Chapter 41 Grandma Knows Best
GRANDMA KNOWS BEST
I’ve never been big on meditation. Mantras aren’t my thing. And the only time I ever needed an intervention was when I spiraled after Anna’s death.
This is not the same. No one died. Bellamy just left. That’s all.
I’ll be fine.
I’ll return to the party, make sure one of the staff steered Max to Angeline to make sure they’re good, then I’ll find another woman for Kendrick, and someone for Payton too. Duty done, I’ll dust my hands, go to The Lucky Spot, and order a stiff drink.
Or ten.
Only . . .
My head throbs.
Maybe some fresh air would do me good, so I stab the elevator button, head downstairs, and walk around the block a couple times, breathing in the night. Fall is coasting into Manhattan, and soon the leaves will change, the air will chill, and life will go on.
As it should.
After another lap or two, I have a hold of myself. Smoothing my hands down my shirt, I return to the party.
I get up to the warehouse space and scan the room for the guests I need to check on.
Angeline is nowhere to be seen.
Hmm.
Maybe she’s with Max. He’s gone too.
I hunt for Kendrick and Payton, but don’t see them either. The party seems to be winding down, and it’s damn early. Isn’t it?
A glance at my watch, though, tells me it’s ten. Maybe my walk lasted longer than I thought.
But I’m sure everything was fine while I was gone. Coco stands by the piano, and she’ll debrief me. Nothing escapes her.
When she spots me, she pins me with a stern glare and arches one brow, then the other. I hold out my arms, asking what with my expression.
Efficiently elegant, she glides over to me, then beckons me back down the hall. Once we’re out of earshot, she bops me on the head.
“Ouch!” I rub my temple where she knocked me. “That hurts.”
“It does not.”
“Does so.”
“Good. Maybe it’ll knock some sense into you.” She nods toward the elevator at the end of the hall. “What mess did you just make of your life?”
“Why do you think I made a mess of it?” I ask, defenses all the way up. We’re talking ramparts level.
“Let’s see . . . could it be because I have eyes and ears?”
I’m just not in the mood anymore. “And what did you hear and see, Coco?”
Her eyes are fiery. “Young man, do not take that sassy tone with me. I might work for you, but I’m still your grandmother.” She’s half a foot shorter, but she seems ten feet taller.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“Say it like you mean it,” she says crisply, her shoulders squared.
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
“Good. Now, what on earth were you thinking?”
“With what?” I ask, exasperated—with tonight, with the party.
With myself.
“Let’s start with how you didn’t introduce Max to Angeline. You had a very important client here who needed extra attention, and you failed.”
I wince. “What happened with Max?”
“Nothing, munchkin,” she snaps. “Absolutely nothing. All she wanted was an intro, but you had to go pee on Bellamy instead.”
“So did you introduce him to her?”
“No,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “Because he was already chatting with Priya. It was too late, and that would have been rude. Which is exactly what you were to all your guests.”
“I wasn’t rude.” I try on denial, but it’s not a good look on me. Whatever jealousy-fueled bravado I felt earlier has been stripped away. Guess when the woman you adore leaves you, it puts a damper on your night.
“You were rude,” Coco insists.
I sigh then shrug helplessly, admitting the cold truth. “Okay, I was rude.”
Her tight smile shows no teeth and no pleasure. “That’s a start. But you were also rude to Kendrick and to Payton. Is that how you behave with guests? You say those sorts of things to clients?”
My cheeks redden with shame. “How do you know what I said?”
“I heard from the hosts and hostesses. And I saw their faces as you crashed each conversation with that crazed look in your eye. I can’t even imagine what you said to Bellamy.” Her stare intensifies, burning through me.
“I said . . .” The conversation with her replays in my head, but I don’t want to hear my foolish words again. “A lot of things,” I mumble.
“Like?”
But I don’t think it’s what I said that sent her away. It’s what I didn’t say. I didn’t say how I feel about her, or us, or anything.
I didn’t tell her a shred of the truth.
“Look,” I say, zeroing in on work, “just tell me what I need to do to fix the party.” I’ve got to be able to do that much.
But when I return to the main space, I see the event is a lost cause. Only stragglers are left.
Even if I was in my own world, I have excellent hosts and hostesses.
Terrific staff.
A great theme.
Fantastic drinks.
But this is like a high school party after the cops have been called.
It’s all my fault. I left, abandoning the scene. A host shouldn’t do that.
This vacant space is all my doing.
I set to work cleaning up, and I go home alone.
As I stare out at the city from my window, I hit play one more time on Bellamy’s podcast.
And what if he does want the same things? What if he’s changed? What if he’s open to all the possibilities?
I brace myself for the next part.
Chin up; lipstick on. Sometimes you have to talk to the frog no matter how much it scares you.
And I listen to the end yet again.
I’d rather kiss this one frog than any others, but first, I have to use my mouth to tell him how I feel.
I’m on my eleventh listen. Maybe my ninety-seventh. Who knows? It’s after midnight and the pad of my finger is sore from hitting play over and over on her podcast.
Every repeat reminds me that I blew it tonight—big time.
I toss the phone onto the couch, but I miss, and it hits the tiled floor with a loud clack, skids, then bangs into a couch leg.
Doesn’t matter. I don’t need a recording of what she said to me in front of the elevators. It’s etched in my mind.
I fell in love with you, you fucking idiot. I don’t want anyone else. I want you to be mine. All mine. Don’t you get it, Easton?
A pang jabs at my heart as I remember those words.
Words I wanted to reciprocate but didn’t.
Because of those damn flickering lights.
Because my heart is petrified of feeling something so damn good that I could lose again.
I stare at the city, my forehead against the cool glass, my breath steaming it up. I think over the last few weeks and all the things Bellamy and I did together, the time we spent, everything we shared.
My wandering thoughts stray to the city below as New York after midnight unfurls beneath me. Friends and couples stream in and out of bars, pool halls, ice cream shops, clubs, cafés. People come and go, together and apart.
And I’m not there with her.
I’m up here, alone, when I could be in Chelsea with her. Or she could be here. If I’d gotten out of my own way, said something, I could have been one of those people down there. That’s what I want. I want what they have.
“Fuck me,” I mutter. That stabbing feeling in my chest returns. Jab, jab. But it’s faster, the knife going deeper.
That clawing, too-heavy feeling from earlier is not gone at all. It’s multiplied by stupidity, making me even more hollow.
Slowly, I bang my head against the window.
Thunk.
And again.
Tha-thunk.
And that solves nothing.
“Man the fuck up,” I say. I’ve got to do something. I have no clue where to start, but if I owe my guests an apology, I sure as shit owe one to Bellamy.
Peeling away from the wall, I stalk over to the couch and grab the phone from the floor. Slumping onto the cushions, I open the screen, hop over to my email, and send her a letter.