How to End a Love Story(19)

“Don’t be a dick,” he says, and the door opens.

It’s Tom and Eve, looking travel-worn and smelling of In-N-Out burgers.

“Traffic was insane. I almost made us turn around and call in with food poisoning but it would have taken longer to get home,” Eve says. “Oh, this place is weird.”

“I feel like I’m at summer camp in the seventies and this is the sexy, haunted counselors’ cabin,” Tom says. He jogs up the stairs. “There’s actual bunk beds up here!”

Eve rolls her eyes at Grant and Helen. “He’s going to want to sleep in one.”

“I’m totally sleeping in one!” Tom shouts from above them.



Suraya arrives just before sunset, equipped with apologies, tales of traffic nemeses, and booze. Grant is slightly resentful about their fearless leader arriving so late to her own mandatory trip; he’s spent the better part of the day playing host against his will, as her second-in-command. Part of him suspects she did it on purpose. Suraya is the type who would—some Machiavellian calculation about people getting more socially acclimated without the boss around, and how many of them would arrive late due to traffic. He’s helped Tom and Eve set up their side-by-side bunk beds (“We can role-play sexy camp counselors,” Tom said suggestively, and Eve smacked him with her pillow), pushed the couches around upon request for Saskia and Nicole to compare their witchy arsenals of tarot cards and crystals and sage, and hunted down his iPhone charger for Owen, who forgot his own.

And there’s Helen, who retreats further inside herself with every new arrival.

“Hot toddy,” he says gruffly, handing her a new mug. “Suraya’s special recipe.”

She looks up at him from her spot bundled on the deck chair, the one he sat on for half an hour before anyone else arrived. “Thanks,” she murmurs.

Everyone else is inside, enjoying the last of the homemade dessert Nicole brought. Helen had excused herself for some air, and he caught the disappointed look in Suraya’s eyes before she nodded.

Grant wishes there was some way to break down Helen’s defenses. If she were anyone else, he’s pretty sure he could. He’d say something funny and a little stupid; he’d find a way to show that he was paying attention to the jokes she said in the room, always too quietly and self-consciously for anyone else to hear them.

She wraps a throw blanket around herself tightly, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone so badly in need of a hug in his life.

“You hate this,” he says finally.

“It’s so much time being around people, all the time,” she says. “I don’t know how you can stand it.”

“Easy, I like people,” Grant says simply. “You don’t.”

Helen scowls.

“There’s a reason some people become celebrated, New York Times bestselling authors, and other people become screenwriters,” he says. “You’re a writer, you write for a living. I’m a Hollywood hack. I’m just good at talking in rooms.”

Helen lets out a short, dismissive exhale.

“You are good at that,” she says finally.

He sits down across from her. “I tried to write a novel once,” he offers.

She doesn’t respond.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what it’s about?”

She scoffs. “Everyone’s tried writing a novel once—my dad’s fishing buddy tried writing a novel once. Trust me, it’s better if I don’t know what it’s about. If it’s good, you’ll be afraid I’ll steal it. And if it’s bad, I have no poker face.”

“I know,” Grant says. “I can tell by the way you glare at me over lunch every day.”

“You’re very annoying at lunch,” she says, tetchy in a way he almost finds endearing in its familiarity. Almost. “It’s the part of the day where you campaign your hardest to be everyone’s favorite writer-man.”

“Well, the election’s coming up soon, so.”

Helen gives a derisive snort-exhale that sounds not unlike a laugh.

“I never should have come here,” she says finally. “I’m not built for this kind of—Hollywood thing.”

“Sure you are,” Grant says. “Everyone’s jealous of everyone here. You thrive on thinking people hate you. I remember high school.”

She meets his gaze evenly. “I remember high school too.”

It makes Grant uncomfortable, how her stare seems to cut through all his layers of hard-won polish to the raw grit inside.

“I have context for you,” he clarifies, trying to find his footing again. “That’s what I meant.”

“I wish you’d stop bringing it up. I don’t like the context you have for me.”

He exhales shortly. He doesn’t like the context she has for him either, but it seems counterproductive to bring that up now.

“Fine,” he says finally. Remembering why he came out here, he adds, “You have to make more of an effort with everyone else, though. For the sake of the room, or for your books, if you don’t care about the rest of us.”

He turns on his heel and leaves her alone to sulk.



Owen brings out a Ouija board after everyone’s in their pajamas.