“I’m supposed to help you get back into your groove. Dating feels like an important part of your groove.”
“If that’s the case, why areyoustill single, oh great and powerful maestro of dating?”
He clears his throat. “Maybe I just haven’t found the right person yet.”
“Hooking up in bathrooms doesn’t count as dating,” I mutter.
“What did you say?” he asks, laughing.
“I said sneaking into a bathroom to hook up does not a date make.”
“For a second, when I opened that door—” His eyes land on mine as we wait at a red light, something dangerous sparkling in them. “It seemed like you wouldn’t have minded being the person in that bathroom with me.”
Ruby, if I was flirting with you, you’d know, Eitan said at the engagement party. It’s hard to interpret this as anythingotherthan flirting.
His words, and the door they crack open, charge the moment with electricity. My muscles are tense with the disconnect between who I wish I was—someone confident enough to flirt back—and who I am.
Maybe a couple years ago, we would have met in a bar. I’d have taken a couple shots, run my hands through his hair, and pulled his lips to mine beneath the club lights or on a moon-soaked street at two in the morning.
But that’s not who I am. I’ve been leveled, like an 8.0 earthquake destroyed my very foundation. I can’t even thinkabout that two-years-past version of myself without entering a guilt spiral. I am who I am now, and I should just be happy to be alive. To be cancer free. Pining for someone who no longer exists is a waste of my time.
“That was before I knew what kind of guy you are.” I smooth down the pieces of hair around my face that refuse to behave. “Don’t worry, I’m completely over it.”
“Right,” Eitan says, jaw tight, playfulness gone. A wall smashes down between us. It’s a wall of my own making, but still, disappointment sinks in my gut like a stone. “You know, for someone who’s gone through what you’ve gone through, you’re pretty judgmental.”
Again, we’re stuck at a red light.
Again, Eitan’s eyes meet mine, though this time, they’re impenetrable.
There’s something mirrored between us. A deep ocean we’re both swimming in.
“Maybe you’re not the only person in the world who’s healing from something,” he finishes, the words quiet.
“I know,” I say, careful. “I don’t think that.” I dig my knuckles into my temple and fold in half. “I’m sorry. Everything in me is upside down,” I explain from between my knees. “Like I’m twisted in a knot. I don’t know how to get back to the unknotted version of myself.” These cryptic words are the only explanation I can conjure.
“I think we’re all knotted up, in our own way.” Eitan’s hand touches my shoulder, gentle but sturdy. “C’mon, it’s okay. I forgive you.”
Why am I always making a fool of myself in front of this man? It’s different from my social anxiety. It’s that Eitan makes it impossible to hide.
I sit up, embarrassed.
“Besides—” Eitan purses his lips. “It’s for the best.”
I freeze. It’s exactly what Grant said, when he heralded The End. The words clang through me like I’m hollow.
“Because we need to focus on the wedding,” Eitan explains. “I shouldn’t have—” His nostrils flare. “I don’t want to complicate things.”
“Right,” I say, throat tight. In his words, I hear,You are complicated. And, as we have established, Eitan doesn’t do complicated. Why would you plumb the depths of a damaged psyche like mine when you can skim the surface—keep it easy, breezy, and casual—with anyone else?
I shake my head. Itisfor the best. This entire arrangement is a straightforward transaction: one perfect wedding in exchange for jumper cables zapping my writing career back to life. Expecting anything more out of it is a dangerous game that only ends in heartbreak.
Eitan’sswift de-escalation in the car is a reminder of what I should be focusing on: breaking the news to Penelope. I suck on a piece of frozen mango in my kitchen, playing through every possible scenario of telling Penelope exactly what Louise told me.It’s either the chuppah, or the ceiling.The worst my mind can calculate is Pen firing me from her wedding, and retracting her offer to share my query with Alice.
Which, I’ll admit, is something I’m not willing to risk.
I compose a carefully worded message.Louise is still unsure about the chuppah and the dance-floor ceiling,so we are still deliberating.
She will give in eventually, Pen writes back immediately.But you can make it up to me in the meantime by covering for me for the next few weeks. Book tour is starting early! We added Boston at the beginning so I’m taking the train directly there next week.
