How to End a Love Story(108)

Helen hands him her best pen silently. He works out story beats in a black notebook, his laptop abandoned for a few moments before he starts tapping his foot with idle, pent-up energy. She covers his foot with hers, and he looks up.

“Sorry,” he whispers against her ear, bumping her shoulder as he leans in to say it, and she shivers despite the heat.

He stops tapping his foot, but five minutes later, his left hand starts tapping restlessly against her planner. A librarian clears her throat in a pointed way, and Helen covers his hand with hers and gives him a quieting look. Grant rolls his eyes, then glances down at her hand.

He flips his captured hand up beneath hers, and suddenly she’s the one who’s caught.

He looks up at her, and her heart jams in her throat. He presses a shushing finger to his lips with his free hand, then reaches into his shirt pocket and produces a ring.

It’s a simple round-cut diamond in a platinum, Edwardian-looking setting.

It’s perfect.

He holds it out to her casually and lifts a silent shoulder. What do you think?

Like they’re in silent study hall, and he’s asking her to prom.

Helen blinks. Time seems to be moving differently.

This is how Grant Shepard proposes to you, she thinks, and can’t quite believe it’s really happening. He’s the homecoming king!!! her seventeen-year-old self adds, unnecessarily, and she can feel the moment slipping away even as she wants to laugh at some future joke they’ll tell their friends about how many words does it take for a screenwriter to propose to an author?

Then she looks up and sees some flicker of nerves in his eyes, despite his casual posture, and her heart seems ready to collapse with the weight of loving him.

Yes, she nods.

Grant lets out a short, relieved gust of air, laughs roughly, and slides the ring onto her finger. He raises her hand and kisses her knuckles, then leans forward, their knees touching as he presses a kiss to her flushed cheeks, her nose, and finally her waiting lips.

They’re engaged.



It’s sleeting when they meet Helen’s parents a week later, at a dim sum restaurant off Route 22 that Helen remembers going to from ages eight through eighteen. On their way in, they pass a surly thirteen-year-old Chinese girl reading a thick novel while ignoring everyone else at her table, and Helen nudges Grant with some excitement.

“That one was me,” she says.

Grant keeps his eyes on the table ahead, where Helen’s parents are waiting for them. Her heart pinches at his grim expression.

“You’re going to be fine.” She squeezes his elbow. “A herd of wild horses couldn’t keep me from marrying you.”

The lunch goes as well as could be expected, which is to say, not great.

Mom refuses to place orders for the table, waving a hand toward Helen as if to say, have it your way, order what you want, I see how it is.

Dad tries to make conversation with Grant about his work, but mostly uses it as an opportunity to roast his entire filmography. “I saw that show you did, before Helen’s show. None of my friends have heard of it.”

When the check comes, Grant offers to pay, and Mom says stiffly, “Thank you, that’s very kind.”

Helen suppresses a despairing laugh—she remembers every world war her parents have started over their right to pay a dinner bill. They sit in silence waiting for the waitress to return for Grant’s signature, and Helen wonders if it was a mistake, insisting he not ask her parents for permission before proposing. Isn’t my permission the only one you need? Maybe she’d been wrong about that.

Her parents share a speaking look and Helen feels a foreboding twinge.

Mom sighs heavily, then says, “At least he’s tall. My sister, her daughter Alice married so short.”

She shakes her head and Grant looks to Helen like, This was not in the flowchart of possible responses.

Helen closes her eyes and mentally laughs until she cries.

“We’re thinking a summer wedding,” she says out loud.

Mom sniffs disdainfully, as if to say, of course you are, who am I to stop you.

“You will have to pay your respects to Michelle,” she finally says, her gaze trained on Grant.



Helen hands Grant two sticks of lit incense, and they both stand in front of Michelle’s smiling portrait on the bookshelf. She’s still thrown by the sight of Grant standing in her childhood home. It seems so impossible an image, her brain keeps commanding her eyes to check again.

“I don’t really know the proper way to do this,” Helen says. “I just know what I do. I hold the incense, I face her, I say, Hi, Michelle, and, um, whatever else comes to mind. And I bow. That’s kind of how it’s always worked in our house.”

Grant takes the incense from her and faces the portrait.

“Hi, Michelle,” he says. “I’m sorry you’re not here. I wish we all could have hung out together.”

“That would have been so weird,” Helen mutters beside him. “You know, usually we don’t do this out loud.”

“I don’t mind if you hear what I have to say,” Grant says quietly, and bows his head toward Michelle’s portrait again. “I want you to know I’ll take care of your sister. And thanks for having me here.”

“Then you put the incense sticks in the pot next to the photo,” Helen adds.