Eitan steps closer. “You really need to?—”
Squeals and cheers at the stairs interrupt him. Penelope and Josh have arrived, providing me the perfect excuse to leave this conversation and the hurt it’s lobbing at me.
“I have to go.” I walk away, not looking at him, making my way to greet the happy couple. The lucky couple.
Penelope wears a tight, floor-length long-sleeve lace dress, and Josh is in a navy suit. They look perfect as a picture.
I hold my arms out for a hug but get blinded by a sudden flash. There’s a photographer behind them.
“Oh, Ruby” —Pen smiles— “could you step out of the way? We’re trying to get some photos before we start eating.”
“Right,” I say, masking my disappointment. “Of course.”
I relegate myself to a cocktail table in the corner, sucking on my club soda. The knife in my gut turns as I watch Deep arrive and give Eitan an especially long hug.
Calliope prattles on next to me, helping me look busy and carefree. In reality, I come close to throwing up in my mouth at the sight. Eitan’s eyes catch mine for a second before his jaw sets and he lets Deep lead him to the bar.
I am made of bitterness.
Steve comes in like a wrecking ball, an hour late, drink already in hand. I remember the way he looked at me during the engagement party. There was something there, some deeply buried spark of attraction.
If nothing else, it could be enough to make Eitan feel at least afractionof how I’ve been feeling the past week.
I waltz up to Steve, making sure we’re only a few feet from Eitan, and throw my arms around his neck. He smells like an Abercrombie store.
Eitan’s eyes burn a hole in the side of my head as I do it.Good, I think with satisfaction.
“Hey, Ruby,” Steve says breathily into my ear. The sound is like nails grating on my spine.
“Good to see you,” I murmur. Steve looks a mixture of surprised and cocky, like he didn’t expect this from me and also what room does Steve walk into where a womandoesn’tthrow herself at him?
I shove down my repulsion and hover close to Steve, letting our arms brush, fueled by Eitan’s continuing glares. Waiters in all black circulate brass trays of appetizers on small black cocktail napkins. I scarf down two arancini and three tuna tartare. Slowly, the Camp Goldberg group drifts together. I stay on the periphery. Close enough to listen, but not quite a part of it.
An impromptu dance floor begins when “Love Story” by Taylor Swiftplays on the speaker, everyone under fifty singing along. The playlist seems to sense the group’s desire to dance, and keeps it going with Sabrina Carpenter and Chappell Roan.
Grant and Felicity arrive over an hour late. Seeing him isn’t a punch in the gut. If anything, I feel sorry for him. We spent over a year together, and I barely felt a fraction of what I did with Eitan. May he be cursed with a lifetime of lukewarm love. Meanwhile, I’ll be cursed with the Universe’s reminder of what happens when you let your guard down.
Eitan shuffles along to the music, Deep clinging to his side like glue. The rest of Camp Goldberg keeps the rhythm going, joined by wined-up suburban moms who must be family friends. Eitan and Deep are dancing a bit awkwardly, but they seem like they’re laughing, and—most importantly—Eitan’s looking at her like she’s the easiest thing in the world.
“Espresso” by Sabrina Carpenter plays. A fitting song for the confusing, bubbly haze that the sight raises in me.
I grunt to myself like a Bond villain. I grab Steve by the tie and pull him away from what appears to be a riveting conversation with Ant.
“We’re dancing,” I inform Steve.
“Oh.” His drink sloshes as I yank him toward the center of the dancing crowd. “Alright, sure.”
Steve is not a great dancer. I shudder to think of what he’s like without three well drinks in him. Still, I try to match my sway to his, painstakingly carefree, moving my hips in a way that could be considered, in the right light, sultry. Steve’s eyes go soft. He’s pleased, thinking this show is for him. I double down and move closer, coasting my hands over his chest (trying not to cringe), and steal a glance at Eitan.
Seaglass eyes watch us murderously. I smile at him.
“You know,” Steve whispers in my ear, and I have to consciously stop my body from recoiling. “I kind of like small boobs,” he says bravely.
I pull back. “Oh, really?” I ask, dry as the Sahara. A true martyr, Steve is.
He attempts a smirk, but it’s got nothing on the lips I actually want to see break out in their signature asymmetrical grin.
I can’t do this.
