“Speaking of,” Mer says to Josh. “Should you even be here?”
“Sundown, my little Catholic friend, sundown. But actual y”—he looks at Rashmi—“we need to go, if we want to catch dinner in the Marais in time. I’m
craving latkes like no one’s business.”
She glances at the clock on her phone. “You’re right. We better scoot.”
They say goodbye, and then it’s just the three of us. I’m glad Meredith is stil here. Since Thanksgiving, things have regressed between St. Clair and
me. El ie is his girlfriend, and I’m his friend-who-is-a-girl, and I think he feels guilty for overstepping those boundaries. I feel guilty for encouraging him.
Neither of us has mentioned anything about that weekend, and even though we stil sit next to each other at meals, there’s now this thing between us. The ease of our friendship is gone.
Thankful y, no one has noticed. I think. Once I caught Josh mouthing something to St. Clair and then motioning toward me. I don’t know what he said, but
it made St. Clair shake his head in a “shut up” manner. But it could have been about anything.
Something catches my attention. “Is that . . . the Looney Tunes theme?”
Mer and St. Clair c**k their ears.
“Why, yes. I believe it is,” St. Clair says.
“I heard ‘Love Shack’ a few minutes ago,” Mer says.
“It’s official,” I say. “America has final y ruined France.”
“So can we go now?” St. Clair holds up a smal bag. “I’m done.”
“Ooo, what’d you get?” Mer asks. She takes his bag and pul s out a delicate, shimmery scarf. “Is it for El ie?”
“Shite.”
Mer pauses. “You didn’t get anything for El ie?”
“No, it’s for Mum. Arrrgh.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “Would you mind if we pop over to Sennelier before we go home?” Sennelier is a gorgeous
little art supply store, the kind that makes me wish I had an excuse to buy oil paints and pastels. Mer and I went with Rashmi last weekend. She bought
Josh a new sketchbook for Hanukkah.
“Wow. Congratulations, St. Clair,” I say. “Winner of today’s Sucky Boyfriend award. And I thought Steve was bad—did you see what happened in calc?”
“You mean when Amanda caught him dirty-texting Nicole?” Mer asks. “I thought she was gonna stab him in the neck with her pencil.”
“I’ve been busy,” St. Clair says.
I glance at him. “I was just teasing.”
“Wel , you don’t have to be such a bloody git about it.”
“I wasn’t being a git. I wasn’t even being a twat, or a wanker, or any of your other bleeding Briticisms—”
“Piss off.” He snatches his bag back from Mer and scowls at me.
“HEY!” Mer says. “It’s Christmas. Ho-ho-ho. Deck the hal s. Stop fighting.”
“We weren’t fighting,” he and I say together.