Page 20 of Set on You

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 textingNeil.”

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 theUSOffice,” 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, becauseScott 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.”

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