Charmed Thirds_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [58]
Commemoratively yours,
J.
* * *
the fifth
I was flattened on the floor in shame.
“You cheated.”
Bridget was sprawled out on my bland beige bedspread, staring at the ceiling, still reeling from my news. She'd come by to tell me that the release date for Bubblegum Bimbos had been pushed back yet again, which meant that its suck-ass, straight-to-video future was practically guaranteed. Compared with my cover story, her gossip was like the teeny sidebar hidden in the back of a magazine next to the horoscopes.
“Jess, you cheated.”
“I know.”
“I don't like cheaters,” she said gravely. “I was so hurt when I found out that Burke had cheated with Manda.”
“I know.”
“And you were so upset when Len cheated with Manda . . .”
“I know.”
“What's wrong with everyone?” she asked. “Why does everyone cheat?”
“Everyone doesn't cheat . . .”
“I just don't get it,” she continued, ignoring me.
“What don't you get?”
She puffed up her cheeks, then blew all the air out in agitation. “Let's say a girl is attracted to someone who has a girlfriend. And then the guy with the girlfriend decides, like, What the hell? We're not married, we're just hanging out. I can hook up with this other girl if I want to. It seems obvious to me that any self-respecting girl would realize that the guy's decision to cheat on his girlfriend would make him an undesirable person to hook up with, right?” She paused for a moment to give this profound inquiry its due gravitas. “And the guy who wants to cheat should be turned off by any girl who is so willing to hook up with someone else's boyfriend. Being so, like, morally bankrupt should cancel out all the attractive qualities that tempt you to cheat.”
I pressed my forehead into the scratchy sisal rug, branding red pockmarks into my flesh.
“The cheater's paradox makes perfect sense, Bridget. Really. But humans are irrational creatures, especially when it comes to matters of the heart.”
It's true. Studies have shown that people convince themselves that they're acting rationally when making major decisions—where to go to college, what to major in, who to kiss or not to kiss—when they're really acting on unconscious impulses. The human brain simply can't handle all the complexities that life offers, so emotions kick in and end up making the call. And when that call blows, people don't understand why.
And when I say “people,” well . . . you know who I mean.
“You and your research,” Bridget said dismissively. “You're getting so . . . clinical.”
She sat up and shook her head. Tsk-tsk. I rolled over on the rug, and read the bumps on my forehead like Braille. Here's what they spelled out: YOU FUCKED UP.
“Have you talked to Marcus?”
“No.”
“Are you, like, officially broken up?”
“I don't know.”
I've decided not to force a confrontation with Marcus, leaving it up to him to contact me. The uncertainty is torture, and I deserve each excruciating second of silence.
“I never thought you guys would end like this,” she said.
“How did you think we'd end?”
Bridget twisted her hair into a bun on top of her head.
“I didn't,” she said, letting go again, the golden waves spilling over her shoulders.
That was not what I wanted her to say. I would have preferred it if she had seen our demise as inevitable. She must have picked up on this.
“But if I did, like, hypothetically think about it,” she said, “I would have thought that he would've been the one to cheat, you know, because of his history as a male slut and all.”
This also did not make me feel better. And I think Bridget saw what she was up against and gave up on trying.
“This is just so not like you, Jess,” she said. “Who's the guy? How did it happen?”
I sighed. And then I told her the whole sick, sordid story.
Since Columbia University went coed in 1983 there has been a glacial relationship between the women of Columbia College and the women of Barnard College, the women-only school located right across Broadway. It has everything to do with the scarcity of single Columbia men. Between