chapter eight
THE UNIVERSE IS officially conspiring against me. I must have done some seriously messed-up shit in a past life.
Scott, better known as Squat Rack Thief, is borderline unrecognizable in non-gym wear, without the ball cap casting a grim shadow over his face. His wavy hair is damp and pushed back, as if he’s fresh from a shower. Under the warm candlelight, the deep jewel-tone hues of his eyes pop like emeralds. He’s wearing a sport coat over a pale blue button-down shirt and beige pants, all of which fit with unfair precision.
When he spots me next to his grandpa, he stumbles backward a step, gripping the doorframe. Clearly, this is as shocking to him as it is to me. In fact, I half-expect him to turn around and sprint out of the restaurant.
Seeing him here is jarring, given the last time we were in each other’s presence, every square inch of our sweaty bodies was pressed together.
My stomach clenches as Martin cheerfully bellows, “Scotty! My boy!” from his standing position.
My mind races as I come to the full realization that the man who gave me the best kiss of my life was not single. He was taken. The sincerity in his eyes when he looked at me was a massive lie. Nothing but a farce. An Academy Award–winning performance.
And worse, I feel awful for Diana, his figure skater girlfriend. I’m all too familiar with the betrayal, heartbreak, anger, and feeling of unworthiness that accompany being cheated on. Looking back, I have reason to suspect a few weeks’ overlap between myself and Neil’s ex, Cammie, before he officially went back to her. The last thing I’d ever want to do is to be that person to another woman. Not that the onus of blame should rest on the third party. But I don’t want any part in the narrative at all.
Scott tears his deceitful eyes from me, giving his grandfather a warm, genuine smile. He rounds the table toward us to pull Martin into a loving hug. “So sorry I’m late. Had a fire call at the end of my shift.”
“What happened?” Martin asks.
“Some kids started a kitchen fire. Their parents weren’t even home. If the neighbor hadn’t called 911, it woulda been bad. They were all shaken up. Really young too. The crew and I stuck around to make sure they were okay,” he humble-brags.
A mildly audible snort escapes me. My brain cannot reconcile the image of morally corrupt Squat Rack Thief comforting small, trembling children. He has to be exaggerating. In fact, I’d bet money he was at home, lazing around in low-cut boxers. He probably lost track of time diligently organizing his various protein powders, or worshipping his own reflection in the mirror.
Martin forgivingly waves him off. “Atta boy. Always knew you’d make me proud.”
Scott nods in faux-hero solidarity and then turns, embracing Grandma Flo with the biceps I’ve only recently discovered are used to save people’s lives from fires . . . and to lift me against lockers. “Flo, you look stunning,” he tells her, the corners of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly.
Not only is it irritating that Scott is flashing her a wholesome, charming smile, but it rankles that he’s already well acquainted with my grandma.
I feel like I’m in the twilight zone. This reminds me of the time my high school friend Kelsey started dating our English teacher when we went away to college. Aside from how inappropriate and creepy it was, him showing up at our dorm room parties felt wildly bizarre. Like two very separate worlds that should never, ever collide.
Scott meets my eyes again. His Adam’s apple bobs when he registers the open seat, his seat, directly beside mine.
Before he sits, Martin introduces us. “Scotty, this is one of Flo’s beautiful granddaughters, Crystal Chen.”
I want to slap away Scott’s smug expression as he holds his hand out. “Scott Ritchie. Nice to meet you, Crystal,” he says, as if we’ve never met. As if we didn’t get hot and heavy in the gym changing room forty-eight hours ago.
He doesn’t bother to hide his amusement. If he feels the slightest bit guilty for cheating on his figure skater girlfriend with me, there is zero evidence to support it. And it’s infuriating.
I want to call him out on his infidelity, right here, right now. Expose his misdeeds. But I think better of it. The last thing I want to do is ruin Grandma’s dinner, especially after I promised Tara I wouldn’t. So, I take a breath and hold my tongue. “Likewise,” I say primly.
I eye him suspiciously as he takes his seat beside me. If I thought he smelled good sweaty after a workout, he smells frustratingly delightful now—like a steamy shower fantasy. He’s definitely just showered, because he smells like that green bar soap. Manly. Slightly spicy. Far too alluring. Apparently, this is the scent of a coldhearted cheater who shows no visible signs of remorse.
My body is a traitor. The mere proximity of him sends a hum of energy to every limb, all the way down to my toes. I resettle in my seat, turning away from him as Patricia flashes him a stern, motherly look, which I can tell is silently screaming, How dare you be late to your own grandfather’s engagement dinner?
I refuse to look at him as Martin resumes his speech.
“As I was saying, I’ve loved Flo since first grade. Since the day she stole my cap at recess and refused to give it back. She’ll probably argue with me on the semantics, but we went steady for most of elementary school, until she broke up with me for Ned Reeves.” He eyes her with a nostalgic smile.
Grandma Flo whacks him on the arm from her seated position. “I broke up with you because you kissed Peggy Penton.”
The two of them chuckle and Martin continues on. “Anyway, we had a couple years apart . . . quite a few.” His voice cracks. “We lived most of our lives as dear friends, but I’ve always cared deeply for her. I loved Roger as well.” He takes the time to look at each and every member of my family. “I promise to take as good care of her as he did for fifty-seven years.”
Everyone awws, clapping politely before raising a toast to Grandma Flo.
I’m in shock as I raise my wineglass, clinking it robotically against Scott’s. Martin has been in love with Grandma Flo since first grade. As adorable and country-love-song-worthy as that is, all I can think about is Grandpa. I think about all the times Martin was over when Tara and I were at their house. I think about how much Grandma talked about him. The fact that I even knew him so well as a friend of hers makes me question if there was something more going on. Martin had a wife too, but she passed away at least ten years ago, from my recollection. Is it possible she was cheating on Grandpa with Martin? Did she love Martin? The entire time?
I’ve always held my grandparents’ relationship on a pedestal. Grandpa used to bring her flowers every Friday. Though he was outwardly crabby about it, he always made special meals for her, even when she went through a phase when she would only eat a raw, plant-based diet. I’m left to wonder if it was all a sham. And now I have to deal with Scott the Cheater’s presence.
I try to gauge the rest of my family’s reactions to Martin’s speech, but no one else appears bothered. Mom is busily chatting with the waitstaff about how they avoid cross-contamination in the kitchen. Tara is in deep conversation with Grandma. Dad is still engaged in what looks like a bromance with Martin’s son.
I don’t know if it’s the wine, but I’m prickly with heat, squished between Grandma’s new love and the Cheater. I stand abruptly, knocking my napkin off my lap as I shuffle into the dim hallway next to the bathrooms. The wall is cool against my fingertips. I squeeze my eyes shut, taking a deep breath in and out, trying to push the antisocial monster within me back under temporary lock and key. Just get through dinner, I tell myself. Then you can go home, curl up in bed, and avoid all reality.
On my inhale, my nose catches a whiff of that green-bar-soap scent. Without even looking, I know Scott is afoot.
I pry my eyes open, confirming he is, indeed, right in front of me.
“You alright?” he asks huskily, studying my face. “You look a little pale. I can grab you some water if you want.” He’s teetering back and forth on the balls of his feet, hands in his pockets.
“I’m fine. Just needed space,” I say, too flustered to come up with a remotely cutting response.
He gives me a head tilt, which tells me he doesn’t buy it, but decides to let it be.
“You weren’t at the gym today. Or yesterday.” The words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them.
What appeared to be a look of concern melts away, replaced with a satisfied grin. “You missed me at the gym?” He is so damned full of himself, he probably has his own selfies framed on his bedside table.
I scoff. “No, I didn’t miss you.”
“You definitely did. Just a little.” He laughs effortlessly, his gaze shifting to my phone in my hand. “I see you finally found your phone. Not in my possession,” he adds.
I clear my throat and straighten my spine, ignoring the latter half of his comment. I’d rather die than admit I was wrong. “You’re the one who started coming to the gym at the exact same time as me.”
“The gym at my fire station is under renovation for the next few months. Excalibur Fitness is right in between the station and my apartment.” He pauses for a moment, leaning in closer. “And because you’re dying to know, I’ve been working day shift the past two days. I’ve been going to the gym at night instead.”
I scrunch my nose. “Please spare me the gruesome details of your daily routine. I could care less.”
“Hey, you’re the one who stalked me into the changing room.”
“I was looking for my phone.”
He gives me an incendiary look. “And you got a little more than you bargained for.”
I force away the hot flashback of being crushed between the locker and his hard body. “And it’s never going to happen again. It was a momentary lapse in judgment, obviously. For both of us.”
“Alright.” His eyes linger, amused, like the smug bastard he is.
“It’s not,” I say again, for good measure.
“Sure. Whatever you want.”
I glower at him, unable to decipher whether he’s being sarcastic or not. I internally choose my words, readying myself to finally confront him about his not-so-single relationship status, when he interrupts my thoughts.
“So, your grandma and my grandpa. How weird is that?”
I’m taken aback by his tone. Instead of his usual sneering sarcasm, it sounds normal. Like a casual conversation between friends or acquaintances. I blink a couple times. “It’s really weird,” I admit.
“I’m sorry for your loss. I know your grandpa passed a couple years ago.” His voice is calm and measured. From the way his eyes search mine, as if somehow understanding my pain, I think he’s being sincere.
“Thanks.” I suck in a shaky breath, trying to stop the tears from spilling over. There is no way I’m doing this in front of my cheating gym nemesis, even if he is being a semi-decent human being for once. I draw in another breath, composing myself before returning to the private room.
• • •
APPARENTLY, GRANDMA’S SEATING arrangements successfully broke the ice between the two families, because everyone is happily mingling now, except me. I’m as close to lying down as you can get in a restaurant chair. My body is halfway off the seat, slouched and lopsided, legs stretched in front of me.
Admittedly, I’m being a poor sport. But only because I’ve suffered enough emotional shrapnel tonight. Truthfully, Martin’s sociable family has exhausted me, as lovely as they may be. All I want to do is go home, curl up under my duvet, and watch mind-numbing reality television.
It doesn’t help that my stomach is churning, and not just because of this whole situation with Grandma Flo, Martin, and Scott, or the fact that I’ve eaten too much fettucine. I’ve been staring at my phone for the last ten minutes, rereading a text that came in unexpectedly.
NEIL: Hey.
With just one text, I’m fastened on an involuntary roller coaster. One that dips and turns, leaving me winded and breathless, and not in a good way.
I haven’t heard from Neil since the last time he texted me to complain about Cammie and their “shitty sex life,” which I didn’t respond to. Only in the last month did I finally get to the point where I didn’t wait with bated breath for his text.
“Are you on Tinder again? Chatting with Zayn?” A deep voice sounds from over my shoulder.
Scott has returned to his seat after spending the past twenty minutes near the bar, socializing and filling the room with his seriously infectious laughter. Who knew the Cheater could laugh with such pure, unrestrained delight?
He reads the text over my shoulder. He’s so close, I can feel the faint breeze of his breath tingling the back of my neck.
I clutch my phone, pressing it to my hammering chest. “Excuse you. None of your business.”
“Just wondering why you’re on your phone at your grandma’s engagement party.”
“It’s not like I’m sitting here swiping left and right. I’m answering business messages.” In all reality, I’ve answered precisely one email. I’m predominantly agonizing over whether to respond to Neil, while simultaneously researching the benefits of Kim Kardashian’s Skims shapewear over OG Spanx.
“Looks like you’re texting Neil.”
I whip my head around, so as to ensure no one else in my family heard him say Neil’s name. They haven’t, clearly, or else they’d have already swarmed me, staging an intervention. “No, I’m not.”
He leans in, amused, twirling the unused teaspoon on the table. “So did you Netflix and chill with Zayn?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because we couldn’t agree on which was better, the UK or the US Office,” I lie. Truth is, I never actually responded to Zayn. And why does Scott even care?
“Which do you think is better?”
“The US. Obviously.”
He sits back slightly, giving me a disapproving head shake. “Gotta say, I’m with Zayn here. You just can’t beat dry, British humor.”
“And this is why we don’t get along,” I snap.
He gives me a lazy smirk. “I think we get along sometimes.”
An electric current courses through me again, so much that I can feel the heat in my cheeks. But it’s a lie. Because he’s a scumbag. The only logical thing to do is turn away from him and avoid him for the rest of the night, and the rest of my life.
Just as I’m about to make my escape, Tara plunks down in Martin’s empty seat to my left. “I think the ginger-haired waiter is in love with me,” she mutters. “Don’t look.”
I sneak a peek at the waiter, who is absolutely checking her out as he pours Mom’s tea. The poor kid doesn’t look a day older than seventeen. “Did you flirt with him?”
“God, no. He’s a teenager. Though I don’t blame him for shooting for the stars. I mean, I am a vision in this romper,” she says cheekily, gesturing to her champagne sequin getup.
I give a weak laugh and she changes the subject. “Did I ever tell you about the time I ate an entire box of Krispy Kremes?” she asks, rubbing her toned stomach.
“No.”
She begins to ramble on about the events that led her to eat a half dozen donuts. Something about a lobster dinner, Seth, and taking public transit. To be honest, I’m only half-listening, because Scott is now engrossed in happy conversation with Grandma Flo to my right.
My anger bubbles to the surface, knowing he’s pulling the wool over my sweet grandmother’s eyes. Clearly she thinks the world of him. Everyone does. And little do they know, it’s just an extraordinarily chiseled façade.
Scott nods, cheeks rosy, as Grandma Flo whispers something in his ear. Our eyes meet again as he says something else I don’t catch.
The next words that come out of Grandma Flo’s mouth are muffled, because Tara’s voice is louder. She’s at an animated part of her story now. “And then the guy had the audacity to ask what party I was going to. And I was like, no, bro, these donuts are just for me . . .”
Meanwhile, Scott and Grandma Flo throw their heads back with laughter, as if they’re the best of friends. They probably have friendship bracelets at this rate. I’m waiting for them to bust out a synchronized, Parent Trap–style handshake.
This is too much. I can’t sit around witnessing fake-Scott in action for a second longer. I stand abruptly, purse in hand, wobbling slightly from the alfredo sauce cramps. I don’t even bother to say a word to anyone as I hustle out of the room. I take one quick scan over my shoulder, shooting Scott a disgusted look before fleeing the restaurant like a bat out of hell.
It’s not like me to leave a party unannounced. But after everything, I desperately want to be alone right now, preferably horizontal.
The sidewalk is littered with people strolling leisurely, enjoying the warm, breezy spring air.
As I confirm my Uber, Tara bounds down the stone steps, her barrel curls bouncing with each stride. “Are you okay?”
I sigh, glancing down the street for any sign of the 2016 white Honda Civic I ordered. “It’s nothing. I’m just tired. My introvert is coming out.”
“Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”
I pin her with a grave expression. “Scott Ritchie, Martin’s grandson? He is Squat Rack Thief.”
She covers her mouth with her palm. “What? Actually?”
“Yup.”
“That’s the guy you made out with in the gym locker room?”
I give her a curt nod.
She raises her brow, coming to the realization. “And he has a girlfriend . . .”
“Yup. He’s a disgusting pig. Surprise, surprise.”
Her shock transforms into a scowl. “This is why I don’t trust the male species anymore.”
“Tell me about it.” I pause, taking in her anger. “But don’t say anything. I don’t want to ruin the dinner. That’s why I’m leaving.” I take stock of my Uber as it pulls up in the nick of time.
“I really want to go in there to give him a piece of my mind,” Tara declares, turning on her heel as I open the car door.
“No!” I shout after her. Revealing Scott’s infidelity at an engagement party feels petty and juvenile. It also makes me look like the scorned and jealous “other woman,” which I’m not.
But it’s too late. She’s already inside.