by Pippa Grant
Way too much.
“Sorry,” I murmur to my friends. “I didn’t realize I was being an attention hog.”
“You’re hilarious,” Mackenzie assures me. “I’m a superstitious crazy-pants baseball nut raised by two drag queens. I’ve seen some super hilarious things—”
“And you’ve done some pretty hilarious things,” Marisol interjects.
“Yes. That too. But I’ve never scared myself into thinking a coatrack was an intruder.”
“Or written a book about it,” Tillie Jean chimes in.
“You could though,” I tell Mackenzie. “You’re funny too. I’ll bet you have a book in you!”
And that’s not guilt talking because I don’t want my sister to write a book.
I want everyone to write a book. I love writing books.
Just not Elsa.
And now I feel like crap again.
“Watermelon?” a handsome hockey player in the cowboy hat asks as he returns with a giant bowl of fruit.
“Oh, I love watermelon! Thank you!”
We all grab smaller bowls and forks and dig in, and wow.
“This is the best watermelon ever,” I tell Mackenzie.
Check that. This is the best party ever.
There’s music, but it’s not so loud that you can’t hear anyone else talking, and no one’s trying to out-dance one another on the coffee table, and there’s anything you could possibly want to eat or drink, and Luca and I look like we’re here together, even though he disappeared down a hallway a while ago and I haven’t seen him since.
I’ve stopped talking, mostly, and I’m listening now to Marisol whisper about how she caught Emilio talking to his mother on the phone about how he couldn’t go home for all of December because he’s taking Marisol on vacation.
“To Thailand,” she repeats. “He told her he’s taking me to Thailand.”
“Is that a good thing?” I have to clear my throat, which is getting scratchy like there’s air freshener that’s annoying it or something.
“I’ve wanted to go to Thailand since I was seven years old. It’s like, dream vacation. And he knows it.” She pauses and frowns. “At least, he better know it.”
“I know nothing,” Mackenzie says.
Tillie Jean nods. “Same. Cooper’s oblivious, and even if he wasn’t, he wouldn’t talk about it at home. Gossip and Cooper only go together if it’s family, since he thinks it’s bad luck to gossip about his teammates.”
My gut grumbles, and something sour twists halfway between my mouth and my belly, and my lips are starting to itch. “Is it warm in here?”
“No, it’s—ohmygod, Henri.”
I wiggle my nose.
It doesn’t wiggle back, but there’s a tell-tale tickle in my sinuses that have my eyes both watering and going round at the same time.
I know what this is.
I know exactly what this is.
“Do you need to sit?” Tillie Jean asks.
“Sit? Honey, she needs a doctor.” Marisol grabs my hand and lifts it so we can all see the flush spreading across my skin. “Are you allergic to—oh, shit. Somebody get Luca.”
“Already on it,” Mackenzie calls as she darts away.
Tillie Jean grabs my plate and sniffs the watermelon, then nibbles on one of the strawberries at the edge of the chocolate pool from the chocolate fountain. “Henri, how much of this did you eat?”
“Jus a li’l,” I slur.
Mostly because my tongue is tingling and won’t work right either. “I di’nt tay it.”
“I didn’t taste it either, honey,” Marisol says. “That’s some high-quality stuff right there. Emilio? Emilio! Go tell that man to hurry his butt up and get out here.”
“I’m okay,” I manage to say like a normal human being who isn’t having an allergic reaction to alcohol.
Oh, god.
Oh god oh god oh god.
If I’m wheezing, I know what’s next.
“Bathroom,” I squeak.
“Wha—”
I grab Marisol by the collar of her adorable sequin top and drag her close to me, speaking carefully to get the enunciation right. “I need. To ged. To da bafroom.”
Her dark eyes go wide, and she nods emphatically. “Yeah. Let’s get you to the bathroom. Now.”
She and Tillie Jean heft me back to my feet, which is silly, because I can still mostly feel my feet, and they drag me toward the hallway where Luca disappeared, only to make a sharp turn into a powder room as he pops out of a room down the way. “Henri?”
“She had vodka-infused fruit,” Tillie Jean explains.
“Oh, fuck.”
My stomach gurgles again, and I shove Marisol and Tillie Jean out of the bathroom, because they don’t need to witness this.
They really don’t need to witness this.
In fact, it would be best if the entire penthouse cleared out entirely for the next couple hours.
Preferably so that I can lie down on the floor and die of embarrassment in peace.
Luca catches the door. “Henri—”
“Out!”
“But—”
“Benadryl!” I screech.
Oh god oh god oh god, I need him to leave, because he can’t be witness to what my stomach makes me do when I’ve had alcohol.
He steps back far enough that I can slam the door shut and flip the lock.
And now I’m in a fancy marble powder room, alone, just me and my very unhappy belly and my hot face and my tingling tongue, and I probably shouldn’t be alone, and Luca clearly agrees, based on the way he’s banging on the door.
He’s not coming in here.
Period.
But I know he’s worried so after I get myself situated with the toilet, I pull out my phone and call him.
“Henri? I’m coming in.”
“Not if I ’an ’ill talk,” I shriek. “Ooo ’an’t ’ee me now!”
My voice echoes through the bathroom, and I cringe, but I hold firm.
“You need a doctor.” Luca’s voice is calm but determined.
I shake my head. “Benadryl,” I manage to make my tongue say.
I don’t think I’ll go into anaphylactic shock.
Probably.
Never have before.
“Doctor,” Luca repeats.
“Ben-a-dill fust.”
“Christ on a cannoli,” he mutters.
I should care that he’s worried. I want to, but the simple truth is that he shouldn’t have to be saddled with me tonight.
I’d rather have Marisol or Tillie Jean or Mackenzie or Tanesha—who’s home with the baby—in here instead.
Correction.
I’d rather have Luca want to be in here with me because he wants me and he doesn’t care about the embarrassing things my body is about to do.
But this is all fake.
All pretend.
And so, I’d rather have my girlfriends.
29
Luca
My heart is going to pound out of my chest if Henri doesn’t open this door right the fuck now.
I bang again as I yell into the phone like that’ll help her hear me. “Henri. I have Benadryl. Let me in.”
“Side it unna da doe.”
I growl at the phone. “I’m not sliding it under the door.”
“I fye, Wuca.”
“You are not fine.”
She huffs.
I huff.
I also breathe easier. If she couldn’t huff, she couldn’t breathe, but she can huff, which means she can breathe.
“Henri, I’m not fine until I see you,” I hiss into the phone.
I jerk my head in greeting at someone who mutters my name as they pass me in the hallway.
“Ya ya ya,” Henri says, and that does it.
I’m breaking down this door.
“Nooooo,” she moans.
“Henri—”
“Oh my god, scoot. Scoot.” Mackenzie shoves me aside. “Henri? It’s me. I’m coming in, an
d I haven’t told you about that time that my dad accidentally tried pot thanks to the same woman who accidentally fed it to Brooks too, but trust me when I say, I’ve seen it all, and you’re about to be in very good hands.”
I try to butt my way back in, and Brooks gets in my face and growls.
I get right back in his and point at the door. “That’s my girlfriend.”
He lifts a brow.
A single, go on, tell your story brow, and my skin flushes so hot ice would sizzle right off me.
“I’ve got her, Luca,” Mackenzie says.
She steals the Benadryl, twists the knob, and within two seconds, she’s disappeared into the bathroom.
Henri let her in, when she won’t let me.
“She seriously can’t catch a break, can she?” Brooks mutters.
He’s right.
She’s a walking disaster.
And I love her.
I stumble backwards against the wall as the thought races through my head.
It can’t be right, except while I have no intention of ever falling in love—yes, I hear myself—it’s Henri.
How could a person get to know her and not love her on some level?
I do have a heart.
It might not get much use, and this love might not be fairy tale love, but I have one, and I care about her.
Brooks grins. “Ah, I know that look. You need a drink, man?”
I scowl at him, because the only thing keeping him from falling in love was a stupid superstition.
What’s keeping me from falling in fairy tale love?
Baggage.
So much damn baggage.
I lift the phone to my ear again, and dammit.
She hung up on me.
I dial her phone again. I’m not going to stand here and yell through the door if I don’t have to.
“Hey, Luca,” Mackenzie says cheerfully on the other end. “Henri’s okay. She’s breathing. I’ve got her.”
“I need to talk to her.”
“Can you give the Benadryl a bit to work?”
I hear a whimper in the background, and my heart stops.
Dead stops.
This is worse than getting home to find her in tears. It’s worse than that look on her face every time she thinks I’m not looking after she tries so hard to get Nonna to like her, or when she drifts off on her ramblings with that right, he doesn’t like me look on her face.
Also, Nonna’s dead to me right now too for making Henri feel like shit, and I swear, if she did it on purpose to make me like Henri, I don’t care how many Eyes she flings at me, she’s waking up with raw cod in her bed next time she comes to visit.
“Tell ’im ay ’on’t wann bahver ’im,” Henri says to Mackenzie.
“She’s not bothering me. I want to take care of her.”
“Aww, Luca, that’s sweet.” Mackenzie pauses. “But maybe you should’ve shown her that before bringing her to a party where all of the alcoholic snacks weren’t labeled as well as they should’ve been.”
She’s right.
This is my fault.
Henri doesn’t want me because I’m a massive bag of dicks. I’m not one dick. I’m all of the dicks.
“C’mon, Luca.” Brooks claps me on the shoulder and turns me back toward the party. “Let’s get you a big glass of water and round up all the married guys. We’ll get you through this.”
I glance at my phone again, and once more, the ladies have hung up on me.
Henri doesn’t want me.
I’m not what she needs. Not for the kind of life she’s always dreamed for herself, anyway.
And Mackenzie’s right.
It’s my own damn fault.
Question is, where do we go from here?
30
Henri
Because Mackenzie is a goddess, she stays with me in the bathroom through the ugly and the very, very occasionally funny for two hours.
I’ll have a rash for at least a week, but the worst of my reaction has passed.
And no, you don’t want to know what went on in that bathroom.
Let’s just say Mackenzie’s getting a very nice thank-you gift. And either we’re fast friends for life now, or I need to move somewhere deep in the jungle, befriend some local wildlife, and never look another human being in the face again.
The party noises are fading when we finally unlock the door and slip out.
And immediately trip over Luca.
He leaps to his feet and reaches for me, then stops.
I cringe, waiting for him to recoil at the hives all over my cheeks and neck.
Instead, the frown lines on his face deepen, and he oh-so-gently brushes his fingertips over my skin. “Christ, Henri, I’m sorry. Does it hurt?”
I shake my head, which is starting to ache, because insta-hangover is a thing.
He sets a hesitant hand on my shoulder, like he’s aware that I’m rashing out all over. “C’mon. Let’s go home. Dogzilla’s probably worried.”
The ride back to his place is different than the ride to the party was, and for the second time tonight, I want to curl up in a ball and cry.
I ruined his night out during his first opportunity to celebrate going to the post-season.
My laptop is toast.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to look any of the Lady Fireballs in the eye again because I’m so embarrassed. It’s been a few years since I’ve been to a party, and I didn’t know I was allergic to alcohol the last time I encountered vodka-soaked fruit, but I still should’ve known to be wary tonight.
Luca holds my hand the entire drive, letting go only when he needs to shift the car into gear or then into park when we reach his driveway.
And he’s not merely holding it.
He’s cradling it like it’s an ancient porcelain doll that might break if someone breathes on it wrong.
I don’t want to be something that breaks easily.
I want to be strong. I want to be fearless. I want to experience life and live it to the fullest, even when it means I accidentally have alcohol at a party, because these are the kinds of stories I want to tell my grandkids someday.
But every day that passes—and every wedding that passes—that future of sitting in matching rocking chairs with my one true love on the front porch of our farmhouse overlooking rolling hills while dozens of grandkids frolic in the yard slips further away.
And so do all the memories I wanted to make in the meantime.
Luca crosses around the car and opens my door. “We’re sleeping in Nonna’s room.”
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s air-conditioned. We’re sleeping in Nonna’s room.”
Once we’re inside, he takes me up to the guest bedroom and makes me sit on the folding chair in the corner. He sets Dogzilla in my lap and won’t let me lift a finger to do anything other than pet my cat while he strips the bed and puts on fresh sheets.
I catch sight of my cardboard Confucius still taped to the window in here, remember my laptop, and start to tear up all over again.
“Your pajamas—Henri? What’s wrong? Where does it hurt?”
Luca squats in front of me and takes my chin, making me look at him. He doesn’t have to try hard, because I don’t want to fight him.
“I’m sorry I’m a disaster.”
“The world is a disaster, Henri. Not you. You’re perfect exactly the way you are.”
“Perfectly disastrous. I ruined your night.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, and I feel his sigh in the deepest parts of my very being.
Annoying someone is not an unfamiliar feeling.
But I don’t understand why it hurts more when I annoy him.
“Sorry,” I whisper again.
“Stop apologizing. It’s not your fault.”
“It is. I should’ve asked—”
“I should’ve asked, because I’ve been to parties with all of those people before, and I should’ve known. This is my fault. You shouldn’t
be suffering because I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not—”
“Oh, believe me, I really, really am.”
Right.
Because he thought asking me to play his girlfriend would be easy, when there’s nothing easy about me.
I shift on the seat and start to pull myself up. “I’ll get to bed then.”
“Henri—”
His eyes are haunted, and I don’t know what’s bothering me more—that I’m wreaking havoc all over his life, or that he feels responsible for it.
But he shakes his head and holds out a hand. “What else can I get for you? Water? You need more medicine by the bed? Does Dogzilla need pajamas?”
Never in all of my engagements has a man asked me if my cat needs pajamas.
But this man thinks of everything.
And it’s all a sham so that he can teach me how to not fall for the siren’s lure of the kind of love that I need to accept only happens between the pages of a book, while he fends off his grandmother’s curse until he can deal with it properly at the end of baseball season.
He pauses as I grab my pajamas off the bed, like he’s wondering which of us should offer to leave so I can have some privacy.
Awkward has never been more awkward. And I know awkward.
I know so much awkward.
“I’ll go—” I start as he mumbles, “I’ll let you get—”
We both stop and stare at each other.
I thought it would be the best plan ever to ask a man who has no qualms poo-pooing love to teach me how to learn better, but I’ve gone and done the Henri-est thing I could do.
I’ve decided he’s more than pretty hair and a bad attitude about love.
And no matter how many times I tell myself I’m wrong, I still want to be the woman who shows him that he can have love too.
“Bathroom.” My head hurts, but my heart hurts more. “I’m going to shower.”
“Need help?”
The shiver starts in my toes and goes all the way up to my roots, pausing on its way to give extra good tingles to the best parts. “You don’t have to do that,” I whisper.
“I want to.”
“That’s not part of our deal.”
“Fuck the deal. I won’t break you, Henri. The world needs you exactly the way you are. And if that means I need to make sure no other asshole ever breaks your heart again, that’s what I’ll damn well do. Understood?”
