“Hey,” Morgan says, nudging Carol from Legal beside her and pointing.
It’s like all the sound stops—but, of course, it doesn’t really. The room is still loud with other people’s conversations and blaring music, but around our table, at least, everyone goes quiet as Mark Winterson orders a drink.
Morgan’s watching him like she’s keeping tabs on a poisonous spider. Did something change since we talked in the closet? She’s not the type to hold back.
He walks over, beer in hand, and points at the spot Greg left open. “Mind if I join you?” And as he sits, he says low enough for the others not to hear: “Didn’t realize you were going to be here. Hope you don’t think I came to pressure you.”
I laugh nervously and look up in time to see Greg and Sarah at the bar—they came back, apparently. And Greg locks eyes with me as Mark Winterson keeps on talking into my ear.
“Erickson encouraged me to come to these things.” His warm breath tickles the side of my face. “Get to know everyone.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, of course.” I smile like I’m having a great time and touch Mark Winterson’s arm. “I didn’t think anything of it.”
Sarah nudges Greg to tell him something, and he leans closer.
I could really use a breather.
“Excuse me a moment,” I say, pushing my chair back.
I hop up and weave my way through the crowded room to the exit, going the long way so I avoid the bar.
It’s a relief when I get outside and the door shuts, mufflingthe too-loud music and overlapping conversations behind me. The neon sign overhead glows pink, and the sky is fading deep navy to black.
The noise of the bar picks up again—the door’s open, and Greg’s coming outside.
“Hey.” He stops right in front of me, but it seems like he’s struggling with himself again, trying and rejecting things to say.
“Spit it out, Greg!” I snap.
That makes him laugh, though it sounds a bit painful. “Does it have to be that guy?” He says it like a joke, but it gets my hackles up.As if I owe Greg an answer!
“He’s not that bad,” I shoot back.
Greg’s staring at me, unfortunately puppy-eyed again.
And, fumbling for a joke, I add: “At least he doesn’t live with his mom.”
Greg scoffs. “So do you, basically!”
“I wouldn’t call itliving,exactly!” I shout.
We glare at each other, a moment of very intense, sustained eye contact passing between us. Some cars whoosh past on the road beyond the parking lot. Finally Greg looks away first.
“Sorry, Ruby.” He’s quiet for a while, arms folded across his chest. His Adam’s apple bobs.
“Remember Owen?” he adds abruptly.
Unbelievable! “Reminding me of my shitty exes, what a power move.”
“It’s just—” His voice breaks, like we really are back in high school. “I can tell he’s an Owen type. Looks good on paper, but…he’s all wrong for you. He won’t make you happy.”
“You don’t even know him!” The heat builds in my chest, and all the angry words I’ve rehearsed before I fall asleep at night are flying wind-whipped around my head. “What the fuck, Greg!”
I’m so agitated, I shove him, and Greg staggers back, eyes wide, like he didn’t think I had it in me.
“Are youjudgingme right now?” I take a step forward and jab him in the chest. “What makes you an expert on what’s right for me?”
And even though I’m furious at him, I have the insane urge to mash my mouth against his to shut him up—but I quash it, like I always do. “How wouldyouknow what makes me happy?” I shout. “When you justdroppedme at the end of high school! And Ithoughtwe were friends, but then suddenly we weren’t anymore, and—”
