How to End a Love Story(48)

Except if she did, Grant would definitely find out. And that would be worse.

“It’s really cold out here,” Helen says.

“Well, let’s get you a drink,” Lauren says, yielding and opening the door.

Helen follows Lauren into the kitchen, trying not to crane her neck a full 180 degrees searching for Grant in every room of this mid-century house that looks like it was last decorated by someone’s grandmother. They pass clusters of adult strangers with vaguely familiar faces and Helen feels like a sophomore playing dress-up at a party full of cool seniors.

“There’s cheap champagne or boxed wine on the menu,” Lauren says.

“I’m fine with either,” Helen says.

Lauren smirks.

“Or . . .” She stoops and pulls out a bottle of sixteen-year-old Lagavulin from beneath the sink. “There’s the good scotch Kevin hides and forgets about every year. You’ll get warmer faster.”

“That’d be great,” Helen says.

Lauren pours them both glasses of scotch, neat.

“Cheers,” she says, and clinks their glasses.

Helen isn’t a scotch drinker but she thinks she might become one after this, as the smoky taste of aged whisky melts down her throat and travels straight into her belly.

“So,” Lauren says. “What’s new?”

“Um,” Helen says, taking another sip of scotch. “Not much.”

Lauren laughs. “Babe, we haven’t seen each other in fourteen years. Not much?”

“Maybe too much, then,” Helen says. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

She’s anxious and jittery. Suddenly she’s reminded of how much she hates parties and staying out late with people she doesn’t know that well and why the fuck did she come here.

“I heard you’re working on a TV show,” Lauren says. “That’s pretty big.”

“Yeah,” Helen says into her drink. “It’s exciting.”

“Is anyone famous gonna be in it?”

“Um, I don’t know,” Helen says. “I think they’re still figuring out . . . contracts, and stuff.”

Lauren studies her and takes a sip of her scotch. “Grant’s working on that show, right?”

“He is,” Helen says, and looks down.

“Must be weird for you, given everything. How is he to work with?” Lauren asks.

“He’s . . . fine,” Helen says. “High school was a long time ago.”

Lauren studies her curiously. Helen hopes she won’t press on the subject.

“It was,” Lauren finally agrees. “You know Grant’s here, somewhere.”

“Yeah, I know,” Helen says. “He told me about the party.”

He told me about you, she thinks, and wonders if there’s something he didn’t tell her. Maybe she’s been overthinking things. Maybe he’s already forgotten about what happened the day after Christmas. Maybe he took her lack of response to his calls and texts at face value and just threw out the invite to be friendly.

Maybe he’s already planning on going home with Lauren.

“I wondered. We’ve never seen you around here before,” Lauren says. “So you guys are friends?”

“Something like that,” Helen agrees.

“Grant and I were ‘something like that’ once too,” Lauren says casually. “Not so much now, though. I think he’s changed, since I knew him.”

“That makes sense,” Helen says, not entirely sure it does.

“You’re different too, than how I remember you.”

Helen feels uncomfortably warm under Lauren’s direct gaze.

“I hope so,” she says, telling herself to grow a spine. “I have tried.”

Lauren smiles.

“I get it,” she says finally. “I’m trying to change too. Old habits, though, you know.”

Is Grant an old habit?

“I think he’s downstairs,” Lauren says. When Helen blinks, Lauren nods toward the carpeted stairs to the basement. “Grant. If you want to say hi.”

“Oh,” Helen says, and her pulse quickens. “Thanks. I will.”

“Hang on,” Lauren says. She sets down her drink and holds Helen’s chin in place with one hand, then dabs at her lips with a napkin with the other. “Your lipstick’s smudged. Wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Helen waits for Lauren to finish, then pulls back.

“Thanks,” she says uncertainly.

“No problem,” Lauren says. “Girls gotta look out for girls. Good luck.”

She raises her glass in a slightly sardonic toast.



Grant doesn’t look up when Kevin leaps off the couch and yells, “Bruh!” for the fourteenth time tonight. Another long-lost face from his past, probably.

“I haven’t seen you in fucking forever, man,” Kevin says.

“Yeah, well,” a crisp female voice answers. Grant whips his head so fast, he’s surprised he doesn’t break his neck. It’s her. “I don’t usually have a lot of free time when I’m back home.”

“You look great,” Kevin says, in the understatement of the century.

She’s wearing a silky black dress that looks like it’s a few molecules thick, which is ridiculous in this weather and also fucking hot. Her long hair is brushed and curled and his hand itches with a desire to wrap those curls around his knuckles. And then what?