I smiled gently. “It’s Cam, isn’t it?”
“Your sister?” Terry shook her head. “I’m not in love with her.” It was a simple, forthright denial. No blushing, no cringing, no looking away.
“I didn’t sayin love,” I amended, thinking it might be a semantic issue. “I just meant you might be carrying a torch. Because of how you talk about her.”
“I do admire her,” Terry said. “She’s so cool. Great poker face.”
It wasn’t exactly an ode to romantic love. “Then you don’t want to date her?”
“Not really, no.”
“Huh.” My eloquence seemed to be fading along with my ability to read people.
“I thought it was because of your mom.” Arden lifted her chin in Terry’s direction. “Like you were afraid she’d feel bad if you found someone before she did.”
Her mother! A classic thematic wrinkle. Why hadn’t I thought of that?
“I do worry about her being lonely, but that’s not why.” Terry looked at us through her lashes. “I’ve never really had a crush on anyone. Or if I did, I didn’t notice. I’m not sure what it’s supposed to feel like. Is that strange?”
“Strange is someone who picks off pieces of their own skin and eats it. Your feelings, and nonfeelings, are just part of who you are.” Arden smiled encouragingly. “Maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet.”
“Or maybe she’d rather be alone,” Lydia countered.
“Or a nun,” suggested Arden, snapping her fingers.
I pointed at Terry. “Who’s also a forensic pathologist.”
Lydia looked impressed. “I’d watch the crap out of that TV show.”
The first bell rang. We still had five minutes to get to class, but lunch was technically over. I felt a frisson of panic. Was everything settled? Had they forgiven me? Were we friends again, or merely in a state of détente? These didn’t seem like the kind of questions I could verbalize.
Arden stood, looking down at me. “You know what we need to do now?”
“Oh. Sorry.” I stumbled to my feet.
“What are you doing?” Lydia asked.
“I meant to leave after the apology. Not overstay my welcome.”
“That was your plan? Show up, apologize, take off?”
“Kind of? I thought maybe you’d want to discuss things—without me.”
“What I wasgoingto say,” Arden cut in with a trace of impatience, “is that we should celebrate. Preferably someplace that is not the cafeteria.”
I looked down at the scarred tabletop. “Then you’re speaking to me?”
“Wenever stopped,” Arden pointed out.
Sighing, I added this to my list of recent blunders.
As we wended our way through the cafeteria, I felt Arden watching me. “I guess they didn’t cover this in any of your books,” she said when I looked up.
“This?”
“Friendship.”
It was true that the driving force in novels was more often a romantic arc: the so-called marriage plot. Unless it was a story-of-my-life bildungsroman, but those seemed to be the exclusive province of boys. (Quelle surprise,as my mother would say.)
