Page 41 of Five Stolen Rings
“Fine, yes,” I mutter—again, to myself,like a lunatic. “But I still don’t want to have feelings for her.”
Because my pride would take a beating—that’s why. Because falling for her would mean I have no control over my heart, and I refuse to let that happen.
We can be friends; Iwantto be friends with her, more than I’ll ever admit. Deep down inside me is the same kid who made that friendship pact all those years ago, after all.
But we can’t be anything else.
I startle as a toilet flushes from one of the stalls behind me; a few seconds later, a teenage guy comes out.
“Dude,” he says, looking at me with the kind of attitude only teenagers would ever use with a total stranger. “Are you talking to yourself?”
When I return to the party a few minutes later, I find Stella and Benny talking animatedly, still leaning against the wall. There’s mistletoe above them, I notice for the first time—I glance around the rest of the room and see it on every wall, placed in regular intervals above peoples’ heads.
I inhale deeply, hold it for a few seconds, and then let my breath out again. I also exhale all the emotions stirring in my chest that don’t belong—interest, curiosity about the things Stella hasn’t told me, and something darker that I absolutely will not label as jealousy.
Get it together,I think—silently this time, because I haveofficially learned my lesson about talking to myself. Then I stroll over to the two of them, my hands in my pockets, trying to appear casual.
“You two bonded fast,” I say. I take my plate back from Benny, tugging it out of his hands with more force than necessary.
“That’s because Stella is lovely and delightful,” Benny says, and Stella beams, looking genuinely happy. I relax a little.
“I never said otherwise,” I say, and she snorts.
“You’re not exactly my biggest champion,” she says.
I pop a minty brownie bite into my mouth to avoid answering.
A surprising number of people come talk to Benny over the next hour; it seems that outside of being my friend, he was a social butterfly. I can tell when someone is coming to talk to Stella rather than Benny or me. They’re women, mostly, with high heels and big hair and blinding smiles in varying degrees of genuineness.
The highest heels and biggest hair come from a blonde woman whoclick-clacksover to us when we’ve been standing around for about an hour.
“Stella,” she says with a giant fake smile that would probably shatter if you tapped it. “Sogood to see you!”
“Bridget,” Stella says, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear and looking uncomfortable. “Hi. Good to see you too!”
Her jaw twitches, and I hide my smile.
“What have you been up to?” Bridget says. A wave of perfume hits me as she steps closer.
“Oh, not much,” Stella says, her voice strained. “Just working. How about you?”
“Oh, Clancy works,” Bridget says with a wave of her hand, on which glitters a boulder-sized diamond. “He does law. I just amuse myself with charities and golf and so on.” She pauses, her eyes shrewd with interest. “But you know, I heard—” She breaks off and, after an awkward silence, titters unconvincingly.
My heart lurches. What has she heard about Stella? Something about her job? The substance abuse issues?
“Well, never mind,” she goes on. Another wide, obviously false smile spreads over her face. “I guess it’s good that your parents own a business!”
“It really is,” Stella says, and I can tell she’s trying with all her might to appear cheerful and unconcerned, but her cheeks have turned pink.
“It’s great to see you!” Bridget says with a little wave, and Stella returns it only halfheartedly, her entire body slumping with relief when Bridget and her mile-high heels shuffle away to talk to someone else. Benny meanders away too, and then it’s just Stella and me.
We eat in silence for a while, both of us propped against the wall, as Christmas music plays cheerfully in the background. When I’m done with my plate, I glance at Stella’s. She’s done too, so I hold my hand out wordlessly, and she passes hers to me.
“Thanks,” she says quietly, and I nod.
When I return from throwing our trash away, though, I find her standing up straighter, both hands clutching her little red purse.
“What?” I say.
