Fourth Comings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [42]
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve got me married and pregnant already,” I said, “and I didn’t even accept his proposal.”
“Okay,” she said, “which brings us back to the original question: Why not? Don’t you love him?”
(Yes.)
“Yes,” I said.
(But.)
“But…,” I said.
“But what?” Bridget asked. “Would you have said yes if he had a degree and a job?”
“But he doesn’t.”
“But what if he did?”
“‘What ifs’ are what Marcus calls counterfactuals.”
“Counterfactuals?”
“‘What ifs.’ Counterfactuals. Hypotheticals. All the same thing,” I explained. “All a waste of time and energy. Because no matter how long you ponder them, it doesn’t change the reality of the situation: Marcus is in school for at least four more years.”
“Move to Princeton.”
“What worked for you and Percy won’t work for everyone.” I sighed. “You transferred from UCLA to NYU because you hated the superficial L.A. scene. You had other reasons besides Percy for leaving. If I leave New York for Princeton, it’s only to be with Marcus. I don’t have any reason for being there other than to be with my boyfriend.”
“But isn’t that enough?” Her pretty face was marred by disappointment when I didn’t answer right away. “So you don’t want to move. Isn’t a long-distance relationship better than none at all?”
“I don’t know,” I said warily. “We’re exactly where we were four years ago, with him one place and me somewhere else. You saw for yourself how he can’t handle the city….”
“That night with the drag queen,” Bridget said, visibly recoiling. “The Shit Lit Hissy Fit.”
(Does it bother you to know that my friends have a special name for that night? Well, they do. It was that…memorable.)
“Right. And I don’t want to visit him on the weekends at Princeton, only to compete for his attention with twice-a-day meditation, term papers, and impromptu coed volleyball games.”
(I wish I had said this to your face, before I left your room on Saturday.)
“Maybe I don’t want to compromise anymore. Why should I have to be the one to compromise? Because I’m a girl? Please. I’d be letting down our gender with that kind of thinking.”
A knowing smile crept across Bridget’s face.
“What?” I asked.
“You sound like Manda.” Bridget giggled.
“I DO NOT SOUND LIKE MANDA.” I was coughing, nearly choking on my eggs. “Don’t ever say I sound like Manda.”
“But you doooooo,” she taunted in a jokey singsong. “She’s rubbing off on you.”
“I hope not,” I replied. “I would have to get a full battery of STD tests….”
At that moment my cell phone rang. I groaned when I saw that it was my sister, calling to remind me that I was already late for her Labor Day soiree.
“You’re still coming, right?” Bethany asked.
“Yes,” I said, “I’m already on my way.”
“Fabulous!” she said. “Just remember you’re a guest today. Though you’re not really a guest, because you’re family! You know what I mean! Just have fun and enjoy, Jessie. I mean it. Enjoy! Enjoy! Enjoy! Enjoy!”
I assured my sister that I would enjoy myself as if my motherfucking life depended on it.
I hung up and rolled my eyes. “Don’t even ask,” I warned Bridget.
Siobhan slapped our bill on the table as she hurried past.
“Look, I love you and Marcus together,” Bridget said, returning to the topic I was eager to drop. “I just want you to be happy, whatever you decide to do.”
I sighed and examined the muddy grounds in the bottom of my coffee mug. “Me too.”
As we stood at the register paying the bill, I noted a small black-and-white portrait posted by the front entrance. In it, a foppish young man wearing a fur-trimmed cloak leaned toward the camera in a throne-like chair, one hand clutching an ornate staff and the other resting thoughtfully against his temple. His soulful eyes spoke almost as clearly as the words written beneath his photo:
“We can have in life but one great experience at best, and the secret of life is to reproduce that experience as often as possible.”
—OSCAR WILDE (1854–1900)
I had never noticed it before, though Bridget assured me that it has always been there.
We stepped