“When did we stop being friends?” He actually sounds confused, and it trips me up for a second.
I take a step back, arms crossed. “Great question, Greg!”
“I didn’t…think we stopped being friends. I thought I…made some more friends, in addition?”
He’s making me sound so petty and small. It’s impossible to talk to him. “Forget it,” I say, brushing past him to go back inside.
“Hey.” He puts both hands on my shoulders and turns me to face him. “Ruby, you were always—” Greg makes a throaty sound, struggling for the words. His eyes meet mine in a way that makes the butterflies stir, and I’m gritting my teeth, telling them,Not now, I swear to God!“I need you to know that I’ll always be your friend.”
He’s being very clear: I’m living in the shadow of something that ended a long time ago—or never started to begin with. We’ll always just be friends.
I jerk away so his hands drop to his sides, and we stand there for a while in that tense, raw silence.
Behind Greg, Mark Winterson chooses that moment to peek his head through the door of the bar.
“Oh, sorry, were you in the middle of—?”
“He was just leaving!” I exclaim.
Greg shakes his head, but he takes his cue to head for thedoor. He turns and mouthsOwenone more time before he heads inside.
“Can I get you another drink?” Mark Winterson says, coming up alongside me.
I force a smile, even though I’m still shaking from yelling at Greg. “Thanks, but I’m going to head home. Work tomorrow.”
“Let me call you a car.” He takes his phone out of his pocket. “Least I can do, since I did ruin your shoes. And the replacement was probably a bit much. Sorry about that, again.”
Mark Winterson taps around with his thumbs, the glow of the screen lighting his face from below. “Driver’s on his way.”
He shifts his weight from foot to foot, staring out into the distance.
“So, this paperwork…” I say. “What’s in it?”
He rocks back on his heels, hands in the pockets of his suit trousers. “Statement of consent, establishment of boundaries.” He says it so casually, he almost sounds bored. “Waiver of liability. Light NDA. All perfectly reasonable. More couples should do it, honestly.”
The wordcoupleskicks up a confusing mix of feelings in my gut.
“Can I, um, review it? See if I find the terms, uh—agreeable?”
Mark Winterson laughs. Maybe he can tell I’m reaching for language I heard fictional lawyers use on TV.
He bites down a smile and taps around on his phone. “It’s in your inbox.”
The car pulls up, and Mark Winterson hurries to get the door, closes it behind me, raises a hand as we pull away.
“Wait, was that—?” the driver says, doing a double take in his rearview mirror.
“No,” I say. “Common mistake.”
Chapter
26
I’m back home, scrolling through the document filled with places to initial and sign. My eyes scan the numbered sections and subsections, but it’s hard to focus.
Maybe I should have a lawyer look at this. But where would I find one? Yelp? And that has to be out of my budget.
A text slides down from the top of my screen:
