“All right, fine,” I say. “I’m letting him go—for real this time.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Maritza
“Love, what are you doing this upcoming weekend?” Gram asks over tea the following Saturday afternoon. She saw me coming back from my jog and flagged me down, asking if I had a moment to chat, which always means she’s up to something.
I’d spent all morning running around the Brentwood Pancake and Coffee like a crazy person then like an even crazier person, decided to go for a jog to clear my head when I got home from work.
“I haven’t thought that far ahead. Why?” I ask, still trying to catch my breath as she pours me a steaming cup of her signature Fortnum and Mason Earl Grey and slides it my way. I slide the chair out beside her and have a seat, my sweaty tank top sticking to my skin and the hot tea looking particularly unappetizing.
“The reason I ask is because Constance is throwing her grandson—you know, Myles—a party at The Ivy. I guess he got some hotshot Hollywood producer to option this screenplay he wrote in film school and it’s kind of a big deal. You should come. Oh, Lovey, he’d be tickled if you showed up to celebrate with us.”
Gram’s eyes light and her sweet face is aglow, and it isn’t her Chanel makeup or the flattering light spilling in through the multitude of windows plastering the backside of her hacienda.
“You know he adores you,” she says, pink lips pulled into a Cheshire grin. “Every time he comes around, he’s always asking about you. In fact, just yesterday I ran into him and he was asking what you were up to. Even asked if you were seeing anyone …”
“Are you serious?” I place my tea cup against my saucer, nearly knocking it over. Why would he ask my grandmother those kinds of questions when I made it perfectly clear I’m not interested in him?
Gram nods. “Serious as a heart attack.”
“You know I hate when you say that.” I roll my eyes. It’d be a little less of a big deal if Gram hadn’t had one of her own a couple years back. “Too soon.”
“Where’s your sense of humor, Lovey?” she asks, narrow shoulders lifting and falling as she releases a dainty chuckle. “Anyway, there’s this party and you should come. I’ll even take you down to Rodeo Drive, let you pick out a new dress for the occasion.”
Reaching for my jade green porcelain cup, I take a sip while I contemplate my answer. I don’t want to hurt her, but I really need her to back off with the whole Myles thing.
“He said you two had a date several weeks back,” she continues, head cocked. “He said it was one of the greatest nights of his life. You must have really left quite the impression on him.”
Yeah …
“I just think the world of him,” she continues. “He’s so kind and intelligent. Your grandfather would’ve loved him. I’m sure your father would think the world of him, you know, if you ever feel like introducing the two of them. You know, I could invite—”
“—Gram,” I say, steadying my trembling hands as I cut her off. I’ve never spoken to her with anything but love and respect in all of my twenty-four years, but I’m going to have to give it to her straight in order to put an end to her incessant prodding. “Myles is weird and awkward and we have nothing in common.”
“Oh, come on now.” She chuckles, like she doesn’t take me seriously. “There’s nothing wrong with him. Maybe he’s just awkward around you because he likes you so much? You have that effect on boys, I’ve seen it. You make them nervous.”
“Myles is broccoli. I’ve tried broccoli before, and I don’t like it. I don’t have a taste for it,” I say. “And I tried it again just to make sure. Still didn’t like it. So please quit forcing broccoli down my throat. I’m never going to like it.”
Placing my cup on the saucer with a hard chink, I rise from her breakfast table and force myself to meet her gaze, taking in her wide eyes and gaping mouth.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I really am. I’m sorry. I don’t like him. I can’t. And I never will. Please, please stop, Gram. Please.”
Her lips press together and she straightens her shoulders, glancing away. “Well, all right then.”
Exhaling, I say, “Thank you. And I’m not leaving because of this conversation. I’m leaving because I have laundry to do and I told Melrose I’d do her hair.”
“She’s going out again tonight?” Gram asks.
“Yup.”
“Are you planning to join her?”
I shrug. “I haven’t decided yet.”
I’ve been going out with Melrose all summer, weekend after weekend, Saturday after Saturday, sometimes staying out too late and hating myself the next morning when I’m rolling into work at 6 AM and other times calling it a night before half our friends even show up at the club du nuit.