For some moments, my world is my computer monitor with a backdrop of Peter’s stupid burgundy pinstripe suit. Finally, he clears his throat. “Grace, we need to talk.”
I take my time finishing my sentence, then look up. “Hello, Peter. What are you doing here?” I ask in my most professional voice. I don’t believe in bringing personal drama to work.
But if I did, I would dance at how awful he looks. His usually crisp shirt is slightly wrinkled, and the dark circles around his eyes could rival a crying clown’s.
Peter sniffs, then clears his throat again. “Life has gotten impossible since you made me homeless.”
I shoot him a fake frown-smile. “I don’t remember doing that.”
“Oh, come on. You kicked me out even though you knew I’d moved in with you and had no place to go.”
Revisionist, thy name is Peter. “I think the real problem was you cheating on me and then expecting me to let you continue to live at my place. For free.”
He doesn’t address the points that don’t work to his advantage. “Sleeping at the office isn’t doing it for me. It hurts my back.”
“Your lower back? Just above the hips?”
Peter looks surprised, and then a bit gratified. “Yes! Right there in the old lumbar region.”
“Well, there are plenty of ways to loosenthatup. For example, you could have sex with my sister again.”
He ignores my sarcasm—he must be really desperate. “I’ll give you two hundred bucks to sublet your place.”
“Excuuuuse me?”
“I’ll only be there to shower and sleep. Two hundred is more than generous.”
Madison, and now Peter. Is there adoormattattoo on my forehead that everyone can see but me? “Well, tempting as that offer is, I don’t believe my fiancé would like you sleeping there.”
“Fiancé?” An incredulous snort. “You aren’t engaged.”
“Because I’m not good enough for a man to marry, right?”
He shrugs. “Like I said.”
I give him a thin smile. “Here you go.”
I hand him one of the invitations. He looks at it but doesn’t take it. So I push it into his chest.
“Fiiiiine.” A smirk appears on his lips as he opens the envelope. “You know, you don’t have to marry the first guy you can find just to prove me wrong. Have some standards, Grace.” His tone saysheis the standard I should aspire to.
I must’ve been blind and deaf to ever think he was worth dating.
He finally pulls out the invitation and opens it. Red blooms on his cheeks. “What thefuck? You’re marrying Huxley Lasker?”
“Oh, good. You’ve heard of him.”
“No way! He could do so much better than you.”
Well. Huxley certainly didn’t want to marry me. Not that I’ll share that information with Peter. “And yet here we are. Love is blind.” I paste on the most saccharine, lovesick expression I can manage.
“Love?”
“Mm-hmm.” I lift my left hand and wriggle my ring finger so he can see the giant rock. “I hear a man’s love is proportionate to the size of the diamond.”
He takes in the sight and turns even redder. Hopefully he’s remembering all the shitty things he said, ostensibly to remind me of my place: a nice, sweet girl who is oblivious to what her boyfriend is up to, and even if she’s aware, knows better than to say anything, lest she be tossed aside like garbage.
But shame isn’t an emotion Peter feels. If he did, he wouldn’t have slept with Vivienne.
