Page 109 of Ruled By Rivalry

Okay, it sounded weird putting it that way. Never mind.

Earlier, when I’d tried not to think about how embarrassing it was, crawling out of Elliot’s bed in his shirt and fleeing a fight in which I seemed to be the problem, I’d called Paula. I explained the situation in as few words as possible because I didn’t really want to talk about Elliot. I didn’t really want to cry, either.

Maybe my period was coming up; I wasn’t prone to crying so frequently.

I’d grabbed a copy of the magazine at a subway stand, took it all the way to the Upper East Side, and we’d been in Henry’s bed for the better part of the day. He’d only joined about half an hour ago, with a pint of vegan ice cream he’d wordlessly put in my hands before slipping into his side of the bed, Paula between us. The tub stood empty on the bedside table.

“Are all rich people assholes, by the way?” Paula asked him, earning herself a loving groan when he turned back toward us, officially giving up on the idea of sleep. Maybe contemplating the guest room. Or the other guest room.

“It comes with the territory,” he said matter-of-factly. “You’re just lucky enough I have a soft spot for you.”

“Gross! Get a room, you two.”

“You’re in it,” he deadpanned, making me smile, appreciating how understanding they were about a situation so new for all three of us.

Me having guy problems.

Paula wasn’t letting herself get distracted. She grabbed the magazine from the foot of the bed again, flipped back to a page we’d stared at for hours already. “Maybe this is all just some big misunderstanding.”

EVERYTHING WE KNOW ABOUT MAIVE AND ELLIOT SO FAR.

He’d rip the page out of my hand and scold me for reading what they were saying. Paula had encouraged analyzing every paragraph, though, including a star rating based on how accurate, well-written, and entertaining it was. By the end of it, she concluded, “This must’ve been written by a five-year-old with no concept of sentence structure and zero attention span.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that most five-year-olds barely knew how to string together a sentence.

A conclusion I’d come to: Elliot, unfortunately, had been right. About not reading what others write about you. Poor family from Texas. Just a fashion degree. Reached out to father, but no response.

My stomach had churned at the possibility that the first time I ever heard from my father could’ve been in some cheap magazine. Bile still rose in my throat at the thought.

“Misunderstanding how?” Henry asked, trying not to sound interested in the drama of my love life. He was failing; no surprise there.

“I don’t know.” Paula shrugged. I’d lovingly named it her journalistic furrow, the way her brows pulled together whenever she sensed a mystery or was trying to figure something out. Like an instinct telling her there was something more going on. She was usually right. “What if he really didn’t know about his grandfather’s decision?”

“I don’t think he did. I’m, like, 99 percent sure he’s telling the truth by now.”

Which only made my dilemma worse. Guilt churned my stomach.

“Oh.” Paula glanced my way. “Never seen you give a guy the benefit of the doubt.”

“I’m sure I never got it,” Henry agreed.

“You didn’t deserve it, honey.”

Paula jumped in, brought us back on course. “And what if he really does feel . . . betrayed? What if he thought he could trust you, and now he’s, I don’t know—”

“Hurt,” I offered. I’d meant to hurt him until I hadn’t. Until he’d kissed me and made me laugh and I felt safe with him. And I’d jeopardized all of that. “I know he is. I feel terrible. That’s the entire problem.” Or half of it, anyway.

“Oh,” she said again. “So, we’re not trying to shift the blame on him? You’re saying you fucked up?”

“I guess.”

“You never fuck up.” Paula almost gasped, and I tried not to take offense at how surprised she seemed by my ability to self-reflect and admit when I was wrong.

“There’s a first for everything.” I sighed.

“So you apologized and he still doesn’t want to see you? Is that it?”

“I never . . .” I trailed off, hoping they’d get it. It was embarrassing, frankly, the way he’d said sorry more often than I had.