Chapter 8
chapter
eight
You never know what you’ve been missing until they’re surrounding you, hooting after a shot of tequila, clinking their glasses on the bar in a chorus.
Some people’s hands drift to their mouths to hold in the gag reflex, and others clap each other on the back.
Murmurs of, “That goes down different now than it did at twenty-two,” and, “I need a break before round two.” I have to actively remind myself that this is progress.
Group shots, nights out. This is what I’m looking for.
I have to enjoy it; I have to bask in it.
The wedding party settles at the bar, refreshing their drinks.
My relation to this group is still tenuous at best, but I don’t want to risk entering the throng.
I linger by Calliope and Deep, who are chatting with some of the groomsmen.
Deep’s attention keeps flitting to Eitan, waiting for him to do something.
Perhaps acknowledge her. Good to know what kind of guy Eitan is, I think, while shooting daggers at him on Deep’s behalf.
I watch everyone, the picture of nonchalance, but my attention returns again and again, like a compass that can’t help but point north, to Eitan.
In fairness, he’s one of the tallest people in the room.
It should be illegal for someone to have a personality that frustrating and a face that charming.
His fluffy chestnut waves gleam beneath the bar lights, made worse by the fact that he keeps running his hand through them.
I have an unconscious urge to run my hands through his hair, confirm if it’s as soft as it looks. Hold it back from his face while he—
I look around the group to make sure no one is watching me lose my mind over someone who has already politely declined two different women in this bar (I have not been counting (I have)).
Frustrating—that’s what I need to focus on.
Not Eitan’s eyes when they get all soulful and vulnerable. It’s an illusion. A magic trick.
I tune back in to whatever Calliope is talking about. “Mom likes Greek mythology. She wanted to name Pen Persephone, but Harold talked her down to Penelope.”
“And who was Calliope?” Eitan asks, setting an empty glass on the bar, passing a look to the bartender for a refill.
“A muse,” she says to Eitan, but winks at me.
I almost swallow the ice cube I’m chewing on.
I can’t tell who she’s flirting with. Moreover, who do I want her to be flirting with?
“I think the name was more…prescient than Mom expected. I keep having this problem of dating people who think of me as their muse. Even other tattoo artists. They’ll literally tattoo my lips on their body but aren’t willing to buy me tampons when I get my period in the middle of a sex club. ”
Eitan chokes on his new drink.
“It’s all, ‘babe, I’m about to come, can’t you get it yourself?’ Like, what is that? Why can’t a muse have needs too?”
“That’s—” Eitan thumps his chest. “Interesting. Yeah, very interesting.”
One of the groomsmen must hear the words ‘sex club’ because he turns around and lays himself across the bar like he’s posing for a nude portrait. “Hello, ladies.”
It’s Steve Was Your Breast Surgery Like A Boob Job? Miller. My eye twitches.
“Hey. I remember you.” He points his Long Island iced tea at me. “You’re the girl with canc—”
“Penelope’s friend!” I interrupt him, half-screaming, face hot enough to steam dumplings. “I’m Penelope’s friend.”
“Right…Well, what are you ladies talking about?” Steve asks, his eyes taking the liberty of raking over me. It’s like a disgusting, slobbery tongue licking me.
“UTIs,” Calliope says flatly.
“Oh.” Steve looks slightly less comfortable than he did a minute ago. “So…” He rights himself off the bar and takes a long sip of his cocktail. “Seen any good movies lately?”
Calliope shakes her head, hair fluttering around her like a dark angel. Alright, it’s impossible not to see the resemblance to Penelope. “I’m saving myself for Blinklebob 3.”
“Oh seriously?” Steve asks. “My uncle works in the industry, he invited me to an advanced screening of that next month.”
Calliope slams her beer down on the bar. “Are you serious?” she gathers Steve’s shirt in her fist.
“Yeah,” he says, voice shaky.
“You’re taking me!” Calliope announces.
“Uh, sure?” Steve looks confused.
“Blinklebob 2 was a cinematic masterpiece—”
“Wait.” I hold a hand up. “You like the Blinkleblob movie?” I didn’t even realize they had already made a sequel.
“Blinklebob,” Calliope corrects. Then nods.
Fervently. “It’s my guilty pleasure. I watch them ironically.
” I’m pretty sure those two sentences contradict each other, but I don’t protest because this is too funny.
Calliope, tattoo artist who regularly goes to sex clubs, is interested—nay, desperate—to see sequel (#2!) to a live action adaptation of a video game armadillo.
“Ruby,” she snipes me. “You should come too!”
Blinklebob represents everything I despise in the world: foregoing new I.P. in favor of live action adaptations no one asked for, video games, and the disgusting gratuity of today’s special effects. Not even the Be Yourself List can get me into a theater with that cursed CGI armadillo.
“I wish I could,” I effuse, “but I already scheduled a wax.”
Calliope narrows her eyes. “You don’t even know the date yet.”
Abort! “Hmm?” I go non-verbal, tune my ears to listen for anyone who could conceivably be calling my name—
Like the devil herself summoned him, Eitan’s giraffe-like neck swoops into our conversation. “What did you say?”
“Ruby and I were just making plans to see an advanced screening of Blinklebob 3,” Calliope says, a little too matter-of-factly for my taste.
“No, we—” I interject, but Calliope’s on a warpath.
“You should come too!”
Steve’s jaw clenches at the change in guy-girl ratio of this nascent plan.
Eitan has that deer-in-headlights surprise look to him.
“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a Blinklebob fan, Ruby.
” He’s teasing me. I don’t like the way he says my name.
It’s like it’s dripping in honey and also emitting smoke.
What’s the best way to ask someone to, disrespectfully, keep your name out of their mouth?
I observe my shoes very closely. “Well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I mutter, purely out of self preservation. I hold back from shouting at this entire bar that I hate the idea of seeing that movie.
“Is that so?” Eitan faces Calliope but leans into my personal space as he says, “Well then, count me in.”
My eyes shoot up. “Buh—”
Calliope jumps up and down. “This is so exciting! You can get four tickets right?” She asks Steve while sucking on her straw rather…seductively. Steve nods quickly, eyes drifting with jealousy to that straw.
I sense, rather than see, Eitan’s body turn toward me and lean against the bar. He watches me, amused.
“Can I help you?” I squint at him.
“You’re just funny. That’s all.” His eyes are sparkling in the low light. Wait, does he think there’s something happening here? Maybe he’s one of those guys who gets off on being negged. Maybe he thinks my distaste for him is a form of foreplay.
“I’m gonna stop you right there, partner.” I pat his arm. “I know you might mistake something like this for flirting.” He raises an eyebrow. “But I can assure you, I have no interest in” —I gesture at him up and down— “this.”
Eitan leans in hatefully close and whispers directly in my ear, “Ruby, if I were flirting with you, you’d know.” He pulls back, meets my eye, and winks.
Oh, this man and his winking. Diabolical. My hands squeeze my empty glass so tight my knuckles go white.
“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 the luxury of 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 toward me. 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 to everything.
“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 gone perfectly” —Pen boops my nose— “I’d totally owe you one.”
I bite my lip. This is good, right? I can cross off two items 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, she is making 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.