The Lies That Bind(28)

At one point, right after Grant insists on getting the bill (which we agree to only after he promises that we can get the next one), I see a guy about our age approaching us. He looks at Grant as he breaks into a grin. “Holy shit! Grant Smith! No way!”

    Now Grant is laughing and smiling, too, hopping off his stool to do that backslapping man-hug thing. “What’re you doing here?” he says.

“I live here now,” the guy says.

“Wow. Cool. Are you still writing?”

“Yeah, yeah. Trying to, anyway,” he says with an exhausted writerly sigh I find so familiar. “What about you, man? Still in New York, doing the Wall Street thing?”

“Unfortunately. But I’m thinking of making some changes here soon…on a lot of fronts,” he says, giving him a funny look. “We should grab a beer sometime so I can catch you up on all that….But for now, I want you to meet my friends—Cecily and Scottie….” He turns toward us, then says, “And guys, this is Ethan, my buddy from college.”

As Ethan smiles and shakes both our hands, Grant adds, “Cecily’s a writer, too.”

“Oh, really?” Ethan says, looking at me. “What do you write?”

“I work for The New York Mercury,” I say. “But I’m trying to write a novel, too.”

He nods and says, “Cool. What genre?”

“Young adult,” I say.

Scottie, the only person in the world whom I’ve let read my book so far, chimes in that it’s amazing.

“She’s amazing,” Grant says, gazing at me proudly.

I feel myself blush as Ethan reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, taking out two business cards. He hands one to Grant, the other to me, saying I should let him know when I finish my manuscript, that he has a close friend in New York who reps young-adult fiction. “And I know a few agents here in London, too,” he adds.

I effusively thank him, putting the card in my purse, while Ethan and Grant chat for a few more seconds, comparing notes about what I assume are their fellow classmates. A pro golfer. A software millionaire. A stylist. I tune out for a second, looking around the pub at all the charming details, until I feel Scottie give my thigh a hard pinch under the bar. I whip my head to the right, and whisper, “Ow! What was that for?”

    Scottie shakes his head, as if to say not now, all the while giving me intense side-eye.

I sigh, completely lost, thinking that we almost got through lunch without any Scottie drama.



* * *



—

“What in the world’s going on?” I say once Grant has dropped us off at the hotel, and Scottie and I are alone in the elevator, going up to our room. “What’s with your one-eighty?”

“What’s with your cluelessness?” Scottie says, as we get off the elevator and start walking down the hall. His tone isn’t quite harsh, but it’s definitely negative.

“Cluelessness?” I say, trailing behind him. “What are you talking about? What did I miss?”

He pauses when we get to our room, staring at me a long beat before unlocking our door, then waltzing in. “Did you not notice how Grant went out of his way not to introduce you as his girlfriend?”

“Oh, jeez,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Is that what this is about?”

“Um, yes,” he says. “That’s what this is about. Something sketchy just went down.”

“What are you talking about?” I say.

“When they were talking about that woman? In New York?” he says, turning and pacing back my way. “That stylist to the stars?”

“What about her?” I say, looking down at my suitcase, calmly unpacking and transferring clothes to the lower drawers of the dresser, doing anything not to feed his latest antic any oxygen.

    “How would I know?” Scottie says, throwing his arms up in the air. “When all your boy would say is ‘it’s a long story.’?”

“I didn’t hear him say that.”

“Well, he did,” Scottie says, whipping open the minibar. “Twice. And I’m telling you—I know sketchy when I see sketchy.”

“Jeez, Scottie,” I say. “Where are you going with all of this?…I thought you liked him.”

“I did. Do. And he’s seriously hot, but…”

“But what?” I say, annoyed.

“But something was off there…and he totally tried to make it seem like you and I are together,” he says, as I look over his shoulder into the minibar.

“Whatever, Scottie,” I say. “I don’t think he was doing that. And besides…you’re clearly gay.”

“Not that clearly,” he says, turning back to the fridge and selecting a small bottle of white wine. “Women hit on me all the time.”

“Hey! I thought we said no minibar?” I say. “We can’t afford it!”

“Whatever,” he says, waving me off. “I need this.” He unscrews the top and sucks down a few huge gulps.

“Why do you need that?” I say. “Why are you doing this?”

“I’m looking out for you!” he says.

“Well, stop. I don’t need you to look out for me. I’m warning you…don’t do this. I really like him. This is the real thing. So please…just stop. Okay?” I smile to soften my statement, but I can feel my heart begin to race. I tell myself not to be pissed—but I can’t help it. I am pissed.