Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100466 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
After she and Damon left the room, I took a shower, went back to sleep, ordered breakfast, watched TV mindlessly. It's been a few hours now.
I have to face my husband.
There is something about the word. Something scary and thrilling. But it doesn't matter. It was a hazy mistake.
Yes, I like Jackson, but I'm leaving the state in three weeks. There's no way we can stay married on separate coasts.
We need to go home and take care of it.
It's just—
I'd love if that process included a lot of sex. Is that so wrong?
When I step into the hotel room, Cassie and Jackson stare at me like I'm a ghost. The ghost of an uncomplicated fling, I guess. There's no way to turn this mix-up into a trip of fantastic sex without strings.
But as long as I'm face-to-face with the consequences of my actions, I might as well enjoy the sex. Right?
Cassie catches herself and shrugs sorry, but this is weird.
Jackson half-smiles. There's something in his eyes. Some encouragement. Or caution. I can't tell anymore.
"Aren't we supposed to have breakfast together?" Cassie asks. "The post-wedding brunch."
"You wouldn't be caught dead at brunch," I say.
She smiles. "Only the one at your place."
We used to have an anti-brunch. Though I'm not sure why it was different than a normal brunch. We ate breakfast food, drank a lot of coffee, listened to music, and talked about sci-fi.
Maybe it was the sci-fi.
We usually watched The Matrix for the ten millionth time.
We rarely talked about dating, sex, love, lipstick.
"I can make a reservation for you," Cassie laughs. "Before Laurel and Zack get the idea to do it."
Shit. Those two troublemakers will really enjoy this. But maybe we can skip all that. "Later."
Cassie nods. "Right. Got it. You want to get to the other honeymoon activities." She laughs as she stands. "I'm sorry. This is just… it is fun, being on the other side. I can see why Damon is so annoying when I have a hangover."
"Where is Damon?" I ask.
"Working," she says. "Are you sure I can have the hotel room back?"
Jackson's eyes meet mine. They invite me to take as much space as I need. To come closer or run away.
No one has ever looked at me like that, like they're okay with whatever I decide. Is that how he really feels, or has he somehow developed an elaborate way to fake it?
The warmth of his expression feels so good.
I want this so badly, for someone to truly want to hear what I want and truly be okay with it. Even if it's not what they want. Even if it hurts them.
"You can have the room," I say. "I need to talk to my husband."
Cassie nods of course, crosses the room, wraps her arms around me. "Call me if you need anything."
"I will," I say.
"This is not how I pictured the two of us becoming sisters," she says. "And I know it probably won't last. But I don't hate it."
She's a better friend than I am. Because I did hate it. A little, anyway. I hated losing her to my brother.
And, well—
I haven't told her I'm moving three thousand miles away.
I haven't told anyone.
But I can't face that now, and I need her comfort. So I squeeze her back, and I tell her I love her, and I accept her I love you too, and I let myself believe we're each other's person, like Meredith and Christina. Until Sandra Oh left the show, and Christina moved to another country and…
What happened then?
Were they still each other's soulmates? I stopped watching. Maybe that's better. I can write my own ending. I can pretend they're happily ever after.
Cassie releases me with one more promise to check in on me, then she leaves, and I'm alone with my husband.
I take a deep breath and move toward the breakfast table.
He stands. "Or do you want to sit? I can clear these. I was losing anyway." He lets out a soft laugh. There's an ease to it. An ease I want to feel.
Maybe we can laugh about this. Maybe it's not a big deal. "Sure. Do you want anything? Coffee. Or lunch, maybe. What time is it?"
"Do you want to order room service?"
I shake my head.
"Do you want to talk at the buffet?"
My nose scrunches in distaste. "Why would I want to have ten mediocre things instead of one good thing?"
"People like options."
"Do you like options?" I ask. I'm not sure if we're still talking about meals or if we're onto marriage. Both, maybe.
"Sometimes," he says. "Usually, I know what I want. I'd rather order that."
"You don't want a taste of everything?"
"I want to taste everything on my plate," he says.
He wants a commitment. A partner. He wants to try things with a partner.
Or he's not onto my metaphor at all. That's possible.