How to End a Love Story(25)

“It’s fine,” he assures her. “It’s—it’s a nice gesture. I can’t remember the last time someone tried to kiss and make it better.”

Helen draws a throw blanket over her head dramatically.

“Helen,” he says gently.

The Helen-shaped figure under the blanket shakes her head. “Don’t look at me. I’m gonna die.”

“I’m gonna make s’mores,” he says, standing up and readjusting himself. “I’ll make one for you in case you survive.”

He pats the outside of her thigh lightly—friendly—and gets off the couch.



The hot tea spreads warmly in Helen’s stomach and the fire pit on the deck blazes cheerfully. She feels enveloped in warmth in a way she’s never experienced before, as if she’s aware of each molecule in her body heating up, one at a time.

“Sorry,” Owen says next to her, looking contrite. “I should have given you a half dose for your first time.”

Helen waves a hand, her entire body feeling warm and liquid and comfortable. “You didn’t know,” she says. “And I’m having fun.”

She leans back and rests her head on Owen’s shoulder.

“See, she’s having fun,” he says, looking up at Grant, who passes around s’mores.

Grant doesn’t acknowledge this and coolly admonishes, “Careful, they’re hot.”

As he moves off, Owen snickers. “I think he’s still mad.”

“Does Suraya know?” Helen asks.

“Do I know you’re all high as balls?” Suraya says loudly, across from her.

“I’m not high,” Saskia says, looking alarmed. “Who said we’re all high?”

“Just don’t tell the studio,” Suraya says. “Liability waivers and all that.”

“We should tell scary stories,” Nicole suggests, stretching her hands over the fire.

“Boo,” says Helen. “I don’t wanna be scared.”

“You know the rules,” Suraya says. “Don’t break an idea without fixing it.”

She’s referring to the golden rule of the writers room, and Helen feels proud of herself for remembering that at a time like this.

“Um,” she says. “First kiss stories?”

“What, first kisses ever, or with each other?” Tom asks, as Eve gently snores into his shoulder.

“Obviously the first—the rest of us haven’t kissed each other,” Nicole says, then winks at Saskia. “Yet.”

Helen glances at Grant, who she’s surprised to find is already looking at her. He frowns and she looks down quickly.

“My first kiss was when I was seventeen,” she says.

“Late bloomer,” Owen says.

“His name was Ian Rhymer,” she says, and Grant lifts his brows.

“Really,” he says.

“Really,” she answers. “It was in the travel section of the library where I worked. He ran cross-country, and he’d cut through the library sometimes to see me during practice.”

“God, that’s some wholesome shit,” Nicole says. “Mine was in the parking lot of a Starbucks with a guy whose name I don’t even remember anymore. I do remember hooking up with his best friend Derek a week later—he was my dealer.”

“My first technical kiss was my best friend Bethany in kindergarten,” Owen says. “We both wanted to see what it was like. My first real kiss was when I was sixteen, with this guy from math camp.”

“Mine was Brittany Clark, seventh grade,” Grant says. “At a spin-the-bottle party.”

The others catcall and whistle at this.

“Didn’t you date her best friend in high school?” Helen frowns.

Grant shrugs. “Yeah, in junior year—it was a lifetime later.”

“What was Helen like in high school?” Saskia asks.

“Yeah, did you guys ever . . .” Nicole nudges Helen. At Helen’s scandalized expression, Nicole scoffs, “What, like we weren’t all wondering?”

Helen balks at this. “Who’s been wondering??”

Owen raises his hand, and so does Tom, who also raises snoozing Eve’s hand.

Saskia raises her hand with an apologetic shrug. “I mean . . . not like in a serious way. Just in like a ‘ooh, is there any gossip there?’ way.”

“There was no gossip there,” Helen says. “We barely talked in high school. I was—”

“Mean,” Grant says. “And super judgy about popular kids.”

“I wasn’t mean,” Helen says. “I was . . . shy.”

Grant shakes his head. “You told Mindy Fielding she wasn’t trying hard enough as the features editor and maybe if she spent less time partying and more time working on her articles, the paper would have a chance at the regional student paper awards.”

“Nerd!” Owen coughs.

“Yeah, well, we placed fourth in Central Jersey the first issue after she quit the Ampersand,” Helen grumbles.

“See? Mean.” Grant grins.

“You were the literal homecoming king,” Helen says. “No one needs to feel sorry for you.”

“Homecoming kings have hearts too, Helen,” Grant says, feigning an arrow to the chest.