Arnold's POV
As the rain drums against Phoebe's windows, laughter and chatter fill the room; Sid's telling one of his trademark sales stories, complete with wild gestures, while Gerald provides running commentary, making me grin into my wine glass. All the usual suspects seem to be here, along with one very welcomed re-emergence—a presence I hadn't realized how much I'd missed in settings like this until now. The warmth of our circle is almost enough to distract me from a nagging curiosity: where are Rhonda and Curly?
Everyone was invited, and it's not like Curly to miss a chance to stir up chaos at a gathering like this. If he's not here, he's probably scaling some rooftop or plotting his next elaborate stunt. And Rhonda—she'd usually be working the room at an upscale event by now, but it's hard to ignore the timing. Their on-and-off dynamic is practically legendary, and their simultaneous absence feels more like a choice than a coincidence. I don't know if anyone else has noticed, but I can't shake the feeling that there's more to it than meets the eye.
My eyes wander to Gerald's laptop on the dining table. Between hosting events at The Blue Room and working as a freelance developer, he always seems to have something going on. It's a good balance for him—and Phoebe. They've always seemed to have it together, balancing their busy lives like it's second nature. Even Sid, for all his antics, seems to have carved out his own rhythm—a way of finding purpose in the chaos he creates.
Lila and Phoebe emerge from the kitchen with snacks, and Sid immediately protests, "Celery sticks again? What's with you people and rabbit food?" But he's already helping Phoebe arrange the plates, a habit from our college days when he'd secretly make sure she ate during finals week.
"Hey, the future Dr. Heyerdahl-Johannsen is keeping you alive," Gerald counters, wrapping an arm around Phoebe's waist as she settles on his lap. "Don't bite the hand that feeds you."
Sid mumbles something about "real food," but his actions betray his words as he's helping Lila now. I notice the dark circles under Lila's eyes that she's tried to cover with makeup - telltale signs of another rough patch with Arnie - and make a mental note to check on her later.
With so many personalities in the room, still, my attention keeps drifting to Helga. I can't help stealing glances, taking in the way she laughs and rolls her eyes at Sid's jokes. Each time our eyes meet, I let my smile linger a moment longer than necessary. It's deliberate—these small moments of connection I've been dropping all night, hoping she'll pick up on them.
She spots me watching again, and something in her expression shifts. Her hair falls over one shoulder as she leans forward, the warm light enhancing the majestic hints of gold in her strands.
I've never stopped thinking she's beautiful, but it's different now—sharper, more vivid, like every detail about her demands my attention. Even the faint smudge of eyeliner under her eyes only makes her look more real, more herself. It's magnetic, and I wonder if she has any idea how much I notice.
Sid slips up and says something playfully cheeky, earning a pillow to the face from Lila. "Fine, fine. No more rabbit food slander. But you all sure know how to treat a guest," he says, grinning as he tosses it back. "Some of us stick around for the long haul, you know.", he adds with a practiced smile, his gaze sliding toward Helga. Sid's grin pauses on Helga for just a second too long, and though I know better, it stirs something uneasy. He's always been like this—friendly to a fault—but there's a part of me that wonders if I'm imagining the extra warmth in his tone when he talks to her.
"You're no guest. You're a nuisance," Gerald fires back, laughing. His perceptive glance shifts between Sid and me. "And besides, man, you're about five years too late to that party."
"I'm telling you, one day, you'll all see me with a corner office and a yacht. Just wait." Sid barks back, shooting a grin over his shoulder before heading toward a female guest.
Helga leans closer, her breath warm against my ear. "These fools haven't changed a bit."
"Not entirely," I reply, seeing Sid in an unexpectedly thoughtful discussion with one of Phoebe's med-school friends. "Even Sid has layers. You just have to dig deep."
After more laughter and banter, Phoebe checks her phone. "Hate to break this up, but early rounds tomorrow."
"Already?" Helga starts gathering her things, but before she can fully rise, I touch her arm lightly. My heart races at the softness of her skin under my fingertips, and for a split second, I think about how perfectly her hand had fit in mine at the wedding years ago.
"I could give you a ride home," I offer, aiming for casual but hearing the challenge in my voice. "Unless you're still running away from me?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Lila hiding a smile behind her wine glass. Helga hesitates for a moment, then scoffs.
"Please, Football Head. If I were running, you'd never catch me."
When she crosses her arms and looks me up and down, her smirk daring me to rise to the occasion, my grin feels dangerous and unfamiliar. "Want to test that theory?"
Water splashes against Phoebe's windows as we say our goodbyes. I feel Helga's shoulder bump against mine as we walk down the stoop. I spot her sideways glance—she's still processing this side of me, the one that chose a motorcycle over my grandfather's old Packard. I can't help but smile, knowing she always sees me as that more straight-laced kid from PS 118.
Out of nowhere, obviously feeling inspired by the weather, she murmurs something that makes my heart skip: "I want to do with you what spring does with cherry trees."
I slow my steps, my pulse jumping. "Neruda's Poem XIV," I say, watching her eyes widen. "But I've always preferred 'Twenty Love Poems' closing lines – 'In you the wars and the flights accumulated. From you, the wings of songbirds rose.'"
She scoffs, but I catch the faint pink rising on her cheeks. "Since when do you read Neruda, Football Head?"
I meet her gaze. "Let's just say I developed an appreciation for poetry over the years." I leave out the part about how her old notebook started it all.
The drizzle seems to pause between us, and I become acutely aware of our closeness. I break the tension with a lighter tone.
"Tell me, do you like Reggaeton?"
She frowns, shrugging. "It's not my go-to, but I like it, alright."
"Okay," I smile, gathering my courage. "Wanna go to the Mojito Club?"
Her eyes dart uncertainly. "Isn't that miles from here?" I nod. "You want to go all the way to the other side of town tonight?" Her hands come to her hips after dramatically gesturing to the sky. Many of her mannerisms haven't changed. "What if it starts pouring buckets of rain again?"
The role reversal isn't lost on me—Helga being cautious while I'm suggesting something spontaneous. I climb onto my bike and reach out my hand, unable to resist teasing: "Ah, don't tell me Helga Pataki is afraid of getting soaked tonight..."
The motorcycle comes alive beneath us as I guide it through rain-slicked streets. Helga's arms around my waist make my pulse race, and at each stoplight, I can't help but cover her hand with mine, my thumb tracing her knuckles. Her cotton shirt is soaked through where it presses against my back, and I can feel her warmth seeping into me despite the cold drops pelting us. When she shivers, I guide her hands into my jacket pockets, the sudden intimacy making my pulse spike.
Her arms tighten around me with each turn, and I can't tell if it's the cold or something else, but it feels like she's holding on a little more deliberately now. And I don't mind at all.
It's strange—this ease I feel with her tonight, this willingness to lean into the moment instead of second-guessing every move. It could be the years apart that make it feel new. Or perhaps it's just her—how she always has a way of pulling me out of my head without even trying.
"You okay back there?" I ask at a red light, turning slightly.
"Just wondering when you turned into such a rebel, Football Head," she replies, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
"Maybe I've always had it in me," I say with a half-smile, feeling her chest vibrate against my back with a small laugh. It's a soft, unguarded sound—one I'm not sure I've ever heard from her before. I can't help the grin tugging at my lips as I add, "You're not the only one who can surprise people, Helga." If her laugh is any indication, maybe I'm doing something right tonight.
The light changes, and I turn back to focus on the road, my heart racing when she rests her chin on my shoulder. We move through traffic in sync, and I find myself hyperaware of every point where our bodies connect. At each stop, I can't resist touching her hand where it rests against my stomach, giving it a quick squeeze before we continue.
The Mojito Club pulses with energy—raw and alive compared to The Blue Room's refined atmosphere. I place my hand on the small of her back to steady her as we navigate through the crowd. Each time she glances up at me, I tell myself her shivers are just from the rain.
It's more crowded than usual tonight, forcing me to angle my body to shield Helga from the surge of people near the bar. I track exit points instinctively, an old habit from watching over friends at college parties. When she steps closer, my arm finds the small of her back naturally, keeping her balanced as another group pushes past.
I step away for a second to find a good spot, and just that fast, some redhead guy is in her face. Something primitive tightens in my chest—a feeling I haven't experienced since watching her dance with other guys at Rhonda's parties. Before I can think it through, I'm already moving; my arm slides between them, a gesture that looks innocent but isn't. I lock eyes with him, letting years of unspoken claim show in my expression. He takes in my height advantage and squared shoulders and backs off without a word. Smart guy.
When the music speeds up, I decide to be playful, turning to face away from her and moving my hips against hers. Her laughter rises above the noise, rich and genuine, and it makes my heart soar as she matches my movements.
"Still got those moves from the April Fool's dance?" I tease, leaning close to her ear.
She laughs, her head tilting just enough that I catch the faintest smile before she fires back: "If I recall, you were the one who ended up in the pool." Her quick wit makes my heartbeat speed up in a way that's both familiar and new. I can't help but lean in a little closer, feeding off her energy, off her willingness to let this moment linger.
I chuckle against her neck: "Maybe I jumped in on purpose."
The music shifts to something slower, and my hands find her hips naturally. This isn't like those awkward school dances—this is charged with years of implicit feelings. My thumb circles her waist, and my gaze drifts to her lips before I can stop myself. The responsible part of my brain—the one that's kept me in check forever—says to maintain distance. But every other cell in my body remembers how she felt in my arms at the wedding reception.
"Remember that house party third year?" I murmur. "When you read your poetry on Rhonda's roof?"
"You were there?" she asks, pulling back enough to see my face.
"I was always there," I admit, regret flashing through me. "Even when you didn't know it."
Our foreheads nearly touch, and for a moment, everything else withers. Five years of wanting, and now she's here, looking at me with those blue eyes that have haunted every relationship since college. The conflict between being a gentleman and wanting to kiss her senselessly makes my jaw clench.
But then she pulls back slightly, breaking the tension. "We should probably..."
"Yeah," I agree, though letting go is the last thing I want to do. "It's getting late."
The ride back feels charged with possibility. Helga's arms around my waist tighten as we weave through the rain-slick streets. Each stoplight feels like an eternity, her warmth pressing into my back. Her grip has changed since we started—tighter now, more intentional. When she shivers, I guide her hands deeper into my jacket pockets, the sudden intimacy of it making my pulse spike.
At each stop, I scan the intersection - old neighborhoods can get rough this late. Gentle rain carries her scent to me—vanilla and something distinctly Helga, mixing with leather and wet pavement. Where her chest presses against my back feels like fire despite the cold drops pelting us.
At her apartment, I kill the engine but hesitate to let her go. "I had fun tonight."
"Yeah," she replies, unwrapping her arms. "Who knew you could dance like that?"
Before she can fully step away, I hook her hand lightly. "Want to continue this inside? Just to talk, I mean." I continue to stumble over the words, suddenly unsure. The confident guy from the club feels miles away, and I'm back to being the kid who never quite found the right words around her.
"Arnold," she interrupts, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Shut up and come inside before we both drown out here."
Her words make me laugh, and for a second, I catch myself marveling at how effortless this feels—how I'm standing here in the rain, soaked to the bone, and yet somehow, I feel like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. This isn't the old me, the one who would've overthought every word. This is something different—something I didn't know I had in me until she came back.
Watching that age-old half-smile play across her lips, I feel my feet move before my mind can catch up. The cold droplets slip down my neck, but all I can focus on is the way her damp hair clings to her cheek and how effortlessly she pulls me out of my head. My hand reaches for hers, tentative at first, then firm as I step closer, closing the space between us. Now that the moment has come, I'm not going to overthink—I'm just going to take a chance.