I shift my fingers through my hair, give myself one more look in the mirror, and open the bathroom door where I find Brig dressed, sitting on the edge of his bed, head tilted down, hands clasped in front of him. When he glances up, I come face to face with weathered and worried eyes.
Indecision.
Cautiously, I walk toward him and say, “Is everything okay?”
I’ve known Brig long enough to know when he’s lying. When he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobs, he looks away . . . so I know he’s about to lie to me.
“Everything’s fine. I should, uh, get you back to your place. I have to run to The Lobster Landing to pick up some scones before I go to my parents’ house.”
“Okay, yeah. Let me just—”
“Got your stuff here,” he says, handing me a re-usable grocery bag of my things.
A re-usable grocery bag?
My stuff?
That just feels . . . dirty.
Emotionless.
Cold.
Very unlike the way we left each other in the shower.
What the hell happened while I was getting dressed?
I take the bag, embarrassment staining my cheeks. “Are you sure everything is okay?”
He gives me a fake smile and nods. “Yup.” He pockets his wallet, phone, and grabs his keys. “Let’s get going.” He walks to his front door and holds it open for me. Could he get rid of me any faster? What the hell is going on?
With my pathetic bag dangling from my fingers, I follow him down the steps to his car where we get in silently. The engine roars, purrs under my feet, and without a word, Brig takes off. He drives through the back roads. It takes what feels like seconds to get to my place and when he parks, he doesn’t look at me. He keeps his hands on the wheel, stares out the windshield, and clenches his jaw.
I turn toward him. “If I said or did something wrong back there, please tell me, Brig. I feel like something happened and I don’t know what it is.”
His hands tighten on the steering wheel, but he keeps his gaze forward. “I just think . . .” His lips press together and dread fills me.
Oh no . . .
Please don’t say it.
Please don’t rip my heart out, not right now. Not after the amazing night we had.
“Fuck, I don’t know,” he says.
“You don’t know what?” I ask.
Head bent forward, he shakes his head. “I think we need to just take a second.”
“Take a second?” I ask, my lip trembling.
“Yeah. You know, I wasn’t really expecting to have sex with you last night.”
“And I was?” I’m trying not to get emotional, but my throat is closing tight, and I can feel tears tickling the backs of my eyes. It was easier when I was numb.
“I wasn’t implying . . .” He breathes out a heavy breath and pushes his hand through his wet hair. “Look, Ruth . . .”
Ruth.
Not Ruthie.
Just Ruth.
My lip trembles. The joy, the satisfaction I felt only moments ago in Brig’s bathroom, has completely vanished, and in its place forms an empty bank of emotion.
“Last night was—”
“Please don’t say a mistake.” My voice comes out feeble, and I hate that. “Whatever you do, don’t say it was a mistake.”
He grips the steering wheel tighter. “It wasn’t a mistake. I just . . . I need to figure some things out.”
“Figure things out.” I nod. “So you’re not really sure about me . . . about us?”
“I mean . . .” He looks down at his lap, and that’s all the answer I need.
“I see.” I open the car door, grab my bag, and take a step out.
“Ruth, wait.”
Since the top of his convertible is down, I don’t have to bend to talk to him. So, I stare at the man who can’t even look me in the eyes.
“I’ve waited long enough, Brig. Too long.” I sarcastically laugh at myself. “God, I’ve waited far too long, and it’s embarrassing. I should never have attempted to make a move on you. I should have known it was going to end like this.”
Finally, he looks at me. “It isn’t over, Ruth. I just . . . fuck, I need to think about some things.”
“Is this about the curse?” I ask, propping a hand on my hip.
His brow scrunches. “No.”
“Okay, so then it’s me.” I nod and take a deep breath.
“It’s about . . . hell.” He blows out a heavy breath. “I’ve just been talking to that girl and I, fuck, I don’t know. I’m not this guy, the one who leads someone on . . .”
He’s got to be freaking kidding me with that.
“The girl you’ve been writing letters to?” He nods. “So you’re saying that you’d rather chance it with someone you’ve never met, than attempt something with me?”
“I didn’t say that,” he says in a panic.
“That’s what you’re implying,” I growl out in frustration, unable to hold it back anymore. “What’s it going to take for you to actually see me, Brig? I’ve spent almost every day with you. We run together, eat meals together, renovate together. We even go out for ice cream, hang out at the harbor, hold hands. We’re practically dating and yet, you still don’t see me. It’s as if I’m an empty vessel and you’re filling me up with whatever you need at that moment. A friend, someone to joke with . . . someone to fuck—”
“Hey,” he snaps, turning in his seat. “I would never use you like that.”
“And yet, that’s how it feels.” I take a step back and hold up my bag of stuff. “I’m worth so much more than a bag of stuff. I’m worth more than how you’re treating me right now, Brig. My eyes are open now. And I’m done waiting for you to open yours. And the truth is? I’m sick of throwing myself at you, only to share you with some ideal of a person you have in your head. I’m over it . . . and I’m done.”
I hate that I was right. I hate that while he was spending time with me, enjoying our time together, his heart was never mine. The girl in front of him, who cherished every moment with him. No, his heart was with his fictional girlfriend, who he’d shared intimate secrets with. And unbeknownst to him, I know them all. Fuck that.
I spin on my heel, agony clogging my throat as I head to the back door of my apartment. The worst part of those ten feet to escape? They’re eerily silent. The gravel crunching under my shoes is the only sound in the mid-morning air.
* * *
“It is my honor to present to you for the very first time, Mr. and Mrs. Rogan Knightly.”
The backyard of Snow Vale erupts in cheers and applause as Rogan and Harper hold up their joined hands and then lean in for one more kiss. A happy tear falls down my cheek as I clap for the couple.
Together, looking beyond happy, they make their way down the aisle, Harper in a simple lace A-line dress and Rogan in a handsome navy-blue suit with mustard-yellow tie. They head to the porch of Snow Vale where the photographers start taking pictures.
The rest of the wedding party, which includes Griffin and Ren, Reid and Eve, and Brig and Jen, make their way down the aisle. I keep my eyes turned down, unable to look at Brig. During the ceremony, I made sure not to look at Brig, even though I could feel his eyes on me.
“Cocktail hour will be held on the west side of the house, so please follow our waitstaff,” a caterer says from behind the seats once the wedding party finish walking down the aisle. Luckily, they’re off to take pictures as well.
Job number one at this wedding: celebrate Harper and Rogan.
Job number two: avoid Brig at all costs.
So far, I’ve accomplished both. I figure once I make it through dinner and the cake cutting, I’m good to go. No need to stay and party when I feel like there’s a machete slowly churning over and over in my stomach.
I’ll be surprised if I can eat food at this point.
“That ceremony was so beautiful. Rogan’s vows, they kicked me in my romance-loving heart.” Rylee dots at her eyes with a lavender embr
oidered handkerchief. “I really need to write a story about their love. High school sweethearts, tragic loss, back in town rekindling. Gah, it’s everything.”
“It was pretty amazing, but not as amazing as ours,” Beck says, wrapping his arm around Rylee’s waist and kissing the side of her cheek. “Time to get you liquored up. Triplets are with your parents, which means Mommy and Daddy are on the loose.” More like Mommy on the loose; Beck doesn’t drink.
No better feeling in the world than feeling like the third wheel of two parents gone wild.
Note the sarcastic tone?
“Play your cards right, Wilder, and you might be on the receiving end of a mind-alternating blow job.”
“This is fun,” I mutter, walking behind them.
“Something to say?” Rylee asks over her shoulder.
“Nope.” Drinks, I need drinks.
More like shots.
Or, you know . . . a bottle might work too.
Probably sensing the third wheel behind him, Beck grabs me by the shoulder and pulls me into his chest along with Rylee. “Are we ready to have some fun, girls?”
“Sure,” I say, the lackluster tone in my voice a siren for a questioning friend.
Rylee stops our threesome and turns to me. “Okay, I’ve let you sulk long enough. What’s going on?”
I glance around. Relatives surround us, what feels like the entire town is bustling about, looking for an appetizer or a drink—this is not the place.
“Not here,” I say.
“You know what, why don’t you two go occupy one of those tables by the woods, one of the private ones, and I’ll grab us some food and drinks? How does that sound?” Beck says, ever the doting husband.
“You’re a good man,” Rylee says, squeezing his cheeks and bringing his lips to hers.
“Love you.” He turns to me and asks, “What do you want to drink?”
“Anything with heavy, heavy alcohol.”
“Looking for the ‘please help me forget’ drink. Got it.” Rylee and I work our way through the crowd to the back of the property where there are bistro tables bordering the treeline. They’re far enough apart for privacy from everyone.
After taking a seat, Rylee turns to me, crossing one leg over the other, looking beautiful in a purple one-shoulder dress that does everything for her complexion. “Now, let’s just—”
“I slept with Brig.”
Rylee’s mouth nearly drops to the table as she stares at me, unblinking. “Uh, what?”
“Last night,” I say, twisting my hands in my lap. “After the party, he wanted to talk. He uh . . . gave me oral on the counter of the Parlor, and then took me upstairs to his place, where we did it four more times.”
Rylee braces her hand on the table. “Oh my God, I can barely—”
“And then he semi-ghosted me.”
The smile on Rylee’s face falls. “What do you mean he ghosted you?”
“I guess not ghosted me, but when he dropped me off at my place, he basically said he was confused and doesn’t know what to do. He’s invested in the girl he’s been sending letters to.”
“I am going to freaking scream,” Rylee says barely above a whisper, her brow pinching.
“What did I miss?” Beck asks, setting down drinks and a large plate of delicious appetizers.
Rylee takes her drink from Beck, downs half of it, and then says, “She slept with Brig, and he then pretty much blew her off this morning.”
“What?” Beck fires up, glancing around the venue, probably searching out Brig. “Where is he?”
I reach up and tug on his arm. “Stop. You’re not doing anything at a wedding.”
“I’ll do whatever the hell I want.”
Zero to sixty. The man is humming with anger and even though I appreciate his protective instincts, I don’t want him to do anything that will take away from Harper and Rogan’s wedding.
“Rylee, please take hold of your husband before he does something stupid.”
Standing, Rylee pushes Beck down on her seat and then sits on his lap, looping her arm around his shoulders. His clenched fist rests on her thigh. “How did he blow you off?”
“Honestly, I have no idea what happened. We were having a great morning, we had shower sex—”
“Ugh, he blew you off after you had shower sex? That’s messed up. Shower sex is sacred; you just don’t take it and bolt,” Rylee says. “Only special couples get shower sex in my books. What a waste.”
“Anyway,” I drag out. “I got dressed and when I entered his living room, it was as if he’d done a one-eighty. His personality was dulled, he was pensive, and he barely looked at me. I knew. I honestly knew what was coming. When he dropped me off, he said he was confused because he was talking to this other girl and he doesn’t like to lead people on.”
“Wait, aren’t you the other girl?” I nod. “So what’s the problem?”
“The problem is he doesn’t know it’s me, and even though he’s never met this girl, he’d rather risk everything we have for the possibility of finding love with someone else.” I shake my head, emotions clogging my throat. “I’ll never be good enough for him.”
“That’s not true. He’s just—”
“If you say confused or blind or an idiot, I’m going to lose it. Let’s just call it like it is. I’m not memorable. There’s nothing about me that’s worth taking a risk for.”
“Hey,” Beck says, his face growing stern. “Don’t talk about yourself like that. He likes the girl in the letters, and that’s you.”
“I’ve told him the exact same things in person, and yet, he brushed me off.” I shake my head. “I’m done. I told him I was done. I’m sick of being overlooked. I deserve more than that.”
“I agree,” Rylee says. “You deserve more. Brig is dead to us.”
“I can get on board with that.” Beck holds up his glass of soda. “To Brig being dead to us.”
“May he have chronic hemorrhoids,” Rylee says, holding up her drink as well.
“To forgetting him.” We clink glasses and all take a drink.
This is exactly what friends are for, to wish chronic hemorrhoids on the man who blew you off after sacred shower sex.
Screw him.
I don’t need him.
Dead to me.
* * *
“Will you dance with me?” Brig’s hand reaches out to me.
Of course.
After making a vow that the man is dead to me, he has to ask me to dance.
I nearly swat it away, but with wedding guests surrounding us, watching the wedding party join together on the dance floor for the first dance with the married couple, I don’t have a choice.
Not saying a word, I take his hand and let him guide me toward the dance floor. We get into position, his hand on my ribcage, the other clasping my hand tight. I glance over his shoulder to spot Rylee. Her eyes are trained on Brig’s back, making a cutting motion across her throat.
At least I have her.
“You look beautiful,” he whispers.
“I do,” I say, feeling the three drinks I had during cocktail hour. “This dress fits me like a glove. My tits that you sucked on last night look amazing, and my thighs you parted several times in your bed are barely covered. Some might say I look hot.”
His grip on me tightens. But he doesn’t say anything.
“Ah, I see. Silent again, just like when I walked away. You’re really good at that, Brig, being silent.”
“Ruthie, I—”
“Call me Ruth. Ruthie is reserved for the people who deserve to be close to me. If you haven’t realized yet, you lost that privilege this morning.”
“Ruth,” he says more sternly. “We need to talk.”
“We don’t. I’m good.” I smile at the people pointing at us as we dance. Whatever. They can say anything they want now.
“I’m fucking confused, okay? I wasn’t expecting to . . . hell, I wasn’t expecting to fall for you.”
I snort la
ugh so loud that a few guests look to see if I’m okay. “Fall for me? Okay, Brig. Aren’t you in love with someone else?”
“I’m not in love. Just . . . talking.”
“Mm-hmm. Talking. Wow, I can see why you were so hesitant with me,” I say, sarcasm laced in my every word. “Just talking. Whoa, what a passionate tryst. Wouldn’t want to give up an actual friendship and admittedly the best sex you’ve ever had for talking. Good thing you were a dick to me this morning after sacred shower sex.”
He’s most likely regretting asking me to dance right now, but I don’t care. He deserves every word. And it seems like alcohol makes Ruth uninhibited. It’s like truth serum.
“Ruth, it’s not as easy as it seems. I have feelings for this person. We talked about intimate stuff.”
“Yes, and we never did, right? We just spoke of shoelace colors and the variety of sneezes a human can experience.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, pulling me closer. “You know damn well we spoke of deeper things than that.”
“And yet, I’m still not good enough for you.”
“I never fucking said that.”
“You didn’t have to,” I say as the music starts to die down. “It shows in how you reacted, in how you treated me, with zero regard for everything we had built together.”
The DJ starts talking about taking our seats for dinner, so I take that opportunity to move past him, but he grabs my arm, halting my retreat. I catch Rylee and Beck, waiting for me at the edge of the dance floor, ready to come to my rescue.
Speaking closely in my ear, he says, “This isn’t over, Ruth. We need to talk.”
“There’s nothing else to say.” I pull away but then turn to him one last time. “Actually, there is one more thing to say. That girl you’ve been talking to? The girl who sent you whoopie pies, the girl who spoke about loving summer because then she doesn’t feel lonely, the girl who sent you a picture of painted boobs? The girl you flirted with and sent intimate outlines to? Yeah, that was me . . . you freaking moron.”
“Wait, what?” Brig says, but I don’t stick around to talk to him. I move off the dance floor, take Rylee’s hand in mine, and we head to our table, where Beck hands me another drink.
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