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“You are. And she’s in love with you.”
“She’s not,” I say, but my face gives me away.
Celia swats away my denial with a little hand gesture of exasperation. “You’re not fooling anybody, Clare. Except maybe yourself.”
“It’s not like that.”
“It is.” Celia regards me over her half-glasses. “Clare. There’s all kinds of love: eros, philia, agape, ludus, all kinds, and you might think that what you and Becky are up to is the platonic kind, but there’s something else there. Just admit it. You love her.”
“Not in English. Maybe in Greek.”
“Call it whatever, but you two, you’ve got it bad.”
I don’t reply. What would be the point?
She tries again. “Clare? I love you. Why don’t you love me?”
“I do love you. But not the way you want to be loved.”
“No.” Celia has had bad luck with love. Celia loved Ingrid, who loved Henry and then killed herself. I love Henry and I can’t seem to love just anybody else. Why not love Celia the way she wants to be loved? That ought to be a happy thing, but I cannot; my love is wayward and won’t be oughted into being.
“What’s she got that I haven’t got?” Celia demands.
“She’s restful.”
Celia laughs. “You don’t really go for restful! Henry sure wasn’t restful. Really, Clare, what?”
“It’s not like that,” I say. “She’s my friend.”
“Is it because I’m Black?”
Now I’m offended. “Of course not. Beck is Black, too.”
Celia snorts. “She’s the whitest possible Black person. She’s off-white. One drop.”
“Don’t be mean.”
“I’m just trying to figure this out. Maybe if I were taller?”
“Celia. I’m not . . . I’m straight, so is Beck as far as I know.”
“That doesn’t prove anything, Clare. Heck, straight girls are easy. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
“I think about all sorts of things.”
“Mmm, like what?”
“You are such a lech.”
“I could give you lessons.”
“You are a menace.”
Celia gives me a sly smile. “You’ve never had to chase anybody. Your whole life has been one big Manifest Destiny, true love all mapped out in front of you. Maybe this Becky Charles will break your heart a little. It would be good for you.”
“Funny,” I say, struggling to keep my voice even, “I seem to remember being heartbroken when Henry died.”
“Well, sure,” Celia says, in a softer tone. “But Henry would never have left you. I mean, his last words were—”
