How to End a Love Story(72)

He laughs shortly.

“Well, my therapist says I have anxiety,” he says. “And a fear of being unworthy.”

Her hand squeezes the heavy arm that’s draped over her shoulder, and her thumb brushes his forearm in a quick, reassuring sweep.

“That’s not so bad,” she murmurs. “You could get over that, I bet.”

He drops his head back into her neck and she releases another shaky little sigh.

“You think I should get a girlfriend?” he murmurs into her neck.

“Only one who deserves you,” she says, her voice low and soft. “I could vet the candidates for you.”

“What about you?” he asks, and his stomach gives a funny flip like he’s on the ancient, rickety roller coaster ride on the pier.

She’s silent for a moment, and her voice is quiet when she finally speaks.

“You mean, why am I entangled in this sexy situation with no real future instead of finding a nice young man to settle down with?”

That’s not what he meant at all, but he waits for her to answer her own question.

“Guess I’m just not ready to be healthy yet,” she says finally. “Someday, though.”

Grant frowns at this puzzle of a sentence. He has a feeling if he were to examine it further, it’d fall to pieces, and maybe this fragile thing between them would too.

“Helen,” he says finally, kissing her shoulder. “Stop talking absolute shit. It’s too late and I’m too tired to keep up.”

She laughs and tilts her head up so he can kiss her on the lips. It’s a slow, lazy kiss, but somehow—and he isn’t sure who starts it—it becomes hot and searching. It feels like they’re arguing, and when she turns to cup his jaw in her hands, he stands and pulls her up with him, until she’s trapped between his body and the wall.

She kisses his neck, then looks up at him with some soft something in her eyes, and it feels like shrapnel lodging in his gut. His hand lifts to brush her hair from her temple, then slides down to palm her left breast. She gasps, and he frowns, squeezing harder, pinching her nipple.

“Am I hurting you?” he asks, his voice low.

She shakes her head, and bites her lip.

“I like it when you hurt me a little,” she whispers, and his lips come crashing down on hers, harsh, bruising, wanting. He thinks maybe if he kisses her long enough, he’ll chase away the taste of bitterness and hurt, though where that’s come from, he isn’t sure.

“Helen,” he murmurs against her mouth. “I don’t want a girlfriend.”

She nods, whimpering slightly as he nips at her lower lip.

“And I don’t want to talk about this ever again,” he says, his voice ragged. “Understand?”

She doesn’t answer, chasing after his lips insistently, so he pulls away, resting his forehead against hers. “Did you hear me?” he says.

“Yes,” she says. “I heard you.”

She captures his lips again and he kisses her back this time, and for the rest of the night, the conversation consists only of soft gasps and each other’s names.





Twenty-Two




On Tuesday, Helen is surprised to be the first one in the office. It’s the day after Valentine’s Day (she spent last night getting dinner with Nicole and Saskia, then driving home alone on principle) and there’s a seven-car pileup on the freeway, apparently, which traps everyone else in the traffic going north to Burbank. Suraya texts instructing them to start without her, whenever Grant arrives. About forty minutes later, she texts them again to say they’re basically done breaking episode 109 anyway and she has too many preproduction meetings so she’s going straight to the production office instead and they can all just work from home today.

Helen’s about to turn and head home when the elevator doors open and Grant appears. He’s wearing a hoodie and a baseball cap, and she can see his shoulders heaving up and down unnaturally as he walks out.

Something’s wrong.

He sees her, but he’s walking in brisk strides toward his office instead.

“Grant?”

“Water,” he says croakily, and jams a mug under the office water cooler.

He presses the hot water accidentally first, and curses before he switches to the cold water. She reaches his side then, and up close she can see he’s pale and sweating.

“What’s wrong?” She touches his hand gently.

“Panic attack,” he says grimly, closing his eyes as he leans back against the wall.

“Tell me what you need now,” she says.

“I need to count,” he says. “Letters on signs, or—or something . . .”

“Should I count with you?” she asks, and points at a poster on the wall. “That sign?”

He nods, and she holds his hand as they both count upward. “One . . . two . . . three . . .”

By the time they reach five, his breath is coming out in slow, racking sobs, and she slides her arm around his waist to wrap him in a hug. He drops his face into her hair, and she can feel the damp heat of his breath and tears as he inhales and exhales, accepting her comfort without hugging her back.

“What happened?” she asks, when his breathing slows and she feels him straighten.

She runs her palms up and down his upper arms, trying to warm him.