The Rom Con(89)

Now I’m definitely offended. “Excuse me, I did not get fired. I quit my job.”

He eyes Christine sideways. “Oh-kay.”

I growl and grab one of the Capri Suns to launch at his head, but he ducks at the last second and it bounces off the tile backsplash behind him. “I did not get fired! But you know what, now I do feel like punching you.”

“Okay, okay,” Christine says, stepping between us just as I’m rounding the island. “Please don’t beat my husband up before the party, visible injuries will be hard for me to explain to the other parents. And Greg, for the love of God, stop talking.”

I fake-lunge at him like a schoolyard bully and smirk when he flinches. Wuss.

“The point is, Greg’s been feeling awful about this. He didn’t want to make things worse by bringing it up while we were dealing with all the Gran stuff, but we both agreed it was time to be up-front with you.” She grabs my hand and squeezes it, offering me a sad smile. “We hate that we played any role in this, especially since all we want is to see you happy. We really are so sorry, Cass.”

The sympathy in her eyes brings my simmering emotions right back to the surface, and now I’m fighting back tears for what feels like the millionth time this month. “I know you are.” I exhale a slow breath, deciding to end Greg’s suffering. “And I appreciate you guys coming clean, but here’s the thing: I already knew.”

Greg’s head snaps up. “What do you mean, you knew?”

“I guess I shouldn’t say I knew, since Jack didn’t tell me one way or another, but I strongly suspected. Think about it: One day everything was normal and fine between us and the next it wasn’t—and the only thing that happened in between was you guys went to a baseball game.” I shrug ruefully. “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to put two and two together.”

Greg groans. “I’m the worst. Do you hate me? I would hate me.”

“Stop, of course I don’t hate you. Anyway, it’s not your fault. Jack was going to find out the truth one way or another, and it should have been from me. I never should have asked Christine to lie for me to begin with. The only person I have to blame for all of this is myself.” And I’m certainly paying the price.

“I think you can blame Greg a little,” Christine quips, then leans in to whisper in my ear, “Milk this for all it’s worth.”

“Fine, and Greg.” I wink to let him know I’m kidding.

Greg clears his throat. “Not to bring up a sore subject, but we couldn’t help seeing some of the headlines this week.” He glances at Christine, and oof, they’re both wearing their “concerned parent” faces. I brace myself, knowing exactly where this is headed. “You hanging in there? It’s got to be hard, seeing him in the news like that.”

I shrug half-heartedly, because what can I say, really? Of course I saw the news—it was impossible to miss.

It appears that the momentous, decade-in-the-making business deal Jack was so determined to protect finally went through, so it’s official: He’s sold his stake in Brawler—and for a truly eye-popping sum. It’s the kind of money that blows your hair back, that ensures you’ll never have to work another day in your life. And while that big, impressive number might be the thing that preoccupies most people, the only thing I wondered when I saw the headlines was whether he had anyone to celebrate with; if anyone told him they were proud of him.

“Well, enough about him. I’m making it my mission to find you a new guy,” Greg says decisively. “The right guy this time.”

“Oh yeah? You’ll be my own personal Chris Harrison?” I tease, sidestepping his offer with a joke. There is no part of me that would even consider dating right now, but I’ll humor him because I know he’s just trying to help and I don’t want him to feel worse. And that’s what someone who’s heartbroken does, right? Pretends, goes through the motions, “acts as if” until suddenly, one day, you wake up to realize the ache is gone and your heart has healed.

Even if the thought of that breaks my heart in a completely different way.

“Absolutely,” Greg avows. “But instead, what I will promise you is the least dramatic relationship ever.”

“Phew,” I tell him, mock-wiping my brow. “I’ve had enough drama to last me a lifetime. Though I think we may need to hold off on the matchmaking for the time being. I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer a man at the moment.” I feel like one of the girls’ worn-out baby dolls: battered and broken, sporting a bald patch and missing a limb.

“How’s the writing going?” Christine asks, coming to my rescue with a subject change.

“Shh,” I whisper, giving her the zip-it hand signal.

“Why are we whispering?” she whispers back.

“It’s going well, but we must speak of it in hushed tones, then knock on wood three times so as not to anger the gods or the Muse or whichever divine entity has blessed me with this small winning streak.” I reach for another gummy shark and she smacks my hand.

“And you won’t give me one single hint about what it is you’re writing?”

I shake my head firmly. “You will find out when I’m finished and not a minute sooner. Sorry not sorry.”