“I got the account,” I blurt out.
“I knew it. I bloody knew it.” He picks me up and spins me around. “So proud of you.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you.”
A game whistle sounds.
“I need to go,” he says, setting me down. “But we are going to celebrate the hell out of you winning the account.”
“Go, go.”
He runs to the field, and I spend the next hour watching the man I feel everything for play a game.
I came into this arrangement believing my walls were fortified. That my lessons learned would serve as armor for my heart.
But this time, I wasn’t the one fooled. I fooled myself into thinking I could keep from letting him into my heart. That’s where he is.
I’ve fallen in love with my temporary husband.
As he scores a goal and thrusts his arms in the air in victory, I cheer wildly for him. He looks over, a grin lighting his handsome face as he points to me. It’s exhilarating, this moment of connection. My heart somersaults, trying to kick its way free and gallop over to him.
I want that. I want that terribly, and more than I should.
But that’s the problem. Love isn’t supposed to be part of the terms for us, and it’s absolutely not permissible for me.
Love is a terrifying choice. That’s why I’ve built walls. He wasn’t supposed to tear them down. I wasn’t supposed to let him knock them to rubble with all his kisses, and his tender touches, and his sweet and dirty and thoughtful ways with me.
My shoulders tense and curl inward, and I want to simultaneously run to him and run the other way.
Most of all, I want a new road map, one that’ll lead me through this unknown terrain where I’ll have to fake my feelings for him for the next few months.
That night nothing is fake.
There’s nothing false about the way he looks at me as I undress. Or how he climbs over me and sinks inside.
There’s not a single fictional moment between us as I wrap my arms and legs around him and draw him in deep.
He swivels his hips and moves in languid, lingering strokes that drive me to the edge of pleasure, to the edge of the world.
“God. This,” he whispers roughly in my ear.
“I know.”
We fall into silence again because it’s too hard to talk, too hard to give words to all these emotions whipping through me like a storm. But as he sweeps his lips against my neck, down my throat, I shudder. It feels like we’re making love. Like we’re saying new phrases with our bodies. Talking in a bold new language. One that says I love this, and you’re mine, and let’s not stop, let’s never stop.
Soon, I’m seeing stars and saying his name, and this feels like surrendering to love.
It’s terrifying and beautiful at the same time.
31ELISE
The bell above the door chimes as I walk into the air-conditioned sugary paradise. Candy welcomes me, and I need it.
Falling in love is the worst. It’s total agony, and as far as I can tell, sugar and wine are the only potential antidotes.
It’s too early today to hit the bottle. Ergo, I’m here, three miserable days after the realization that I’m stupid for Christian.
Veronica finishes with a customer, and when the gray-haired lady leaves with her bag of red sugar lips, my friend calls me over. She flinches as she studies my face. “Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh what?”
She dips her hand into the candy case and grabs a gummy bear. “I can tell by the furrow in your brow that you need this desperately.”
“Wouldn’t a furrow in the brow suggest I need Botox instead?”
She shakes her head, her ponytail whipping side to side. “These are infused with champagne.”
“By all means, then, give me a bottle’s worth of gummy bears.” I take the squishy candy and pop it into my mouth. A tiny burst of bubbly spills on my tongue.
“Tell me. What brings you to my office? Want to lie down, put up your feet, and tell me all your woes as I feed you candy?”
“Yes, Dr. Candy Freud. That sounds like exactly what I need.” I stare at her from across the display. “Also, is it obvious I’m out of sorts?”
She makes a square near my forehead with her hands. “Like a big neon sign that says ‘forlorn.’”
I sigh, wishing that it were easier to fall in love. I wish too that I could serve up the truth without feeling like I’m a traitor to myself. But since the night at the club, since the soccer game, since later that same night at my house, I am guilty of treason.
