“Your slot begins in fifteen minutes,” I tell her.
“Thanks,” she says, distracted, pulling out her phone.
“Ruby!” Penelope calls. She may as well have a bell to ring for me.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Can you get some clips of the getting ready process?” She holds out her phone (new, pink, with a bead charm dangling off of it). I open the camera and press record. Pen poses, seafoam face mask applied and hair clipped off in sections. Always managing to look effortlessly glamorous.
Her makeup artist steps away for a break, and it’s just the two of us.
“Hey, Pen?”
“What’s up?” She smiles, hands beneath her chin, cheesing hard for the camera.
“Why didn’t you tell me Alice was a family friend?”
Pen freezes for a moment before her nose wrinkles. “Didn’t I?”
I shake my head slowly. “No, you didn’t.”
“What does it matter?” Her tone is genuine. She doesn’t even realize the difference.
I drop the camera. “You told me this story, for years, that you got your agent and your book deal because of a viral post. You made it sound like you had achieved it entirely on your own merit.”
“I did,” she says, voice turning to ice.
“No, you didn’t,” I push. I’m not backing down. “You had opportunities that most aspiring writers could only dream of. I’m not saying you didn’t work hard—I know you did—but it’s harmful to act like those advantages don’t matter.”
Pen’s eyes narrow. “I’m going to give you ten seconds to get a grip on yourself and remember that this ismy day. Theseconnections” —the word is mocking, derisive, as her champagne nails make air quotes— “are the only reason your book is even halfway to an editor’s inbox. So get off your high horse before I decide to tell Alice I was wrong about you.”
She’s been dangling this golden ticket in front of my face, its string capable of being tugged out of reach at a moment’s notice. It’s all wrong.Friends don’t make friends offers with strings attached.Eitan was right. Maybe Idon’tknow Penelope. Or at least, this version of her.
“Nevermind.” I toss her phone back in her lap and leave the wedding suite, needing fresh air. Turns out hot flashes can be triggered by cute boys, public humiliation, and ego death.
The hotel lobby is full of tourists, and I keep my head down as I cross to the revolving door. In my floor-length gown, professional makeup, and braided halo of hair, I look like enough of a spectacle without adding public crying to the mix.
Josh stands outside in a full tuxedo, eyes tired, smoking a cigarette.
“Hi,” I say, the surprise of seeing him outside halting the tears.
“Oof.” He clutches his chest. “You scared me.” Both our eyes land on the smoldering end of the cigarette.
“Don’t tell Eitan,” he says sheepishly, running a hand through his carefully gelled red hair. “He’d kill me if he knew I picked this back up.”
I shrug. “We’re not really speaking, so no issues there.”
Josh gives me a sad look, like he’s aware of how far Eitan and I have fallen.
“Weddings, right?” he asks, taking another drag. “Are they always this stressful?”
“I think they’re supposed to be the best day of your life.” I grimace. “Not that I’ve come anywhere close to having one. So who knows, that could be just another scam.”
Josh shakes his head. “She’s just stressed,” he says, acknowledging the elephant standing on the sidewalk with us. “It’s not always like this.”
It’s the same thing I’ve been telling myself for months. When Josh says it back to me, the excuse is practically see-through. The wedding is stressing her out, and therefore she’s not at her best. But I’ve been through hard things too. And when I was at my lowest, I didn’t treat anyone this way.
Tori rounds the block, her phone drifting down from her ear, swaying on her feet.
