How to End a Love Story(49)

Helen flushes at Kevin’s pathetic compliment in a way that makes Grant want to knock his old friend out cold.

“Thanks,” she says. “I tried. You look great too.”

Her eyes flit to Grant and suddenly the air seems to have left the room.

“Hi,” she says to him.

“Hi,” he answers, trying to keep his voice even.

“So what’s new, man?” Kevin says, fucking oblivious. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I, um, had one,” she says. “Lauren, upstairs, gave me some of your scotch. I hope that’s okay.”

She mumbles that to the ground and Grant frowns. He thinks she must be uncomfortable here, with so many people she doesn’t know. He hates Kevin suddenly, and Lauren, and everyone in this building that’s keeping him from having a straightforward conversation with her.

“Yeah, yeah,” Kevin assures her. “Lauren’s an old friend. She knows where we hide the good stuff. And now you do too! Funny how people become old friends, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Helen says, looking over at Grant.

“So how are you?” Kevin asks again.

Grant stands and walks over to them, because he can take only so much before he does something drastic.

“I’m good,” Helen says. “I’ve been busy with . . . writing stuff. How have you been?”

“Same old, same old,” Kevin says. “Had a job, lost my job, got a new one, didn’t work out, but that’s cool because I’m gonna take some time off to go hang with my cousin in Lake Michigan in January anyway.”

“I hear it’s beautiful there,” Helen says.

“Yeah, we’re gonna work on his boat,” Kevin says. “I’ve never worked on a boat before, but, you know, sounds like a good time. Maybe it’ll be my calling.”

“I think the ball’s gonna drop soon,” Grant says. “You should probably . . .”

“Oh shit, yeah,” Kevin says, and claps his hands on his head. “We have this big projector outside so we can do sparklers and shit, but it’s been glitchy as fuck this year. I mean, we can watch in the living room upstairs, but no sparklers, no fun, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Helen says.

“Catch you guys later,” Kevin says, and heads upstairs, leaving them alone.

Finally.

“So,” Grant says. “You came.”

Helen nods. She seems far away, and he has the somewhat whimsical impression of a stray cat contemplating crossing the street. I’ll come to you, if it’s easier.

“I wanted to see . . . what it’d be like,” she says, as he advances slowly on her.

“And?” he asks, as her pulse flutters rapidly at her neck. He stops in front of her, close enough to touch. “How are you finding it?”

She looks around at everywhere but him.

“I remembered I hate parties,” she says.

“And people, and talking to them—and me,” he says, his voice low. He places a hand on the wood-paneled wall behind her, mentally commanding her to tilt her chin up to look at him. “Right?”

“I don’t . . .” She starts, then stutters as he finally, finally, reaches out to stroke the skin on her shoulder. There are goose bumps on her arm—because it’s cold, and her dress is flimsy. “I don’t hate people,” she says softly.

He huffs slightly and the hair in front of her face moves from his breath. His hand at her shoulder drifts down until he’s just lightly holding on to her elbow with his thumb and forefinger.

“People,” he repeats. “Okay.”

“I don’t know what this is,” she says, looking up at him.

“What do you want it to be?” he asks, and tugs her closer, closer, until she’s practically arching into his leaning body.

“Nothing. I mean—I don’t know,” she says.

He laughs and drops his head to her shoulder. Her hand floats up and tangles in his hair, scratching slowly. Good boy.

“Help me out,” he says against her skin. “I don’t know the rules.”

“The rules?” Her voice is small, and he skims his lips across her shoulder. Not enough pressure to be called a kiss. But—something.

“Of this game we’re playing,” he says. His fingers dig into the cool satin of her dress, and he can feel the heat rolling in waves off of her. “What do I get if I win?”

“There’s no winning,” she says.

He lifts his head, then flicks the thin strap of her dress off her shoulder. “No?”

“It’s not . . . possible,” she says, breathing heavily as he lowers his head to the newly exposed millimeter of shoulder. He presses his nose to her skin and brushes it back and forth.

“I’m enjoying it all the same,” he whispers, his lips brushing her collarbone.



“What else are you enjoying?” Helen asks, her voice tiny.

His fingers flex against her hip and she gasps.

“I’m enjoying this dress,” he says. “If you can fucking call it that.”

She presses forward against him and feels a gratifying answering hardness below the belt.

“I meant,” she gasps, as he presses his knee between her legs and pulls her down, whispering silk across the hard denim. “Are you enjoying . . . anyone else?”