She hangs up, and I only realize how hard I’ve been gnawing the inside of my cheek when I taste blood.Goddamnit. I stalk to the bathroom to rinse my mouth. It’s only when I get there that I see a lipstick heart on the mirror. It’s small, almost like she was unsure if she should draw it or not. On any other day, it might have given me hope for a future together. But right now, all it seems to symbolize is everything I stand to lose if I can’t find a way to open up to her.
Beyond it, my normally pale face is flushed, my lashes wet.When the fuck did I start crying?Quickly, I turn on the cold tap and wash away the evidence of how badly I wanted that call to go differently. How badly I’ve wanted my life to go differently. The icy water makes my face ache, but I can’t stop scooping it up in my trembling hands, wishing it would numb everything. The anger at her. At my father.But most of all, at myself, for being stupid enough to think things could ever change.
When I finally look up, my collar is sodden, my hair dripping, and I’m shaking, but the heart is still there. I don’t know what the future holds. But one thing that’s as clear as my own determined reflection is that Gracie will be part of it.
33GRACIE
Two Weeks Before the Wedding
If someone had told me six weeks ago that Jude Larkwood—the one-man welcome committee to my own personal misery spiral—would be supporting me as I stood up to my family, I’d have asked if the zombie apocalypse was truly upon us. But as we pull up to the small, gray-brown house livened up with yard inflatables of every conceivable New England sports team, there’s no denying that he’s by my side—and letting me hold his hand in a death grip.
“I’m glad you’re relaxed,” he says as he turns the car off. “Family confrontations are so much easier when your extremities aren’t throbbing with adrenaline.”
I look down at my hand wrapped hard around his and try letting go. He pulls it back with a tut and kisses my knuckles.
I sigh. “Can you remind meonemore time why leaving everything on the doorstep isn’t a better plan?”
The other night, after watchingCorpse Bride, he convinced me to bring not only the DIY favors today, but everything else I’ve been storing for my mom’s party. In theory, dropping it all off will clearly communicate to my family that I’m done doing this thankless job,andallow me to get rid of the life-size Tom Brady cutout whose eyes seem to follow me around my cottage. Now, however, I’m convinced a Molotov cocktail through my mom’s windowmightfeel less aggressive.
Jude turns in his seat to look at me. “You’re going to be fine.Everyone in that house is an adult capable of respecting your boundaries.”
“That’s highly questionable.”
“Let me rephrase: Everyone in that house istechnicallyan adult whoshouldbe capable of respecting your boundaries. And if they can’t…” He shrugs. “It’s not your fault that their emotional intelligence peaked in middle school.”
I stare at him. “You know, if the lawyering thing doesn’t work out, you could always be one of those hot self-help influencers.”
“?‘Hot’ as in popular, or ‘hot’ as in good-looking?”
I cup a hand to my ear. “Did I just hear thezzzof a fishing rod?”
“Just trying to figure out the job qualifications for my new career.”
“And if I think you’re hot, apparently.”
“Pretty sure I got the answer to that question when you licked my armpit last night.”
“I did not lick your armpit!” I say in outrage, snatching my hand from his. “That ice-cream cone is on yourribs.”
“You of all people should know I don’t mind a kink. My armpits are all yours, Gracie.”
“Oh my god, are you stalling?” I ask when it occurs to me how long we’ve just been sitting here. “Because if you’re suddenly rethinking this whole plan, you should know I’dmuchrather lick your armpit than go in there.”
“Absolutely not. Just trying to restore feeling in my nerve endings,” he says, flexing his hand. “Wouldn’t want to fumble a teenie-weenie.”
I laugh, despite my nervousness. “That’s a good start. Any sports jargon you can slip into the conversation will win you points.”
He bats his lashes. “The only points I’m here to win are for you, Gracie.”
I roll my eyes, trying not to let my heart melt down to my toes, when the front door opens. My stepsister Brianna stomps out in flip-flops, staring at Jude’s SUV. She’s wearing her signature outfit of shiny basketball shorts, a championship-something T-shirt, and a frown. Jude gives me one last reassuring smile before opening his car door. “Come on. Time to knock it out of the park, slugger.”
“Oh my God,” I say, half in exasperation, half in actual prayer.
As I get out, I wave to Brianna on the porch, hoping my smile doesn’t read too much like a rictus of terror. Meanwhile, Jude opens the back hatch to start unloading.
“I think I can grab Tom,” he says, shifting a box in his arms to grab the cutout.
“And deny me my shield?” I whisper back, shooting an arm out to pull the cardboard man toward me. “I don’t think so.”
