“Whoa, there. Hey.” He lets his hands rest on my waist for a moment before he pushes me away, laughing. “What—what are you doing, Ruby?”
An anxious fizzing fills my veins, my face growing hot as my knees start to buckle.WhatamI doing?
This is real. Real Penn. Real consequences.
Humiliated, I step back and shake my head. “I’m sorry. Still woozy, I guess.”
Penn extends a hand, and for a moment I think he might reach for my face. Except his hand keeps rising—and he ruffles my hair. He ruffles my hair like I’m a goddamn golden retriever, a move so platonic—so deeply, unsettlingly unsexy—that I wouldn’t mind dying right here on his dumb doorstep.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says with a sweet grin. “We’ll just chalk that up to a mild concussive event, alright?”
I stare at him, wondering if I would’ve been better off trapped inside a sleepover game for the rest of eternity. Afraid he’s become a phantom itch I’ll never get to scratch.
As I turn and begin marching toward my spiritual demise, Penn calls, “Hey. Wynne.”
My heart stutters in my chest. I spin back.
He leans out of the doorway and shrugs. “Next time I see you, be the Ruby I know, will you? You’re freaking me out.”
My throat tightens. The Ruby he knows doesn’t exist anymore.
I take one last look at Penn, wondering what the Ruby he knows would say. But I’m not her anymore. The lines, they really did blur.
I leave before I say something I’ll regret.
23
RIP, Lip Smackers
I sit inBridget’s front seat, clutching the rolled-up Harry Styles poster to my chest. She insists we keep it as a memento, as if I’ll someday want to look back on my horrific thirty-fifth birthday: the night my life and sanity fell apart at the seams.
It’s raining, because of course it is, and I stare out the window, watching the downpour.
Bridget nudges me. “Ruby? Did you even hear me?”
“What?”
We’re parked outside my apartment building. She looks toward the lobby, then gives me a sympathetic pat on the knee. “I know you said you’re fine, and that you think it’s for the best. But I wonder if maybe you’re still in shock? About Connor?”
I have several missed calls and seven text messages from Connor, who apologized profusely for sharing his news at the worst possible time last night. I didn’t reply. Instead, I told Bridget about his New York plans, and she fumed, and we agreed that Connor and I were never really meant to be together anyway. Plus, his cologne sucked.
“This is a big change,” she says, like the soothing kindergarten teacher she is. “It’s okay to be mad. Or scared. Or both. And if you decide to burn all his button-downs, I won’t tell anyone.”
I laugh. “Thanks, B. But I think I’ll be okay.”
Part of me is still frustrated over how suddenly Connor changed his mind, but also, I get it now. I’ve changed my mind, too. Epiphanies really can happen overnight.
Besides, Connor’s not the reason I’m upset.
Bridget turns off the car. “Never mind. I’m coming up.”
“What?”
She slings her gold fanny pack over her chest and sighs. “I’m coming upstairs. We’re going to eat a bunch of greasy food and talk some more shit and watch some bad TV, okay?”
My other love language.
I fling my arms around her, grateful, and she says, “Also, you’re going to shower.”
