Shades of Grey & Gold (The Renzettis #1)

Chapter One

Max

“I didn’t know Patrick was getting married,” says Becca, my best friend, low and soft, from her place at my desk in front of the pile of unopened mail; each word feels delicate, like she knows they might fall and shatter across the floor, not unlike the wine glass that splinters under the pressure of my grip and fractures into the sink.

“Shit,” I mumble, staring down at the white farmhouse sink that I picked during the kitchen remodel. Drops of red blood mix with the leftover water in the sink and run across the shards of glass reflecting the light in the kitchen.

Becca is at my side and already has a bag in her hand, scooping glass into a paper towel and into the bag.

“God, Max, don’t hurt yourself over it. Do you have a first aid kit down here?

” She talks fast, like she knows I can’t really hear what she is saying.

She’s still talking, as I turn, gripping the white towel in my hand, walking towards my desk.

My ears feel like I’m underwater.

Married? I mean, I know we haven’t been together for three years but… married? Why did he even send me an invitation?

“I don’t know, it seems cruel and unusual,” Becca’s voice comes back into focus along with her bouncing rainbow-dyed blonde hair as she appears in front of me. I realize I asked that question out loud, not in my head.

I sit in my fluffy white chair and she kneels in front of me.

In the full-length mirror across the room, I catch a glimpse of us—my brown hair piled on top of my head, leggings too big, eyes red.

And Becca, even shorter than my 5’3” frame, with her big brown eyes behind pink glasses, kneels on the floor of my office like she’s defusing a bomb. She kind of is.

My red golden retriever, Bart, looks up at me from his place on the couch, contemplating his involvement. He lays his head back down, apparently deciding Becca’s got it.

“It’s in that drawer,” I nod to the bottom drawer of the desk. “The first aid kit.”

She opens the drawer and takes out the little clear box, grabbing an alcohol wipe and some gauze.

“Let’s see it.”

I move the towel from my hand to reveal a small two-inch line that’s turning redder with blood.

“Doesn’t look too deep, should be okay.” Becca rips open the alcohol wipe, swipes across my hand, and presses the gauze down while she grabs a bandage from the box. “You didn’t… know?” I meet her eyes and realize she is blurry from the tears in my eyes. “I’ll take that as a no.” She sighs.

I blink a few times and wipe my eyes with my other hand.

“This is dumb. I shouldn’t be upset; it was over three years ago.” I shake my head and push the bandage down on my hand and wipe my eyes again with the towel in my hands. “I just don’t know why he would send that to me.”

Patrick Ellison.

My last serious relationship.

My first real mistake.

I was twenty when I met him.

Twenty-six when I finally crawled out of the wreckage.

Patrick was a twenty-three-year-old second-year law student, working at his father’s firm with a hand-me-down Rolex and glossy, expensive black shoes.

We fell in love in that first year. Well, I did, anyway.

We saw each other off and on until he graduated law school and accepted an associate position at his family’s firm.

Then, he wanted a serious girlfriend to attend events with him, be around his family, and I was still hanging on every word.

Six months into year three of the law degree I’ve wanted my whole life, he finally convinced me to drop out and work at his father’s firm.

And while I worked in a job that I genuinely enjoyed, in a relationship with a man who said he loved me, Patrick screwed his secretary, two interns, and God knows who else…

So, I left.

And I took all those stupidly expensive shoes Patrick bought and made me wear while working outside his fancy office and sold them. Because that’s what scorned women do.

Now here I am. Twenty-nine and eyeing my thirties next year. With no law degree, a bandage on my hand, and a broken wine glass in the sink. I don’t want to revisit it all. Because why in the world would Patrick send me an invitation to his wedding?

“Want me to burn it?” Becca wags her eyebrows, a glimpse of excitement in her eyes because she would gladly set this city on fire to make things even slightly less shitty, and she knows I’d do the same for her.

“I know this dusty, old house has a working fireplace.” She slaps her legs, stands up and scans the room for the fireplace.

She walks back into the kitchen and picks up the invitation and stares at me while she walks slowly back in my direction.

“You tell me what you want to do. We could RSVP yes and screw up their guest count by not going, or RSVP no and send them a glitter bomb gift.” A giggle slips out of me with a smile as Becca’s fingers trace the white lace paper.

“Let’s read it, and then decide, I guess?” I sigh, knowing if I don’t know the details, I’ll just go looking for them tomorrow.

“‘We cordially invite you to celebrate the love and marriage of Brenda Stipes and Patrick Ellison, culminating their…'” Her words drift off to silence and my eyes dart quickly to her face.

“Brenda Stipes was his assistant. It’s okay, I’m not surprised he ended up with someone he was screwing on the side.” I shake my head, and my eyes drop back down to the blood-stained towel in my hands.

She stays silent.

“What? It’s fine.” My eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“It says, ‘Culminating their beautiful five-year relationship by tying the knot with family and friends over wine at some blah blah blah’. Five years, Max?” Her eyes look back at me and mine get big.

“Five years, that’s like…” My head is spinning as I’m doing the math. “That is almost half of the time we were together… what the fuck?” I stand up, grab the invite from her hands and read it over. I read it three times just to make sure it wasn’t my mind making it up.

“He is the biggest scumbag on the planet.” Becca takes my place in the desk chair and pulls her legs up underneath her. “Please, please, please let me burn it, and send a glitter bomb. Oh! What if we hire a clown to go instead?”

I shake my head and set the lacy paper down on my desk. My mind is spinning. Becca grabs the invite and pulls apart the various pieces of paper: the invitation, the registry information, the RSVP card and return envelope.

I look up at the ceiling while she fumbles with the papers. He was cheating even before I knew. He was cheating for almost half of our relationship; I meant absolutely nothing to him.

“She was working at the firm when I was officially hired after he graduated. Five years… he would’ve already had to be sleeping with her, or I guess dating her, when they hired me at the firm.

He introduced me to her as his girlfriend.

” My head feels light and I lean on my desk.

“How could she just stand there and be introduced to the girlfriend of the guy she had been sleeping with for God knows how long?”

“People are psychotic, she was playin’ the long game and caught the nasty fish at the end.”

Becca hates Patrick. She has since day one. She said he was ‘slimy from the gel in his hair to the shine in his shoes’ when she met him. She used to joke that anyone who wore only monochrome blacks, greys, and whites had to be a sociopath.

I look around the room while she digs in my desk drawers.

My office is tucked into the turret on the bottom level of the house—this old, creaky house with stained-glass windows and old wooden doors and a window seat in the big round room that makes it feel like it belongs in an old witchy film.

The pale wood, beautiful velvet and leather furniture—it’s my safe space.

I’ve worked so hard to build up all these things around me.

The beautiful kitchen I never use, guest rooms that sit lonely, a laundry room ripped from a twenty-something-year-old’s Pinterest board where the dry cleaning gets picked up every Wednesday, and a big backyard with a porch swing the squirrels like more than I do.

The house is filled with beautiful things but it’s never felt so empty.

Especially tonight.

Becca is elbow deep in my desk drawer now, trying to pull something out. She grunts dramatically as a little box flies from the drawer at the same time as her hand. A pen flies from the box and she picks it up, scribbling with it—it’s blue and gold, some kind of fancy calligraphy fountain pen.

“What are you doing?” I sigh and start trying to get my eyes to focus again. I rub them and look down at the desk. “Becca! No!”

Becca smiles up at me devilishly and sets the pen down, sitting back in the chair, admiring her work. Where the card had said, ‘RSVP’ she crossed it out and wrote, ‘I-C-U-P’.

“Becca, ‘I see you pee’? What are we? Ten years old?” But the smile and the chuckle I was trying to hold back fall from my mouth as I shake my head.

“Ah, but it got you to laugh!” She claps her hands and picks the pen back up, dictating as she writes. “Number of guests attending? ‘One Maxine Simmons, ex of groom, and one pretty guest.’”

“Are you the guest?” I cross my arms over my chest and sigh. This situation is messed up, and I still don’t get why they sent this to me, but it is funny watching Becca write all over the RSVP card.

“Maybe, or maybe we will find you a hot date.” She continues to write on the card. “Chicken or steak, Max? I say steak, let’s make it cost them something.” She scribbles again and I look down.

Now, it says ‘ICAN’TWAIT!’ instead of ‘I-C-U-P.’

“That’s probably more appropriate,” she mumbles as I look over her shoulder and see the poorly scribbled over letters.

“It doesn’t matter, it’s not like I’m sending that or going, I’d rather die.” I shake my head and take a big breath.