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Adrian had never heard, growing up, that love was an emotion that could ever be confused with frustration. Not 'frustration' in the sexual context – just in that plain, ugly, hateful way that made your spine crawl and face flush. She didn't know that the butterflies in your stomach could pound and scratch and burn in your gut, twisting it into knots of simultaneous hope and contempt.
She'd read enough books and listened to enough songs on the radio to know that love had highs and lows. It was complicated, malleable and ever-changing. Except her feelings didn't change. She always loved Celeste Inpax. And she always hated her dependence on young, stupid boys.
Celeste was a wonder. She was efficient, yet warm, and brought order and stability to everything she touched. It was no wonder that people flocked to her – she embodied control. Everyone need s control, sometimes. Even foppish, arrogant television actors.
“Oh, just forget about Matt,” Celeste insisted every time that Adrian tried to explain how she felt about these things. “I already have.”
Clearly, she was telling the truth – why else would she be doing this again? It couldn't last, and it couldn't end well. Adrian wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, sometimes. She'd long since given up on the idea of grabbing her by the shoulders for any other reason.
O r had she? Some small part of her must still be clinging to the idea of something , as she worked with Celeste every day. In some cruel form of logic, you can't truly hurt without some sort of hope. So, surely, she felt something as she f ollowed her mentor's every instruction, listened to her talk about anything and everything, laughed with her, hugged her... and tried to be civil to her boyfriend.
At first, she fully embraced her contempt for any man in Celeste's life. She deserved it, for certain. But some higher part of herself wanted to want for Celeste to be happ y . Even with Juan Corrida. And so she would try to convince herself that she didn't – couldn't – see the full picture of their relationship. People were complicated, and surely there was a lot more depth to this boy than she could see from the outside.
It was a mistake, then, to allow herself to become Celeste's confidant. Any optimism she tried to force upon herself became all the harder to maintain when Celeste would open up to her , of all people, about the troubles in her romantic life.
“I keep trying to tell him about Matt, you know,” she'd say, “But every time he's even mentioned, Juan gets so unreasonable.” She would sigh, long and drawn out. “It's like he turns into this whole other person. He's so sweet, usually.” She'd look down at her hands – long-fingered and pale. The sharp lines of her shoulders would turn down, just slightly. “I just really want this to work out.”
She overheard Celeste on the phone, a few days after. “He's my best friend,” Celeste explained to whoever listened on the other side. “I know you'll be crazy about him too.” It stung like nothing Adrian had ever felt before. Her best friend . It was the first time she'd noticed that Celeste, despite all the frustration, cared more about him than about her.
A week later she dropped him off at the studio with a quick kiss and a soft “I love you,” and Adrian wanted to scream.
The small seams of malice continued to stab at her gut for days afterwards . She thought about quitting, thought about trying to cut Celeste out of her life. She couldn't. Because sometimes Celeste would look so tired and hurt, but give a small, grateful smile when Adrian put a comforting hand on her shoulder.
Those were about the only times that Adrian felt powerful.
She kept waiting for it to end. She knew it would, because even at the best of times, Celeste seemed ill at ease. One night, she had been sure that Juan was going to leave her. Adrian rubbed her back as she fretted. Two days later she came to the office with a big engagement ring, all smiles. It was... surreal.
But engagements were not binding. They ended all the time.
This one would end.
She was sure of it.
And it would be better.