Page 52 of Without a Clue

That I was attending for someone from his family.

Don’t I know what an idiot I am?

I know what he’s doing. He saw an open door during the middle of a rocky relationship and he’s desperately sliding in big brotherly words of wisdom before the door shuts again and I go back. He’s desperate to help the idiot girl who can’t stand on her own two feet before she gets whisked right back into the darkness.

Yes. It was rocky. But I’m done. Really done.

My face is beet red. I know it. I can feel it. It’s precisely the shade of red that women get when they thought they were being told something infinitely flattering, and they thought they were fulfilling a dream they never thought possible and haven’t consciously come to terms with, and instead are blasted with the sense that they are actually quite a child and are being publicly embarrassed, and by the way, everyone watched you be incredibly stupid all along. They were talking behind your back about it.

They had conversations that started with, “Oh, silly Penelope . . .”

He’s the very mature, successful adult man with brilliance and personality, and I’m the girl who . . . well, who can organize things almost as well as ChatGPT.

The room feels suffocating and I stand.

I’ve got to get out of here.

“Listen, Nash, if you want to pull together a bandwagon to tell me how you knew he was a bad guy all along, don’t bother. There’s already one and I’ve heard it the past six weeks from everyone in the world but you. Congratulations on being the last person in humanity to accomplish the task. Who knew? Who knew that all this time there really was something in the world every human on the planet could agree about?”

He makes a grab for my wrist, but I pull away. “C’mon, Pip. Please. Let me start again—”

“I was desperate, if that’s what you want to hear,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “I was a stupid girl who wanted so desperately for someone to love her unconditionally—”

“That’s not a crime. That’s admirable—”

“That she put on blinders and made excuses for years until it was inexcusable. I’m sorry that I believed him when he first told me I was . . .” I swallow. I will not let my voice hitch. “Special. And I’m sorry that I believed his words and wasted all the adult years of my life on a guy who ultimately told me I should be grateful that I ‘primed the pump’ for him. I’m sorry that I have an incredible knack for deluding myself. So yes. Hooray. Let’s celebrate a win.”

I feel the warmth of my cheeks and turn, positively mortified by the swift change of emotions flooding over me. Positively humiliated because I’ve just, yet again, let emotions take the helm instead of holding tight to what little self-control I had left.

I am becoming full-fledged Boom Box Girl.

Normally I could keep my composure.

For years, I had composure.

In fact, what makes all of this worse is that composure was the one thing—pathetic as it may be in a long list of talents—that I did have.

In a world of people with outstanding skills like writing, and singing, and casually ordering your food in fluent French to the surprise of all the people around you (Gordon), I had this. I had composure.

It wasn’t a flashy talent.

It wasn’t something you’d probably announce to someone when saying you liked them. You wouldn’t go off and say, “Oh, Cheryl, she’s about five foot five, brown hair. Great composure.”

But it’s what I had. People couldn’t quite put a finger on why I was someone they liked to hang around, but I could tell them: It was because in any series of events, nothing ruffled me. I could watch a meteoroid flying straight for our high-rise and calmly organize a plan.

People like composed people. Especially celebrated authors who themselves usually had a dash of crazy to get them where they were today.

It was my one, single gift I could give away in exchange for friendship.

My trade.

But what happened with Michael broke me. And now Hugh. And now Carragan. And now with Nash saying, quite frankly, the opposite of what in my delusion I’d hoped, and now my filter is gone and I’m completely out of control.

I purse my lips, holding in a terror that has quickly come over me.

Nash is going to hate me now.

I once spoke back to Michael half as honest as this and was put through the silent treatment for a month. (And yes, I’m going to have to work through unwinding just how toxic my relationship with him was and how that wasn’t normal, but still. The fact is, sometimes people react this way. And I have a dreadful, gut-wrenching fear Nash will too.)