Chapter 31
Carly
One Week
I have become very good at lying by omission. Not to Grayson, never to Grayson, but to Penelope. To work.
There is a huge difference between fake dating your boss and secretly sleeping with him every chance you get while trying not to let his four-year-old catch on.
And that difference is mostly made up of stolen kisses in his kitchen, his hand at the small of my back when Penelope isn’t looking, whispered come upstairs against my ear after she goes to sleep, and sex so good it makes me feel a little insane for the rest of the following day.
I’m happy. Disgustingly, embarrassingly happy.
Happier than I ever was with Aaron, which maybe shouldn’t be a revelation considering Aaron cheated on me and once told me I was overreacting when I cried because he forgot my birthday. The bar, in hindsight, was on the floor.
We still haven’t put an actual label on it. But labels feel a little irrelevant when a man looks at you like you’re his favorite thing on the planet and touches you like he’s already memorized every inch of your body.
A week ago, his receptionist sent through the bachelor party details to his email at work.
Along with my invitation to the bachelorette.
I stared at the forwarded message for a full five minutes like maybe if I glared hard enough, it would burst into flames and save me the trouble of making a decision.
I thought about not going. Desperately wanted to write fuck you on my reply. But Grayson is going to Aaron’s bachelor party for me tonight. He accepted that stupid invitation because Aaron wanted to throw down some pathetic little challenge, and Grayson took the hit without hesitation.
So I said yes, partly because I need to show up, need them all to see me and know that whatever happened with Aaron is over, dead, buried, and so far behind me that I don't care anymore. But wanting to prove I’ve moved on comes with spending an entire evening around the woman my ex cheated on me with while she throws a gaudy celebration of herself, the night before the wedding itself.
That’s the part I could have done without.
The bachelorette party starts at a wine bar downtown, with blush pink flower arrangements everywhere, a neon sign on the wall that spells out ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE in cursive, and at least three women in matching satin sashes who seem to think being loud isn't obnoxious.
Sarah, of course, looks thrilled to be the center of attention.
I’m on my second glass of wine before appetizers even hit the table.
I need it to get through this, though I'm trying to keep how much I'm drinking hidden as much as I can. I don’t want them to think that I’m using it to mask some kind of hidden devastation, because I’m not — god, I’m not, and that’s so weird to me.
I keep waiting for some old ache to creep up and spill out my eyes, but it doesn't. Looking at Sarah just makes me tired more than anything.
And annoyed, too, because Sarah keeps talking about fate.
“When it’s real,” she says, one manicured hand pressed to her chest, engagement ring catching the light, “you just know. True love finds a way.”
I take a long drink of wine and nearly gag on it.
One of the bridesmaids, a blonde woman in blue with kind eyes who is definitely not one of Sarah’s closest friends, glances at me with what looks suspiciously like pity.
Fantastic.
“Like,” Sarah keeps going, grinning so brightly that it sets my teeth on edge, “Aaron and I have just always had this pull, from the moment we met. Sure, it was a bit of a mess to get to this point, but you can’t really help who you’re meant to be with, you know?”
I know several things, actually. I know I should not throw my drink in her face. I know prison orange isn’t my color. And I know Gray would be very unimpressed if I got arrested at a bachelorette party when he’s braving the bachelor party for me right now.
So instead, I smile so tightly it hurts and reach for the bread basket.
Someone suggests a toast, and then another, then a round of cocktails. I knock each one back and tell myself that I'll nurse the next one, or the next one, or the next one.
But Sarah starts talking about soulmates, about how complicated love can be when people just don’t understand your connection, about how sometimes people get hurt in the process but you have to put yourself first.
“Everything worked out the way it was supposed to,” the woman in red beside her says, and all of them make these smug little noises of agreement, and I briefly consider all of the true crime documentaries I’ve watched and wonder if I’d be able to get away with murder if I tried really, really hard.
I down the cocktail instead and slip my phone out of my pocket.
Me:
Please tell me you're having as awful a time as I am.
My phone buzzes almost immediately in my palm.
Gray:
These people are the worst. Would rather be hanging with you.
Another drink appears.
By the time we relocate to some awful bar two blocks over with obnoxious red lighting and a sticky dance floor, I am drunk enough to be somewhere between pleasantly numb and dangerous.
I’m not falling over. I’m not crying. I’m not even talking too much. I’m just... blurrier around the edges than I should be.
Someone orders shots, and I know I should say no, but I don't. I just knock it back, and then another, and another.
That is how I end up in a bathroom ten minutes later, kneeling on cold, suspiciously damp tile, head bent over the toilet while my body violently rejects every bad choice I’ve made tonight.
“Jesus,” I croak after the worst of it passes, the side of my head resting against the plastic wall of the stall.
A soft knock sounds against the door. “Hey.”
Part of me instantly recoils from the sound, and it takes my brain a second to parse that the voice doesn't belong to Sarah. Thank god.
I barely manage to push the lock open with shaking hands, and the door glides open, that same blonde bridesmaid who’d looked at me with pity earlier standing in the doorway, swaying, or maybe she’s still and the world is spinning.
Her brows are pinched in the center, her lips a flat line.
I can’t tell if it’s more pity or genuine concern.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“No,” I croak, then swallow hard. “Fuck. I'll, uh, b’fine.”
She crouches a little, offering me a wad of paper towels. “Do you need water?”
“Prob’ly.” I wipe my mouth with the paper, grimacing. My hair is sticking to my face, my head is pounding, and I am absolutely never drinking again unless Grayson there to enjoy it with me.
Fuck.
Grayson.
I fumble for my little clutch with clumsy fingers, nearly dumping the whole thing onto the wet tile before I find my phone.
“Can y’do me a favor?” My words slur, and I'm right back to those nights throwing up in my dorm room's shared bathroom at CU, and I want to die.
“Yeah, of course,” she says, handing me a plastic cup of water that seems to have appeared out of nowhere.
I manage to type in my password to unlock it and shove the phone into her hand. “Call Grayson.”
Her eyebrows lift just slightly like she’s just now realizing how far gone I am. This is not have a drink of water and walk it off territory. This is I need to go home territory. “That’s your boyfriend, right? Heard Sarah talking about him.”
The question hits me right in the chest.
After five weeks of sneaking around Penelope and heat and happiness and hiding from the world while simultaneously letting select parts of that world have a fake version of it, it feels weird to actually consider him as real right now.
“Yeah,” I say. “Please.”
Nausea bubbles right back up, and I turn back toward the toilet just in time to throw up again.