Eight
“It’s a tricky scramble here,” Suraya calls back to them.
They go on a hike after breakfast for their second day of the retreat and Helen has never been more certain she is not a fan of the great outdoors. She enjoys the occasional nature walk, but steep inclines and roads less traveled hold little practical romance for her.
“I’m with you, girl,” Owen says, as she audibly whines at the sight of the scramble.
He’s wearing a necklace beaded to read “Happy Camper,” yet is decidedly anything but. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a brightly colored bag of gummy candies.
“Edible? It’ll kick in when we get back to the cabin so we can forget this godforsaken mess,” he offers. “Plus I heard a rumor there’s s’mores waiting for us back there.”
“Ooh, are we sharing? I want one,” Nicole says, and Owen passes her an innocuous-looking dark purple gummy.
“Um,” Helen says.
Her one experience with cannabis was in college, when she unsuccessfully tried to smoke with her roommate and spent a full hour repeating, “I don’t think it’s working.” She was labeled a buzzkill and never invited to participate again. She still associates marijuana with a slightly bohemian, laissez-faire, underground lifestyle that’s cooler than she ever will be, though she knows it’s been legalized in California for so long that driving past high-end cannabis dispensaries that could front as Apple Stores has become a normal part of her daily routine.
“I don’t usually do edibles,” she says, hoping she doesn’t sound painfully uncool.
“God, I know, I just pass out and I’m completely useless after I take one,” Eve says behind them. “On the bright side, that might get me out of the next corporate bonding exercise.”
Owen offers Eve the bag of gummies. “They’re ten milligrams each.”
“Oof, I’m old, I’m gonna have to split it,” Eve says. She takes a bite of half, then taps her husband on the shoulder. “Here,” she says, and feeds the other half to him.
“Did you just drug me?” Tom asks.
“All the cool kids are doing it,” Eve says, and jogs ahead, laughing.
“It’s cute how they keep the spark alive in their marriage,” Owen says, then shudders. “Couldn’t be me. Helen?”
Helen blinks. Don’t be the buzzkill.
“Well, if all the cool kids are doing it,” she says, and gamely takes an edible.
The gummy tastes like a blackberry Sour Patch, with an unmistakable hint of weed in the aftertaste.
“How long do you think it’ll take to kick in?” she asks.
“I dunno, maybe forty minutes, maybe two hours?” Owen shrugs.
Off Helen’s expression, Owen laughs suddenly. “Oh, babe, tell me this isn’t your first edible?”
“I’m from the East Coast,” Helen answers.
Owen claps an arm around her. “This is gonna be fun,” he promises.
Helen laughs, feeling strangely light—surely it’s too early for the edible to be working already?
As Nicole and Owen help her up the scramble, she realizes—it’s not the edible, it’s the feeling of acceptance. It suddenly seems to mean a lot, that she was invited to participate.
She’s never felt particularly secure in her friendships back in New York—Pallavi and Elyse had friends they seemed slightly closer to, outside of their trifecta. And there was always an air of competitive friendliness in Helen’s wider YA author circles that often made her doubt if any of them actually liked each other, or if they were just performing for their readerships on Instagram. She could never quite shake the feeling that she wasn’t a particularly vital member of any group—she wasn’t the fun one, or the good-at-planning-things one, or the model-hot one.
So she threw herself into her work and presented her achievements like bargaining chips in her social circles—See how useful I am as a friend? Don’t I seem valuable as a long-term investment, even if I’m not that fun? More than one person has introduced her as “Helen, my most impressive friend.”
She hasn’t been particularly impressive in this writers room, though.
Maybe being bad at things in front of other people is the secret glue of friendship.
The thought lights up like a Christmas tree in her stomach, and that’s when she realizes the edible has kicked in.
Oh no, she thinks with a laugh, I’m thirty-one and peer pressure still works on me.
About an hour into their hike, Grant is painfully aware that about half their party is high off their asses.
“Do you ever just think . . . Trees!” Eve says, making jazz hands as she looks up at the canopy of golden leaves above them.
Tom snorts. “You sound so dumb right now. Trees!”
“No, it’s like, they’re so big and so old and so beautiful, like, they’re the same ones that have been standing since, like, the old times,” Eve says. “It’s like me and some Victorian lady both could have experienced these same trees.”
“No, I know what you mean,” Tom agrees. “We should do a rewrite on that western spec.”
“Yes.” Eve snaps her fingers.
“Keep up,” Suraya says, moving briskly up ahead with Saskia at the front of the pack. “We’re almost at the view, and then we can go home to s’mores.”
A collective excited murmur sounds behind him at the word s’mores.
He’s surprised to see Helen hanging with the stoned half of their group. She’s laughing at a joke Nicole has just whispered in her ear and glances up at him before bursting into a fit of giggles. She looks happier than Grant’s ever seen before.
He feels an involuntary tug at the corner of his mouth, and quickly forces it down into a neutral expression. He offers his hand to everyone passing by, helping them up the slight incline.
“Thanks, Dad,” Nicole says, then she and Helen burst into another round of giggles.
“I can do it on my own,” Helen says, waving him off.
“Of course you can,” Grant says, eyeing her brand-new hiking boots that have zero traction on them.
He reaches to support her elbow, and she swings away from him. “I said I have it.”
The force of her swing throws her off balance, and Grant lurches forward on instinct to catch her by the windmilling arms.
“Oh,” she says, staring up at him. “I guess I didn’t have it.”
She laughs then, and the shock of it makes him lose his own footing, and suddenly they’re tumbling downhill.
“Fuck,” he groans, trying to take the brunt of the damage.
“Nonononono,” Helen says, her breath coming out in short bursts on his neck.
They end their fall at the bottom of the leafy hill and look up to see six figures peering down at them.
“Shit,” Helen says, springing up. “We’re fine!” she calls up at them.
Grant pushes himself up and feels the stinging protest of his palms as he stands. He looks down to find them raw and pink.
“Oh, fuck,” she says. “You’re not fine.”
“I’m fine,” Grant waves her off.
“Grant’s bleeding!” she shouts up at the others.
“I’m fine!” he shouts back.
“He’s not fine, he needs—medical attention,” Helen says, shouting half up to the others, half at him.
“She’s being dramatic,” he shouts up at them. “I just need to wash my hands.”
“You wanna head back to the cabin first?” Suraya shouts down at him. “It’s just a few more steps to the view anyway. I can lead the way.”
“You shouldn’t go back alone,” Helen says heroically. “What if something happens?”
Grant lifts a brow sardonically. “Are you offering me your protection?”
“I’ll walk with him,” Helen shouts up. “I hate hiking anyway.”
Grant can tell by the cheers uphill that she’s not the only one that feels this way.
“Don’t eat all the s’mores without us!” Owen shouts down at them. “Lucky bitch.”
“Come on.” She pats Grant on the chest. “Let’s go.”
Grant lets her lead the way a short distance before deciding it’d be safer if he was at her side.
“What?” she asks, when she senses his presence.
“You’re high,” he says finally, trying not to laugh. “I just . . . never thought I’d see the day.”
“Someone brought gummies,” she says with a frown. “I succumbed to peer pressure.”
Grant does laugh at this. “Mrs. Granuzzo would be so disappointed right now,” he says, thinking of their pinched-faced D.A.R.E. teacher. “Did you forget to ‘just say no’?”
“I was trying to make more of an effort to be like everyone else,” she says, surly. “Some people told me that was important.”
“I didn’t say be like everyone else; I said make an effort with everyone else.”
“But not you, because that’d be a waste of time,” she agrees.
“Right,” he says.
“Aw,” she says, looking sideways at him. “I hurt your feelings.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he says.
“I’m so mean to you,” Helen says suddenly. “And you’re so—effing—nice. I’m awful.”
“You’re not awful.”
“I am, I’m the worst,” she says in a rush, sounding like she might cry. “I’m selfish and I’m obsessed with seeming like I’m winning to people from high school that I don’t even talk to anymore and I’m not, I’m so far from winning it’s laughable, like, why do I still care about high school and why are you always around when I feel like . . . like . . .”
“I’m always around when you feel like?” he prompts.
“Like I’m not super awesome and successful and winning,” she finishes, pathetically. “Sometimes I do, you know.”
“Some people just bring out the wrong colors in each other,” he says.
Helen sighs and looks around.
“It is pretty,” she says, talking sideways now. “I didn’t think it was possible to see fall colors this close to LA.”
He’s game for the conversational U-turn from deeper emotional waters.
“There’s a few places for that,” he tells her. “There’s a botanical garden called Descanso that’s just twenty minutes away. I go there when I miss the East Coast.”
“Are you going back for the holidays?”
“This year I am,” he says. “Have to help my mom clear out my uncle’s house.”
“Oh, right,” she says. “Sorry.”
“He was kind of a dick,” Grant says. “Not that anyone deserves a heart attack at sixty, but . . .”
“Hm, actually let’s not talk about this. I’m thinking about my heart and my organs too much now,” she says, rubbing a fist against her chest. “Thump, thump.”
“What do you want to talk about instead?” he asks.
“Nothing,” she says. “Let’s just . . . enjoy the walk.”
“Okay,” he agrees, and they walk in silence the rest of the way. He glances over at her a few times and wonders if she’s actually enjoying walking with him. His head feels a slight dizzying pressure from the wondering.
By the time they get back to the cabin, Helen seems to be vibrating with energy. She tilts her head back and forth like Meg Ryan in a rom-com but on a sped-up loop, and begins a familiar butterfly tapping motion, her arms crossing in the front as if giving herself a hug while she pats her own shoulders in an alternating pattern.
“My therapist has me do this sometimes,” she says. “When I’m too aware of my organs.”
“Have you been thinking about your organs this entire time?” he asks, incredulous.
Helen pauses, then shakes her head. “No, but now I am. You need to wash your hands,” she reminds him.
He goes to the sink and hisses slightly as the water touches his raw palms.
“Ouch,” she says, watching him.
“Can you get the first aid kit?” he asks.
She brings it to the couch, and after drying off with a towel, he follows. She’s poured isopropyl alcohol onto a gauzy pad and holds out a hand expectantly.
“We need to disinfect it,” she says.
“I can do it myself,” he says, then yelps, “Ow!”
She grins at him—she’s placed the gauze pad onto his palm, sandwiching his right hand between both of hers.
“Gotcha,” she says, and his stomach does a funny sort of flip at this. He can’t remember the last time someone else took care of his cuts and bruises like this, and makes a mental note not to catalogue the feeling of the pads of her fingertips skating across his hands too much.
“Gross,” she says, when she removes the gauze to look at the raw skin. There’s a yellow stain on the pad now.
He snorts. “Thanks.”
He moves to take his hand away, but she holds on to it. “Neosporin,” she says grimly.
“I can do it—”
“—yourself, yes, I know,” she says, rolling her eyes as she squeezes the gel onto his cuts. “Would you just let me feel helpful for once? It’s my fault you’re hurt.”
“I’m not hurt,” he says as she circles an index finger to spread the gel. “And if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s whoever gave you that edible. It was Owen, wasn’t it?”
“Not telling,” she says, and blows gently on his palm.
“He should have known better than to do it while we were on a hike,” Grant says, annoyed. “Asshole.”
“Hold still,” she says. She retrieves a Band-Aid from the kit.
“You’re lucky you didn’t get seriously hurt,” he says. “You shouldn’t take drugs for the first time out in the fucking woods where anything could happen and no one’s paying attention to you.”
“You were paying attention,” she says, smoothing the Band-Aid over his palm. “Give me the other one.”
He offers up his left hand, which isn’t nearly as cut up as the right hand, but she seems determined to subject it to the same treatment anyway and who is he to stop her.
She touches the pink skin softly and stares at it for a long beat. His throat feels suddenly tight and scratchy, and he’s aware of the weight of his hand resting heavily in hers.
She draws a finger soothingly across his stinging palm, then leans forward and presses a light kiss to it. The sensation shoots through him and goes straight to his dick, which wakes up with an awareness that’s almost comical. What’s happening? it seems to demand. Is this real?
Helen looks up at him, her gaze hazy and soft for a moment, before comprehension seems to dawn and she looks horrified.
“I—I didn’t mean to do that,” she says. “I was just—high.”
She scrambles away, tossing his hand back at him as if it’s scalded her. He laughs.
“It’s fine,” he assures her. “It’s—it’s a nice gesture. I can’t remember the last time someone tried to kiss and make it better.”
Helen draws a throw blanket over her head dramatically.
“Helen,” he says gently.
The Helen-shaped figure under the blanket shakes her head. “Don’t look at me. I’m gonna die.”
“I’m gonna make s’mores,” he says, standing up and readjusting himself. “I’ll make one for you in case you survive.”
He pats the outside of her thigh lightly—friendly—and gets off the couch.
The hot tea spreads warmly in Helen’s stomach and the fire pit on the deck blazes cheerfully. She feels enveloped in warmth in a way she’s never experienced before, as if she’s aware of each molecule in her body heating up, one at a time.
“Sorry,” Owen says next to her, looking contrite. “I should have given you a half dose for your first time.”
Helen waves a hand, her entire body feeling warm and liquid and comfortable. “You didn’t know,” she says. “And I’m having fun.”
She leans back and rests her head on Owen’s shoulder.
“See, she’s having fun,” he says, looking up at Grant, who passes around s’mores.
Grant doesn’t acknowledge this and coolly admonishes, “Careful, they’re hot.”
As he moves off, Owen snickers. “I think he’s still mad.”
“Does Suraya know?” Helen asks.
“Do I know you’re all high as balls?” Suraya says loudly, across from her.
“I’m not high,” Saskia says, looking alarmed. “Who said we’re all high?”
“Just don’t tell the studio,” Suraya says. “Liability waivers and all that.”
“We should tell scary stories,” Nicole suggests, stretching her hands over the fire.
“Boo,” says Helen. “I don’t wanna be scared.”
“You know the rules,” Suraya says. “Don’t break an idea without fixing it.”
She’s referring to the golden rule of the writers room, and Helen feels proud of herself for remembering that at a time like this.
“Um,” she says. “First kiss stories?”
“What, first kisses ever, or with each other?” Tom asks, as Eve gently snores into his shoulder.
“Obviously the first—the rest of us haven’t kissed each other,” Nicole says, then winks at Saskia. “Yet.”
Helen glances at Grant, who she’s surprised to find is already looking at her. He frowns and she looks down quickly.
“My first kiss was when I was seventeen,” she says.
“Late bloomer,” Owen says.
“His name was Ian Rhymer,” she says, and Grant lifts his brows.
“Really,” he says.
“Really,” she answers. “It was in the travel section of the library where I worked. He ran cross-country, and he’d cut through the library sometimes to see me during practice.”
“God, that’s some wholesome shit,” Nicole says. “Mine was in the parking lot of a Starbucks with a guy whose name I don’t even remember anymore. I do remember hooking up with his best friend Derek a week later—he was my dealer.”
“My first technical kiss was my best friend Bethany in kindergarten,” Owen says. “We both wanted to see what it was like. My first real kiss was when I was sixteen, with this guy from math camp.”
“Mine was Brittany Clark, seventh grade,” Grant says. “At a spin-the-bottle party.”
The others catcall and whistle at this.
“Didn’t you date her best friend in high school?” Helen frowns.
Grant shrugs. “Yeah, in junior year—it was a lifetime later.”
“What was Helen like in high school?” Saskia asks.
“Yeah, did you guys ever . . .” Nicole nudges Helen. At Helen’s scandalized expression, Nicole scoffs, “What, like we weren’t all wondering?”
Helen balks at this. “Who’s been wondering??”
Owen raises his hand, and so does Tom, who also raises snoozing Eve’s hand.
Saskia raises her hand with an apologetic shrug. “I mean . . . not like in a serious way. Just in like a ‘ooh, is there any gossip there?’ way.”
“There was no gossip there,” Helen says. “We barely talked in high school. I was—”
“Mean,” Grant says. “And super judgy about popular kids.”
“I wasn’t mean,” Helen says. “I was . . . shy.”
Grant shakes his head. “You told Mindy Fielding she wasn’t trying hard enough as the features editor and maybe if she spent less time partying and more time working on her articles, the paper would have a chance at the regional student paper awards.”
“Nerd!” Owen coughs.
“Yeah, well, we placed fourth in Central Jersey the first issue after she quit the Ampersand,” Helen grumbles.
“See? Mean.” Grant grins.
“You were the literal homecoming king,” Helen says. “No one needs to feel sorry for you.”
“Homecoming kings have hearts too, Helen,” Grant says, feigning an arrow to the chest.
“Stop flirting. It’s too wholesome,” Nicole says.
Helen flushes. “We aren’t,” she says. She addresses Grant, more directly. “We weren’t.”
The laughter in his eyes fades, and he ducks his head to stoke the fire. “Don’t take things so seriously. I flirt with everyone.”
Helen isn’t sure, but she feels like she’s just undone something that was on the brink of mending.
“It’s her sister, isn’t it?” Tom asks him as they clean up after dinner.
“Hm?” Grant asks. He’s washing the dishes. It’s his favorite chore—mindless, repetitive cleaning.
“That story you told, when we were in the Edendale room a few years ago. About that accident that happened when you were in high school,” Tom says. “The girl who died. She was Helen’s sister, wasn’t she?”
Grant stops scrubbing, his ears ringing. “How did you know?”
“I googled Helen,” Tom says. “She’s mentioned her sister in a few old interviews.”
Grant starts scrubbing at a stubborn, congealed bit of ketchup on the plate. They should have soaked it sooner.
“Pretty fucking wild situation, huh?” Tom adds, when Grant doesn’t say anything.
“Yep,” Grant says.
“Are you . . . okay?” Tom asks. “I can’t imagine . . . I mean, if you ever need to talk to someone . . .”
“Thanks, man,” Grant says, trying to keep his tone friendly and normal.
“Yeah, of course.” Tom glances around the kitchen. It’s damn near pristine. “Look at us, a pair of domestics.”
Grant wipes his hands. It’s late for how early he wants to get on the road tomorrow—almost midnight.
“Night, then,” Tom says. “Night, Helen.”
Grant turns and sees Helen standing under the kitchen light in flannel pajamas.
“I came to get some water,” she says as Tom heads off.
Grant nods. He grabs the Brita filter from the fridge, half expecting her ever-present refrain of “I can do it myself.” But she just waits for him to pour it into an empty mason jar and takes it from him with downcast eyes.
“Night,” he says, and moves to go past her.
“Hey,” she says, and he stops. “I’m sorry about . . . about earlier.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” he says brusquely.
“I don’t want things to be awful between us all the time,” she says suddenly.
He stops, surprised.
“It’s not . . . it’s not fair. To you, to the show, to . . . anyone. I’m just . . . I’m just so tired,” she says, sounding small. “I wish I knew how to make things easier.”
“Tom knows about our history,” Grant says. It suddenly feels important that she knows this, that he’s not keeping it from her. “Years ago, I . . . I talked about stuff, in my past, when we were working in another room together. And he googled you.”
Helen laughs shortly. “Right. So that means Eve knows. Which means between the four of us, half the room knows.”
He can’t tell if this is a good thing or a bad thing.
“I’m sorry it’s been hard for you,” he says. “A lot of that’s probably my fault.”
“Don’t give yourself so much credit. I’m in a new city, on a new coast, in a new job. Which I only took because . . . because I can’t seem to do my actual job anymore,” she says in a rush. “I’ve been working on the Ivy Papers for seven years, and I want to do something new, but every time I sit down, nothing real comes out, and I never wanted to be one of those authors who doesn’t know how to let go and move on from their first series, but I can feel it happening—the only ideas I have are set in the same world, but they’re worse ideas, they’re smaller and lazier and—and I just thought . . . maybe, if I work on this as a TV show, I’ll finally be able to . . . close the chapter.”
She shakes her head and drinks her water.
“For what it’s worth,” he says slowly, waiting for her to look at him because he wants her to know he means it. “This job, it’s not easy. You’re handling the stress better than I ever did in my first writers room. And even if you never write another word and this show falls apart and never makes it to air . . . you’ll still be the most impressive person I know.”
“Thanks,” she says, looking at the floor.
“I mean it. Not just because of everything you’ve accomplished so far, though that’s impressive too. But because I have a fraction of an idea of how shit your senior year of high school was. And to go through all that and be as . . . tenacious as you are, as strong as you are—that’s fucking big impressive, Helen. I know I’m the wrong person to say all this, and mine is the last opinion you care about, but I think you should know, I . . . I admire the shit out of you. As a person.”
Helen wipes her cheeks. “I never know what to do when people comfort me,” she says softly. “I think I must be broken because it always makes me want to . . . to . . .”
She takes a short gasp and he realizes she’s crying.
“Fuck,” he says, and reaches out before he knows what he’s doing. He presses her into his chest, tucks her under his chin, and rubs her back slowly. “Sorry.”
He feels her wet tears at the neck of his T-shirt. She doesn’t take to hugging naturally—she’s angular and stiff, resisting where others would soften. After a moment, she seems to give way—he feels her forehead collapse against his neck, registers the slow inhale and exhale of her breaths as she seems to melt into his body. He isn’t sure how long they stand this way, pressed together like pages in a book. Then suddenly, her fingers, smashed into his chest, harden and push him off. She breathes in and out slowly, then looks up at him through red-rimmed eyes.
You idiot, he thinks to himself. She just said she doesn’t like when people comfort her.
“I, um,” she wipes her nose. “I should get to bed.”
They both look toward the stairs behind her, which seem far away in this moment. She turns to go, then pauses.
“Thanks for the water.”
She takes a steadying breath and walks away from him. He ignores the tug in his stomach that seems to follow her.