Top Ten(83)

“Are you okay?” Gabby asked now, looking at him and frowning, a Nerf gun clutched in one hand. “You’ve been rubbing your head all afternoon.”

“No, I haven’t,” Ryan said automatically, jamming both hands into the Rubbermaid bin to illustrate. His headaches had never been this bad in the off-season before. His vision had also started doing a weird thing where it blurred and then focused again for no reason, but that did not feel like the kind of thing he should mention at this particular moment.

“Ryan—” Gabby said, but Ryan shook his head to stop her, taking the gun from her hand and shooting her in the bicep with a little foam dart.

“Come on,” he said, “I’m bored of this. Let’s go get some ice cream.”





GABBY


They went to a place in Colson Village with weird flavors like lavender and Earl Grey tea and a long line that snaked around the block on Friday nights during the summer. Gabby had never minded waiting back when she used to come here with Shay—it was good people-watching—but with Ryan it always kind of felt like running a gauntlet: a million different people to say hi to, a million different chances to embarrass herself. On top of which it felt like every time they were out in town they bumped into some different ex-girlfriend of Ryan’s, all of whom seemed less than impressed with his current romantic situation: namely, Gabby herself.

“Did you hook up with her?” Gabby asked now, raising her eyebrows in reply to a nasty look from a dark-haired girl in cutoffs crossing the parking lot; Ryan looked at her guiltily, and Gabby sighed. “Dude, did you hook up with every girl in Colson or what?”

“Not every girl,” Ryan defended himself. “Just like, eighty percent.”

Gabby snorted, although she didn’t actually think it was that funny at all. It wasn’t the hookups themselves that bothered her, exactly—or, okay, they bothered her a little, but she knew it wasn’t fair to be annoyed with Ryan for stuff that had happened back before they were together. It just felt like they were constantly bumping into people who were sizing her up, wondering what a guy like Ryan was doing dating a nervous, awkward girl like her. It was like every worry she’d had at the beginning of their friendship was back in full force, only a hundred times worse because now there was sex involved.

And then there was the other piece, which was the fact that forever running into girls Ryan had gotten bored of and promptly discarded over the last four years didn’t exactly boost Gabby’s confidence about her own ability to hold his attention. For so long she’d kept herself apart from his never-ending parade of five-minute girlfriends—been openly contemptuous of them, even—and now here she was joining their ranks at the very last minute, bringing up the rear of the march. It was a gross thought; she felt like a gross person for having it. And for the first time since she’d known him, she thought Ryan was a little gross, too.

She was trying to figure out how to explain that to him in a way that didn’t sound like some horrible accusation when somebody called his name. Gabby winced, expecting another ex-girlfriend, but it was actually a preppy couple approaching them now in matching Cornell T-shirts: “Hey!” Ryan called. He’d played hockey with the dude, whose name was Turner; his girlfriend, Sara, was visiting from Vermont. “What are you guys up to?”

“Having some people over to Turner’s tonight, actually,” the girl said. “You guys should come.”

“That sounds awesome,” Ryan said immediately, then looked at Gabby. “You down?”

Gabby hesitated. On one hand, she wanted to go to this random stranger’s house like she wanted a hole in the head, and if she and Ryan hadn’t been dating, she definitely would have begged off. On the other hand, she and Ryan were dating. She didn’t want to be a wet blanket. “Sure,” she managed. “Sounds like fun.”

It was not fun. It wasn’t a rager—maybe a dozen people total hanging out in a basement rec room, weed smoke and microwave popcorn and Scarface on TV—but in some ways that made it worse: there was nowhere for her to hide. It felt like everybody was wondering what she was doing here—including Felicity Trainor, who’d had a hate-on for Gabby since sophomore year. “She does not,” Ryan said when she mentioned it in the kitchen, like she was being a crazy person. “She probably doesn’t even remember who you are.” He stopped then. “I didn’t mean—”

“No,” Gabby said, cheeks flushing. “I know. It’s fine.”

The night dragged on. Gabby sat on the edge of her couch with her beer, feeling her anxiety creep higher and higher, like the mercury in a cartoon thermometer. It wasn’t logical—Gabby knew that—but her stupid anxiety had never been logical. She wanted to leave. She would have left, six months or two years ago; it was close enough that she could have walked home. She wanted to get in bed and read her damn Tudors book until she felt calm and comfortable in her skin again.