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.”
She snorts, then puts Greg to work cutting （“part of his penance”） and pours us some wine （“if it’s in a Dixie cup, it doesn’t count”） and bowls of Goldfish （“practically a charcuterie board”）。
She leans her elbows on the island, considering me thoughtfully as she munches, party prep all but forgotten. “I know these last few weeks have been hard on you, but I can’t help thinking at least some of it was meant to be.”
“You mean my entire life had to fall apart for me to finally decide to follow my dreams?” I joke. “Because I could do without that particular brand of karma.”
“Oh stop, you know that’s not what I meant. I just think maybe certain things worked out the way they were supposed to. You stepping in to help Gran, us being nearby to support you through a rough patch, you getting a chance to pause and catch your breath and focus on your future. I know you may not see it that way because the circumstances weren’t ideal, but you made a lot of really big, brave decisions most people wouldn’t have the guts to make. Honestly, I’m in awe of you.”
Well, that does it—my eyes blow right past misty into full-blown fire hoses. “You know I’m not emotionally stable enough to receive compliments right now,” I blubber, dabbing at my eyes with the anchor-print napkin she passes me.
“Too bad, you’re getting ’em,” she says, leaning over to hug my neck. “As Kris Jenner would say: You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”
Now I’m laughing through my tears. “Welp, I don’t know about the ‘brave’ part, but I am working on it,” I say through sniffles. “You know what I was thinking about the other day? Mrs. Williams’ class. Do you remember it?”
“Of course I remember! She was our kindergarten teacher,” Christine explains to a bemused Greg. “She kept this giant iguana as the class pet.”
“And on our birthday, she’d give each of us a birthday balloon.”
“She had a helium tank in her classroom and everything!” Christine adds gleefully.
“That’s right. So she’d give us our birthday balloon, and then we’d have to decide if we wanted to keep it to take it home, or”—I pause for dramatic effect—“pop it.”
Christine hoots and smacks the counter while Greg just shakes his head at us wearily. Tough luck, bud, you’re getting dragged down memory lane whether you like it or not.
“You have to understand how terrifying this was for a six-year-old,” I insist. “She literally made you go after it with a thumbtack! The loud popping noise was bad enough, but I think the anticipation of it was even worse.” I shudder. “So naturally, all the boys popped theirs because they needed to prove how brave they were.”
“Let me guess,” Greg says to Christine with a smirk. “You popped yours.”
“Of course I popped mine,” she says, indignant. “I had to impress Joey Watson, duh.”
“And I, of course, did not. Because I’ve been a wimp since birth.” I toss back my Dixie cup of wine like a shot and slam it down on the counter. “Fill ’er up.”
“You’re being way too hard on yourself,” Christine argues while Greg pours me another thimbleful. “In fact, you were the smarter one in this scenario, because you got to enjoy and savor the balloon for longer than ten seconds. The rest of us bozos succumbed to peer pressure and cheap thrills.”
I arrow her a look. “While I appreciate your generous attempt to rewrite history, I was, in fact, being a massive wimp. And you know what? I have spent far too much of my life running from risk. I am done playing it safe. From now on, I’m popping every balloon.” No one will ever call me a coward again.