“Hi everyone!”Penelope’s voice, amplified by a microphone, blares through the back of the bar. She’s on a small stage against the taxidermy wall, Josh standing dutifully by her side like a politician’s spouse. “Thank you all so much for coming. Our closest friends.”Penelope looks around the room, artfully teary eyes scanning every face. “We’re so excited to be moving into this next phase of life with you all by our side. Truly.” Her eyes find me. “We are so lucky.” We smile at each other, and the rest of the room fades away. It’s just us and our keyboards, giggling over sangria and patatas bravas, our dreams so big they spill over the sides of the table.
A thought strikes me: if I say yes to being one of Penelope’s bridesmaids, I could have a hundred moments like this. It’s the first time two items on the Be Yourself List have conflicted.I’ve never had theluxuryof choosing. But even if I’m not a bridesmaid, I’m still going to the wedding, and already making progress with friends. Writing has been a neglected afterthought on the edge of my mind for too long. A combination of the deepest creative slump I’ve ever been in and the magnificently daunting prospect of querying. I love Pen, but I’m not sure she will understand the reason why I can’t be a bridesmaid, much as I want to. She quit her day job after she got her book deal, and she’s been able to live off of that and her content creator income ever since. It’s been a couple years since she’s been in the grind of writing while working a full-time job. It’s a soul-draining routine that makes you want to rip your hair out.
It’s not Pen’s fault she got discovered. I can’t hold her own success against her. But I also can’t keep squatting on my query, letting my manuscript gather dust. It’s still a good book, despite my withered connection to it. It took me five years to write it, which has to mean something. I owe it to my pre-cancer self to see it through.
Penelope finishes her speech and everyone raises a glass. I clink my club soda with everyone around me, and Penelope gracefully lopes off the stage, making her way through the crowd. She walks back toward our group, smiling.
Wait, I think she’s walking right towardme. I hold my breath, giddiness breaking out in my body.
“Can I talk to you?” Pen asks me, leaning so close our foreheads are almost touching. I nod, starstruck by her proximity. I can taste the promise.
Pen pulls me toward the edge of the room. It’s like when we used to sneak away from our group at the club, linger in dark corners and gossip. I may be imagining this but it feels like the party is watching me, being whisked away by the center of everyone’s attention. It’s thrilling, being on the inside.
“So, have you had time to think about it?” Pen asks. My mood stumbles a little, knowing that I have to tell her no. She will understand, I assure myself. I just have to explain. And I can still help out, I just can’t commit toeverything.
“I want to,” I say, smiling so hard my cheeks ache. “But it’s just that I really need to prioritize querying this year.” Pen’s face doesn’t change a millimeter as she listens to me. “I promised myself I would take writing seriously, and I just need to save my time for?—”
Penelope waves a hand, as if this is but a tumbleweed in the road, easily swept away. “Oh, babe, if you’re looking for an agent, Alice will be at the wedding.”
“Alice…Sutherland?”
“Duh! I’m her favorite client. And, hey, I could share your query with her.” Every synapse in my brain lights up with bright marquee letters:AGENTED WRITER.
“That would be incredib?—”
“I’m just going to be so swamped until the wedding. But after all that craziness is done, after the wedding has goneperfectly” —Pen boops my nose— “I’d totally owe you one.”
I bite my lip. This is good, right? I can cross offtwoitems of the Be Yourself List in one go. She’s making it easier to decide, albeit by giving me an ultimatum. An ultimatum with one side containing the prize of a connection to one of the best agents in the business. A soft voice in my mind asks:why can’t she connect you without strings attached?The question exposes an icky residue left by her offer. But it’s still the most progress I’ve made on my list in a year. And ultimatum aside, sheismaking it a no-brainer to say yes.
“Okay,” I say softly, and clear my throat. “I’m in.”
Penelope squeals, right in my ear. “This will be so fun!” She grabs my arm and pulls me back to the group.
“Look who decided to show up after all.” Steve’s voice booms as his hand winds back to clap together with a tan fist, extending from a white linen sleeve. My stomach sinks as I follow the sleeve up to a button down that covers drool-worthy collarbones, a familiar head of caramel-brown hair (receding, I note), and a smile I know for a fact he paid five figures for, after his first banking bonus. Grant.
chapter
nine
Grant Laurent isthe most attractive person you’ve ever met, and he knows it. The five-figure smile is just one of many ways he invests in his ‘first impression,’ as he calls it. Other expenses include the bourgeois wardrobe, the expensive hair products, the luxury gym membership. And for an entire year, that perfection was all mine. Pen didn’t expect us to hit it off, but sparks flew the second we laid eyes on each other (in a bar much like this one, less the taxidermy). We burned fast and bright with Michelin-star dinners when he wasn’t working and a trip to Costa Rica during his one uninterrupted week off. Breast cancer was exceptional at popping that balloon. Turns out when you’re sick and bald and not able to offer someone anything, you learn how much they actually love you.
He waited a gentlemanly three weeks after my last surgery to break the news.It’s for the best, he said, like it was a decision that affected us equally, while I had mere millimeters of hair, no eyebrows, and a surgical bra.
Grant pulls back from Steve and sees me, sweating in my tights, probably looking like I’ve seen a ghost. I’m shit out of luck. No way to avoid him now.
I smooth down my hair, check that the right sliver of midriff is showing, and attempt to swallow my fear.
“Hey, Ruby,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirking up. The one flaw about Grant—the one imperfection he’s not able to buy his way out of—is his voice. It’s nothing crazy, not squeaky high-pitched or anything like that, but it’s just off. Caught somewhere between prepubescent and a whine. When we dated, I blissfully ignored it. Now? I can relish in how strange it is. Finally, I can be grateful that his voice isn’t whimpering in my ear as he comes too quickly.
“It’s so good to see you,” he continues, and I don’t have time to mentally prepare myself before he wraps me up in a hug. The smell that hits me when my face is pulled against his neck is the same as when we were together: some delirious combination of laundry soap, cologne, and teenage dreams. He pulls back and he’s standing a bit closer, scanning all over my face as if to assure himself that I still exist.
“Grant,” I say in what I hope is a calm, cool, and collected tone. “How are you?”
“I’m good, yeah.” His eyes are still roaming. “Good. You look great, by the way,” he adds, picking up a piece of my hair and holding it between his fingers. I catch him sneaking a glance at the bare plunge down the center of my top.
“Thank you?”
“How have you been?” he asks.
