Chapter 42
I was on the cover of People, and I could not care less that I looked good. Didn’t care about the question marks in our old college group chat and the photos acquaintances sent me.
Maybe, if nothing had gone to shit twelve hours ago, Elliot and I could’ve laughed at it.
The way they’d spelled my name wrong and thought we’d met years ago, at some college fundraiser I couldn’t remember and he’d never even been at.
Instead, my face was nestled in Paula’s neck, and she held me like she’d been born to do it.
“Not to sound rude,” she prefaced. “But I am so glad I get to do this.”
“Letting my snot dry on your sweater?”
“Being there for you!” I could feel her shift below me, turn her head to look at me. I didn’t look back. My eyes were strictly pointed at the magazine on the foot of her bed, a glimpse of his hair visible. “Are you really snotting all over me?”
“I hope not,” Henry grumbled from the other side of the bed. “That’s my hoodie.”
I gasped, at least some amusement in the sound. “I didn’t know you owned hoodies, Pressley.”
“Be nice, you two.” Paula sighed like she was currently keeping her husband from fighting the orphaned child she’d brought home without consulting him first. In a way, she was.
Henry shifted, and I bet his head was shaking right up until the moment Paula looked at him. “Is a ‘No snot on my clothes’ policy rude?”
“You owe me,” I reminded. “You guys would’ve never gotten back together without my blessing.”
“Charm, please tell her—” He cut himself off. And I stifled a laugh because I knew exactly what he was looking at. Paula, giving him an apologetic glance, batting her eyelashes, mouthing Sorry. “Unbelievable.”
Despite the bickering, there wasn’t a place I’d rather be. With my best friend, in her boyfriend’s penthouse, in her boyfriend’s bed. With her boyfriend.
Okay, it sounded weird putting it that way. Never mind.
Earlier, when I’d tried not to think about how embarrassing it was, crawling out of Elliot’s bed in his shirt and fleeing a fight in which I seemed to be the problem, I’d called Paula.
I explained the situation in as few words as possible because I didn’t really want to talk about Elliot. I didn’t really want to cry, either.
Maybe my period was coming up; I wasn’t prone to crying so frequently.
I’d grabbed a copy of the magazine at a subway stand, took it all the way to the Upper East Side, and we’d been in Henry’s bed for the better part of the day.
He’d only joined about half an hour ago, with a pint of vegan ice cream he’d wordlessly put in my hands before slipping into his side of the bed, Paula between us.
The tub stood empty on the bedside table.
“Are all rich people assholes, by the way?” Paula asked him, earning herself a loving groan when he turned back toward us, officially giving up on the idea of sleep. Maybe contemplating the guest room. Or the other guest room.
“It comes with the territory,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re just lucky enough I have a soft spot for you.”
“Gross! Get a room, you two.”
“You’re in it,” he deadpanned, making me smile, appreciating how understanding they were about a situation so new for all three of us.
Me having guy problems.
Paula wasn’t letting herself get distracted. She grabbed the magazine from the foot of the bed again, flipped back to a page we’d stared at for hours already. “Maybe this is all just some big misunderstanding.”
EVERYTHING WE KNOW ABOUT MAIVE AND ELLIOT SO FAR.
He’d rip the page out of my hand and scold me for reading what they were saying.
Paula had encouraged analyzing every paragraph, though, including a star rating based on how accurate, well-written, and entertaining it was.
By the end of it, she concluded, “This must’ve been written by a five-year-old with no concept of sentence structure and zero attention span. ”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that most five-year-olds barely knew how to string together a sentence.
A conclusion I’d come to: Elliot, unfortunately, had been right. About not reading what others write about you. Poor family from Texas. Just a fashion degree. Reached out to father, but no response.
My stomach had churned at the possibility that the first time I ever heard from my father could’ve been in some cheap magazine. Bile still rose in my throat at the thought.
“Misunderstanding how?” Henry asked, trying not to sound interested in the drama of my love life. He was failing; no surprise there.
“I don’t know.” Paula shrugged. I’d lovingly named it her journalistic furrow, the way her brows pulled together whenever she sensed a mystery or was trying to figure something out.
Like an instinct telling her there was something more going on.
She was usually right. “What if he really didn’t know about his grandfather’s decision? ”
“I don’t think he did. I’m, like, 99 percent sure he’s telling the truth by now.”
Which only made my dilemma worse. Guilt churned my stomach.
“Oh.” Paula glanced my way. “Never seen you give a guy the benefit of the doubt.”
“I’m sure I never got it,” Henry agreed.
“You didn’t deserve it, honey.”
Paula jumped in, brought us back on course. “And what if he really does feel . . . betrayed? What if he thought he could trust you, and now he’s, I don’t know—”
“Hurt,” I offered. I’d meant to hurt him until I hadn’t. Until he’d kissed me and made me laugh and I felt safe with him. And I’d jeopardized all of that. “I know he is. I feel terrible. That’s the entire problem.” Or half of it, anyway.
“Oh,” she said again. “So, we’re not trying to shift the blame on him? You’re saying you fucked up?”
“I guess.”
“You never fuck up.” Paula almost gasped, and I tried not to take offense at how surprised she seemed by my ability to self-reflect and admit when I was wrong.
“There’s a first for everything.” I sighed.
“So you apologized and he still doesn’t want to see you? Is that it?”
“I never . . .” I trailed off, hoping they’d get it. It was embarrassing, frankly, the way he’d said sorry more often than I had.
Henry sighed, like he should’ve expected it. “Maeve,” he said scoldingly, like a dad reminding his daughter to say Thank you after getting a present.
“I am sorry!” I explained quickly. “But also, I’m not?
” Voice thinner, unsure again. Disapproving murmurs from around me.
“I don’t know. It’s not like the playing field was remotely even.
I didn’t feel like I had a choice but to play dirty when the competition had his name on the building.
I did what I thought I had to do. I don’t think it’s wrong to fight for what I want. ”
Camila had said as much, on day one. But she’d also promised that he’d fight back, and in hindsight, he’d done nothing but support me and my ideas. Helped me thrive and enjoy the process.
“It’s not.” Paula patted my head condescendingly. I think I deserved it. “But there’s nothing wrong with apologizing for hurting his feelings and saying that in hindsight, you probably shouldn’t have done it.”
“But—”
“That’s how you feel, right? That you shouldn’t have done it?”
I’d love to say I was still the reckless, selfish girl chasing her dreams, not caring about who’d have to suffer for my success.
I’d love to make Mom proud, continue to prioritize myself with no regard to the people—the men—I’d leave behind.
She’d say, They never care about anyone but themselves either.
But that was only part of her truth. She still allowed herself to be loved and hurt—again and again. She had cried in her mother’s lap the way I had cried in my best friend’s. Knowing I had betrayed Elliot’s trust sucked. He might never speak to me again, and he had very good reason not to.
I missed him, but I still stayed with Henry and Paula for the week. Commuting to work longer, trying to puzzle together outfits with Paula’s very questionable wardrobe contents, and keeping my work calendar clear of his name.
I did everything I could to avoid seeing that look in Elliot’s eyes again. Disappointment, hurt, disbelief.