The room was deadly quiet. Angry, accusing eyes bored into his body. If looks could kill, he’d be a smoking hole. He ought to be a smoking hole. He was going to be one, or at least, have one somewhere on his body. And he’d deserve it.

He watched her shift feebly, clutching his shirt, her body suddenly frail-looking, and impossibly small.

“You fuck.”

Happy ending, he thought. Not mine. Never mine.

---

She was perfect. Everything he’d ever dreamed of in a girl. True, she was beautiful, obviously intelligent, and had a lovely rich voice delightfully distinct among the high-pitched squeaky girl voices punctuating the other sounds of the party. But what hit him the hardest, right in the chest, was the way she laughed. It wasn’t really an especially wonderful sound, nothing that would inspire poetry or music or anything. But it was so real, so genuine; she laughed at everything, not because she was a giggly twit like Nancy, who was hanging on his arm and twittering away at everything he said or didn’t say because she was drunk and looking for sex. No, she laughed like everything she saw delighted her, like every lame joke that loser Nick was probably telling her was really hilarious. She could make a person feel good, feel special, feel like she was honestly enjoying your company for no reason other than that you were a great person to be around.

She’d done that to Ted, for a few minutes, when Nick had introduced her early on in the evening. She wasn’t a usual member of this crowd – she knew most of the people but didn’t really hang with them. But Nick had recently become more friendly with her, apparently (and rumor had it that though they weren’t dating yet, they would be soon), and had invited her along to the usual Saturday night powwow. Nick was putting on his gentleman guise, leading her around and introducing her to everyone.

“And this is Ted,” he’d told her, for those few brief moments he’d allowed her near another male. “Buddy of mine from calculus. Lives a couple of doors down.”

She’d smiled, and instantly he’d been startled by the delight of that expression. She shook his hand like she was glad to do it, and nodded her head when he made some boring, pathetic greeting like Hi, nice to meet you.

And then she’d been whirled away to smile at more boring, pathetic greetings as if they were eloquent speeches being written just for her.

He’d watched her the rest of the night, but never once had she wavered or broken her happy, cheerful façade. It had to be real…but he’d never met anyone who was genuinely happy in their lives, for no real reason.

The more he’d watched, the more he’d wanted her. Wanted to meet her again, and again; do whatever it took to just get her to look at him longer than a few seconds. He wanted her to listen to his life story, like she was for nearly everyone else in the room. Look at him like what he was saying was some kind of fascinating adventure story or drama. Laugh for him.

But it was obvious useless Nick had already claimed her. And it was equally clear that she was the kind of girl who either pretends not to notice when someone struts around her like an overgrown rooster, or she was actually oblivious. As the night wore on, he put his bet on the latter.

If she didn’t see the blatant displays put on by that idiot Nick, then she was little likely to fall in love with his more reserved attention. Or with him.

What the hell was he thinking, anyway? Someone like her would see someone like him as a wonderful specimen of human life, would laugh at his jokes no matter how dumb, and make him feel like the big man of the party. But in the end, she’d go home and tell her friends she met some awesome people and thought they were great, and he’d become anonymous in that mass description of a good time one night at Nick’s party.

Try anyway, the voice of his mother cut in suddenly. She was always saying stuff like that. Try anyway. You never know when it’s going to work out. There’s always hope. Every story eventually has a happy ending.

Not mine, he’d grouse back, when he was in a foul mood (which was usually when she started saying stuff like this). Never mine.

You can’t say that unless you try every time, his mother would shoot back, and then she’d give him something productive to do.

I could try this time, he thought. I could try.

And he had. He’d gone up to her, said hello again, how are you enjoying yourself?

She’d laughed, and he’d felt that thrill of pleasure run through his stomach and into his throat. He’d kept his face casual, though, his body nonchalant, held his glass like it wasn’t about to slide out of his hand and crash all over the floor.

She’d said “It’s great. I’m enjoying myself immensely.”

Immensely? Not good, or well, or fine, but immensely?

“English major,” she laughed again, and rubbed her hands with mock evil glee. “Words are my playthings.”

He’d wanted to make some witty, pointed remark about playthings, but Nick beat him to it. And she’d mock rolled her eyes and poked him in the chest – “Shame on you. Didn’t your mother teach you how to behave around a lady?” He grabbed her hand and told her he was willing to be taught – and they had forgotten him. Or Nick had. She made a point of turning back to him, made a point of trying to carry on a conversation that hadn’t started, really. But he’d seen the futility of it all, and smiling, made some boring, pathetic excuse and bowed out of their sphere.

Now it was back to the watching.

And then it came to him – the idea. Happy ending. It could happen. He’d just have to finagle the circumstances. As it stood, her joy in everything was directed at…everything. She was so focused on soaking in every detail of the atmosphere around her, she barely noticed anything not immediately near her.

He could fix that. He could fuzz over her intense focus on the world around her. And then, if he could just get near enough, he could bring what was left of her attention to himself alone.

Then they’d see about that happy ending.

It wouldn’t take much, not to catch the notice of such a girl. She didn’t even seem like much of a drinker – Nick had gotten her a Sprite when everyone else was into the Coors and margaritas. It would probably only take half of the little white pills he had found in his cousin’s laundry, the little white hopes for men who had no natural hope. He put his watching to good use, and when her Sprite was almost empty, he got her another before pitiful Nick could run off and do it for her. He was even a gentleman and opened it for her. And before he brought it out, he dropped a whole pill in – just to be safe.

Her eyes lit up when he handed it to her, and she thanked him like it was a diamond or something he had traveled across the desert sands to get just for her.

And half an hour later it was empty.

An hour later, she turned pale, and dropped to the floor.

An hour and ten minutes later, Nick was holding her shaking, jerking body, calling her name, yelling for someone to call the ambulance.

Someone – Nancy or maybe Jen – screamed. The party swirled around, forming a perfect circle around them both. And Ted stood watching. Nick was rocking her against his chest, speaking in soothing tones now, telling her “It’s okay, you’re going to be alright.” In a few moments, the jerking stopped, and she gasped and clutched his arm.

“That’s right,” Nick kept crooning, suddenly looking older and calmer than Ted had ever seen. “That’s right, take deep breaths, baby, it’s going to be okay. I know you’re tired, but don’t go to sleep. Wait for the ambulance.”

And he rocked her, and when she managed to focus her wild eyes, the pale, frightened face relaxed, and even, God, managed a weak smile and a breathless whisper. “I’ll be okay………”

“Of course. Of course you will. Just hang on, Sarah.”

Watching them, he knew. This was something he could not have. Not from her, probably not from anyone. This was something more than a captivating laugh or a charming wit. This was strength and hope and gratitude and comfort and all the million things that he’d always heard of in sappy love stories but never actually seen in real life. It was better in real life. It was cleaner, less sticky. It simply…was.

Not mine.

And then Nick had looked up. His eyes had landed on the Sprite can, flung across the floor when the jerking had begun.

It had landed, accusingly, at his feet, and without thinking, he’d swooped and picked it up. And now there he stood, can half crushed in his hand, dripping a vaguely whitish liquid on the floor.

Nick had looked up, at Ted, and knew. It was there, somewhere, written on Ted’s betraying face. “You,” he hissed, and all eyes had reeled to bore, to see.

Sarah jerked again, coughing. Nick looked away long enough to brush the hair from her face and rock her again, until the jerks faded a moment later.

And Ted had watched, and been struck once more with the knowledge that he would never be that strong for someone else. He would never hold someone while they twisted and cried and puked. He would never force himself to look calm and confident when someone was possibly dying in his lap.

He watched her shift feebly, clutching his shirt, her body suddenly frail-looking, and impossibly small.

The room was deadly quiet. Nick looked up again; angry, accusing eyes bored into his body. If looks could kill, he’d be a smoking hole. He ought to be a smoking hole. He was going to be one, or at least, have one somewhere on his body. And he’d deserve it. (Yes, sonny, you do. Sometimes truth is harsher than lies.)

“You fuck.”

Happy ending, he thought. Not mine. Never mine.

---

She chased him in his dreams, haunted his waking hours, alternately vivacious and choking, laughing and gasping.

Three days of madness before he broke. He bought her a bouquet, the best at the shop, and wrote a letter in which he told her everything – about the hope, the happy endings, and the amazing way she made everyone seem important and worthy. And he’d gone to the hospital.

The nurse had innocently let him in – it was visiting hours – and he’d stood by the door for a long minute with his flowers and his envelope with the words “Sarah” written in his mad scrawling script. Finally he’d worked up the nerve to turn the handle.

Of course Nick was there.

He was almost across the room, fist drawn back, when she’d shifted on the bed and called his name.

Ted had waited until Nick returned to his chair on the other side of the big, white hospital bed before venturing near enough to set the flowers and envelope down on the bedside table.

She didn’t turn her head away, or frown, or scream, or do anything he might have taken as discouragement. She just looked at him. Blankly, like he was something she had never seen before or like she was dead, a corpse with moving eyes.

He swallowed hard. I’m sorry, he managed to murmur, pathetically.

And then she spoke.

“I don’t care.”

He waited, not sure what to do now.

“I’m sure you think that flowers and an apology are pretty much all you can do at this point,” she went on, and he stood frozen to the floor, watching her face, once so completely alive, now so eerily lifeless. “And maybe it is. But it isn’t enough.”

She shifted her eyes to the ceiling, talking to the air and allowing him to overhear. She sounded thoughtful now, like this was something that was just occurring to her. Nick took her hand, and she smiled a little without looking at him. “You made a choice. Now you have to live with the consequences – and if the consequences are that you will feel horrible and apologetic for a long time, then that’s how it is. I don’t know how this is going to affect you in the long run.” And then she was looking at him again, and her face went lifeless immediately. “I do know how it affects me, though. I chose, too. I chose to forgive you, for my sake more than yours. But I will never forget. And I will never trust you again.” The faint suggestion of thunder left her voice then, and in a flat, boring voice she said, Goodbye Ted.

She turned her head away, toward Nick, who glowered at him with a burning hatred that promised pain should they ever meet outside this room. And she smiled at idiot Nick, pathetic Nick, bloody stupid thug Nick, like she was honestly glad he was there, like he was a great person who was wonderful to be around.

That fast, Ted ceased to exist.

He walked away from the only real-life happy ending he’d ever seen, and knew it would not be the last. But not mine.

Never mine.