Chapter 9
chapter
nine
Grant Laurent is the 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.
Lonely, stagnant. “Great!” I use all my energy to smile. “Great.”
He laughs and stares at me, like he’s waiting for more. I run my hands through my hair. For all he knows, I could be a party animal. “Just having fun celebrating Pen.”
Grant nods and licks his lips. “I’m glad.”
“Ruby, Calliope is a bit drunk—” Eitan steps to my side and pauses when he looks between Grant and I. “Don’t think I’ve met you yet.” Eitan squares up to Grant. I preen when I see Grant puffing up his shoulders, a solid six inches shorter than Eitan.
“I’m Grant.” He reaches out to shake Eitan’s hand. “I work a lot, so it’s hard for me to get out.” Grant looks over his shoulder. “And this is…”
My stomach drops. Plunges, really. Off a cliff.
“My girlfriend.” Right on cue—like she rehearsed it—his coworker, Felicity, appears.
The only reason I know her is because we met when Grant and I were dating.
She’s shrugging off her own jacket, revealing a babydoll top and a pair of wonderfully perky, 100% organic boobs.
“Here, babe, let me introduce you.” He never once called me babe; how pedestrian he’s become.
“This is Felicity,” Grant announces, with a hand on her back.
She waves to Eitan and I. “We’ve met,” I say through a strained smile. “Ruby.”
“Ohhhh,” Felicity exaggerates. “Yes, you were with—” Her eyes dart to Grant. “I met you at the holiday party a while ago, right?”
“Right.” My dentist will be having words with me over how hard I’m grinding my teeth.
Grant crosses his arms. “How do you know Ruby?” he asks Eitan.
“We’re friends,” Eitan says coolly.
I restrain myself from correcting him to acquaintances.
Grant narrows his eyes between us. “Right…Well, it was nice to see you. I’m glad you’re doing well,” he says slowly, carefully.
My heart sinks. He knows. He knows I’ve been doing decidedly unwell since our breakup, and he’s tip-toeing around the subject, like I’m a nuclear bomb in danger of detonating.
“Mhmm.” I blink to clear away the emotion. “Doing amazing. Never better.” I look around and see Felicity has already meandered to the bar and is leaning halfway over it, whispering her order in the bartender’s ear. I curse how good her ass looks.
“Right.” Grant gives me a small smile before pulling me in for another tight hug.
Not the kind of hug I would want my boyfriend giving his ex-girlfriend, if you know what I mean.
After Grant peels off me, I feel desperately in need of a shower.
Eitan watches Grant, disapproving. At least I’m not the only one who thought that hug was a bit much.
Grant nods at Eitan and makes his way toward Felicity the Fair.
Once he’s out of earshot, all the hot air I’d been propping myself up with deflates. I’ve been wrung out, thrown on the floor to dry. And the worst part is that Eitan got to bear witness to how horrific that interaction was.
“You alright?” Eitan asks.
“I’m fine,” I growl. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
Eitan’s face falls into something that looks suspiciously like concern. “You shouldn’t let that guy see you sweat,” he says.
I laugh, humorless and insane. “It’s not about him! I don’t care about him at all. It’s just because I haven’t seen him since—” I stop myself.
“Since what?” Eitan asks, brows knitting.
It’s overwhelming; something is ballooning in my chest, and crushing me at the same time.
I need to release it. “Since my life turned to shit!” I say in a moment of unadulterated ire.
Eitan’s presence has this way of completely destroying my filter.
I hate feeling so exposed. Like this attractive stranger can see I’m obviously floundering.
“Why did you turn down that shot?” I ask him, lips pursed.
He shrugs. “I don’t drink.”
“I had to stop drinking because I got cancer at twenty-eight. And now I need to eat every vegetable in sight in the hopes that it keeps the cancer from coming back.”
“I have colon cancer in my family,” he says, like this is some consolation. “I know what—”
“It’s a little different,” I sneer. There’s a heat-seeking missile preparing to launch, and Eitan is the closest target.
“One of us has to live with the abstract fear of cancer, and one of us has a body that’s already betrayed them.
I’ll let you guess which is which.” Eitan’s expression is hard and unreadable.
“Do you only drink filtered water? Throw out every scented candle and perfume you own? Wonder if every cough, every back pain could be your cancer, coming back?” My voice frays.
“See? Life. Turned. To. Shit,” I hiss, my anger a staccato heartbeat.
The corners of my eyes are leaking, and I catch the tears on the edge of my hand in time.
Eitan’s brows push together, either in anger or pity, neither of which I can stand right now.
“I’m sorry. Just forget I said anything.” I wipe my eyes again. “I’m just—not feeling well. Can you tell Penelope I said bye?”
Eitan’s face has tipped squarely to concern. “Yeah, of course, but—”
“Thank you.” I cut through the crowded bar, grab my purse, and rush outside. I lean against the brick wall and put my head between my legs as I call an Uber. This way, when I start crying, my tears drip straight onto the sidewalk.