“It’s going to be different,” I assured him. “It’s nowhere but up from here,” I said, as a tear escaped the corner of my eye. I wanted the words to be true, but even then I knew they were a lie.
“I’m sorry, Ruby.” He stood, then. Like he had seen what he needed to see.
“Please,” I whispered, not letting his hand go. “Don’t do this. It will get better. I will get better. I–Ipromise.”
He shook his head and deposited a chaste kiss on my forehead. “I hope we can stay friends.”
How much lower can you get? Begging someone to love you? To take care of you?
The memory is ice water on my nervous system.
My anger at Eitan—and Grant, and myself, and the Universe—snowballs. I walk toward the exit.
“Wait,” Eitan calls. “What about dinner?”
“Tell them I’m sick,” I say over my shoulder, genuinely feeling like I might throw up on the way home.
chapter
eighteen
I have avoidedEitan for a month. Which is about the time it has taken to stop cringing every time I relive the moment of his lips going completely slack beneath mine. Like kissing a dead fish.
Which is just the same, because it’s been a month of nonstop talking Penelope off the ledge. It’s late August and we havesailedpast the two month mark for the wedding. The photos Pen posts on Instagram show a gleeful author on her mega book tour, but our text string is full of midnight update requests and long rants, always about varying combinations of three topics: Louise and Calliope plotting against her, Josh’s family being simultaneously demanding and exclusionary, and Miri’s somehow continued sabotage of the wedding (despite being fired two months ago). Between chipping away at the cursive transcription of every guest’s name onto an escort card, and inscribing two hundred copies of Penelope’s new poetry collection with a rubber-stamp signature to give out as party favors, I attempt to quell her concerns.
Louise and Calliope are doing a lot to help, and are happy to be involved, I assure her. Calliope sent out invitations and is wrangling the seating chart. Whether or not she complains,she’s doing a heck of a lot more than Penelope right now.I’m sure Josh’s family is just a little overwhelmed by the big day. They’re very excited to have you as a part of the family.Penelope has also taken to complaining to me about her conversion class, which she’s been delayed graduating due to lack of attendance. I rake my hands through my hair every time, wondering if I should remind her that converting is a choice, and if she doesn’t want to be Jewish, she doesn’t have to be. She’s in the unique position of opting in, a choice my genetics don’t really leave room for. On one of the few phone calls we’ve had—always to talk about the wedding—Pen says things like, “Maybe they will be nicer to me once I can say the prayers,” and proceeds to imitate the rabbi in a wobbling, priestly voice. While the imitation is reasonably accurate, something about it feels derisive.
I’ve started a countdown clock until the big day and my relinquishment of all things wedding related. (And the assurance that Eitan will be in another state, or country, if I’m lucky.) Ironic to go from pitifully underbooked to grossly overworked in one summer. At least there’s no way to exit Pen’s graces after this. I think I’ve secured my spot in that friend group fortwolifetimes.
I stare at Louise’s contact in my phone. I’ve been dreading theCall Louise to check inbullet on Pen’s to-do list. I don’t understand why it’s onmylist, but things stopped making sense about three bullets prior when Penelope asked me to create a mood board for wedding nails. (Champagne? Silver chrome? Baby blue ombre? How am I supposed to know!)
Part of my hesitation is that I am deeply intimidated by Louise. The other part, though, is hesitant because I know I need to ask how she’s doing, cancer-wise. It’s not that I don’t want to know, or don’t care, it’s just hard being smacked in the face with a reminder of what recurrence can look like. A lifetime oftreatments. Pain that’s strong enough to need home infusions. Loss of mobility.
I shake off my reticence. I can’t be scared oftalkingto someone with cancer—that’s the battle I’m constantly waging with everyone who tip-toes aroundme.
I press the button to dial and hold my breath.
“Hello?” Louise hollers into her receiver.
I yank the phone away from my ear to recover. “Hi, Louise. It’s Ruby.”
“Who?”
I sigh. “Gem.”
“Oh. Hello, Gem.”
I wait, my stomach plummeting in the silence. I shouldn’t have called?—
“Well, what is it?” Louise asks with her signature bluntness.
“Nothing! I just wanted to see how you’re doing…and give you some updates on the wedding.”
“Oh.” She coughs. “I’m fine.”
There’s a faint rhythmic sound in the background. “Is that beeping I hear?”
“I’m visiting a friend in the hospital,” Louise says.
