so lost in
Les Misérables
that she had temporarily forgotten that Stephen existed. That was bad, right? You didn't marry someone whose existence slipped your mind in deep moments, did you? Or maybe those were the people you were supposed to marry—the ones who were so deeply embedded in your life, you could let them go and still be able to come back to them later.

Insanely, Joanna's mind turned to her mother in that moment. She would be beaming, wringing her hands together happily, mentally planning Christmases with her grandchildren. She would be so happy. Floating for days. She would get miles of bragging out of it. Everyone she knew would hear all about Joanna's romantic proposal from her best friend, who just happened to be the most amazing man.
With good teeth,
she could hear her mother say.
You know how important dental hygiene is.

Next thing she knew, Stephen was holding out a black velvet box, which he opened to expose a sparkling solitaire. Not too garish, but enough to show importance—just what she would expect from Stephen. She could hear her breath whistle in and out of her skull. Her hands were coated with sweat.

She realized when she finally glanced at him that he was waiting with an expectant look on his face, which must have meant he'd asked the question and she hadn't heard it.

But it had been a mistake to look at him, she realized. Her heart melted at the sight of him. She loved him so much. He was the last person in the world that she would want to see hurt, even if by her. She'd been so destroyed the last time she'd hurt him. She'd had to disappear for a month. If she said no now, she just might have to disappear forever.

The thought blurred everything for her. She loved Stephen, but she also loved Sutton. She knew that much. She'd never allowed herself to love a woman before, so she didn't know if what she was feeling for Stephen was
love
love, or just best-friend love. She didn't know how to find out.

And in that instant, she was struck with the knowledge that whether she accepted Stephen's proposal was not a matter of her own happiness. Perhaps it never was, and never could have been. She had an obligation to him, to her mom, even to Alyria, from whose advances she'd run away. This was not about Joanna being true to herself, even if she didn't know who Joanna herself was. This was about expectations.

She let out a gasp, which Stephen might have taken to be one of surprise, of elation, but was really just a realization that she had been holding her breath for a few beats, and in that gasp were tears and laughter and all the things that the proposed-to are supposed to release at that exact moment. It was picture-perfect, really, Joanna's reaction. Stephen relaxed, smiled deeply, as she nodded. His fingers fumbled out the ring, which he slid onto her finger—a perfect fit, of course—and then he wrapped her in his arms, going for a hug first instead of a kiss, which Joanna thought
strangely platonic for the occasion, but she didn't mind. She was too busy trying to stay upright, trying to wrap her head around what she had just done.

She'd just accepted a marriage proposal.

From a man.

The die had been cast, to use an old, tired expression. Like it or not, Joanna had resolved her confusion. She'd made her decision.

He had bought dinner. Fancy dinner. A risk, Joanna thought—what if her answer hadn't been cause for celebration? They ate and sipped champagne and sat tangled together on the couch that would forever hold a memory for them. They decided to spring the news on their friends and parents later. They wanted to enjoy being the only ones who knew for a while.

“When?” he asked, picking up her hand and inspecting the ring for the hundredth time. “God, you have beautiful hands.”

“I don't know,” she said. “Do you have a date in mind?”

He laid his head on her shoulder. “Tomorrow.”

She laughed hollowly, something tugging at her deep down. Not tomorrow. Far from tomorrow. She needed time. “I'm talented, but I don't think I can put together a wedding in one day.”

“I bet you could,” he said, picking up her hand again and kissing it. “How about June?”

Joanna did the math. It was February; that would leave them four months. “I don't know. June is so cliché,” she said. “December?”

He wrinkled his nose. “Then our special day would always be competing with Christmas,” he said.

“What about next April?”

He pulled away, took her in. “You're making it farther and farther away.” He turned, gathering his knees up on the couch next to her, and took both of her hands in his. “Listen, I don't care when it is. I really don't. I just want to marry you. But I really, really don't want to wait that long.” He kissed her hands in between each word of the last sentence.

Her heart melted. He really was so good to her. “Okay,” she said. “October. Fall. It will be beautiful with the leaves and everything.”

He mulled it over. “Yeah,” he said. “Fall. I think I like that. An outdoor wedding?”

“No way. The weather.”

“Good point. How about the little chapel up at the college?”

“That's fine.”

“God, I can't wait,” he said, and he lunged up against her, tipping her back onto the couch. “I love you, future Mrs. Wilkinson. Have I mentioned that?” He kissed her.

“Maybe once or twice,” she said, giggling, between kisses.

“Once or twice, huh? Then I'm about five trillion behind schedule. I love you. I love you. I love you.” He worked his way down the side of her face, down her neck, into the collar of her shirt. Joanna let herself be carried away in his kisses, in the dreamy image of the perfect fall wedding, in the life with her best friend.

And, later, when she pulled up memories of Éponine, a lifetime of wedded bliss with Stephen, dotted with the occasional fantasy about Sutton, seemed totally doable.

•   •   •

Three hours later, Joanna woke in a panic. Stephen had left sometime around midnight, kissing her so many times at the door, her chin felt chapped. He'd wanted to spend the night, but had an early morning interview at a bank.
I'm getting a legit job for us, Joanna,
he'd said.
I'll go back to school if I need to.

Now, lying in bed alone, the base of her neck ringed with cold sweat, Joanna tried to imagine Stephen heading to work in a tie and a polished pair of shoes, coming home at five, ready for a home-cooked dinner made by his loving wife. She tried to imagine herself in that role—carrying a cookie sheet to the front door or planting azaleas in the front lawn or dusting a piece of furniture they'd found together “antiquing.” She tried to imagine not going to Sutton's shows.

The champagne and steak sat disagreeably in her stomach, and she rushed to the bathroom and crouched over the toilet. She made retching noises and strained until her nose ran, but nothing came up.

She sat on the tile floor in her underwear, staring at her twinkling diamond through terrified eyes.

After some time, Joanna went back to bed, but sleep wouldn't come. The bed felt too hot, the room too cold, and there was no such thing as a comfortable position. It seemed like daylight was lifetimes away. She couldn't stay there.

•   •   •

The Tea Rose Diner was never very busy during the overnight hours, but that didn't stop Annie from keeping it open. The lore was that her mother, who had owned it before her, had closed the Tea Rose only one time, on a Tuesday night when Annie's sister, Betty, had the croup. They said that Leonard Franklin, a regular nightly patron up until the day he dropped dead at ninety-six years old, had waited outside on a bench by the front door all night, unsure what to do with himself without his coffee and late-night pancakes. Annie's mother had vowed, then and there, that the Tea Rose would never close again, and even though Annie had no Leonard Franklins to speak of, and only the rarest witching-hour customer, she kept it open out of loyalty, often working the overnight shift herself.

This night was no different. There was only one patron in the Tea Rose when Joanna arrived at 4:13 a.m. A homeless woman, hunkered over a cup of coffee in a back booth.

“Can I get you something?” Annie asked when Joanna slid onto a stool at the bar. Had Sheila been working, she might have said,
Hey, Joanna, you still going grapefruit or are you eating like a normal person today?
But Annie didn't know Joanna like Sheila did, and the bleary hour of the morning made it unlikely that she would memorize anything about her now.