Page 20 of Mr. Swoony

He twirls my hair around his finger. “You know I love blondes.” He grips the edge of the paper. “I could get down with this one.” He’s pointing at the line that says, “say yes to everything for a day.”

“When do I ever tell you no?” I roll my eyes.

“Last Thursday.”

I’m not going to get into an argument again about not having sex with him last Thursday when I wasn’t in the mood because my entire bachelorette party was combusting.

I lean back into him, and he holds me, his hand splaying across my stomach. “How about we watch a sunrise tomorrow morning? You’re off work for the week, right?”

He guffaws. “So I can sleep in. This wedding is stressing me out.”

“You? Your mom has been on my ass, and I’ve done most of the planning.”

“You both keep dragging me everywhere. I don’t care about the cake or the meal. As long as the liquor is top shelf, I’m good, and my mom knows to make sure it is, otherwise she’ll have to deal with my dad.” He kisses my temple. “Let me change then we’ll go eat so I can meet up with the guys.”

I sit up. “You’re really going out with them?” I fold up my list, disappointment settling in my chest since he’s clearly not going to help me cross off anything.

He nudges my hip to get off him, which I do. I don’t want to sit on him anymore anyway.

“Baby, you have me for the rest of our lives. This is my last week.”

“So, you won’t be hanging out with the boys after we get married?”

He laughs, leaves his beer on the table, and walks toward the house. “No, I’m chained to you, remember?”

I follow him, grabbing the bottle off the table. “Tristan, you know I don’t like the whole chain reference.”

In the kitchen, he turns around and tugs me toward him. “I’m just joking. I’d be glued to you if I could be because I love you.” He bends his neck to kiss me, and I pull back.

“This list is important to me.” I hold up the folded piece of paper between our mouths.

He blows out an annoyed breath, and his shoulders sink. “Fine, we’ll cross off that ‘say yes to everything for a day’ on the honeymoon, okay?”

“Seriously, Tristan.”

He scoffs. “I hope your sense of humor comes back after the wedding.” When I don’t say anything or move, he acts all dramatic by rolling his eyes and moving his body as though he’s losing strength in his muscles. “Fine. You pick some out, and we’ll do them on the honeymoon. But no dogs and no hot air balloon ride, baby, that’s so cliché. You should pick more extravagant ones. Like a trip on a private jet to Italy or having a wine named after me. You’re marrying a Somerset, after all.” He kisses me quickly and releases me before jogging up the stairs. “Stay the night. I want you in my bed when I get home,” he calls on his way to the bedroom.

It’s like I’m only a warm body for him to lose himself in when the mood strikes. He only wants me here to have sex, and he cared nothing about my list or how important it is to me.

Five minutes later, he barrels down the stairs in jeans and a V-neck T-shirt, his hair freshly styled and with more cologne on. “I’m sorry. Your list is great. Wait up for me, and we’ll lie down on the chairs tonight and stargaze. Maybe you could wear that lingerie I bought you last month that you’ve yet to show me.” He kisses my cheek, swiping his keys off the counter simultaneously.

He says stargaze, and my mind veers to Conor and our one night together.

“We’ll see. I should clear up some of the pending wedding items.”

“Let me know, because if you’re not staying, I won’t rush home.” He gives me a chaste kiss and walks toward the garage. “Oh, and hire a decorator if you want. I know how much you hate the white walls.”

I don’t respond because he’s not waiting for an answer, which the garage door shutting moments later confirms. I tuck my list back in my purse and look at the beautiful kitchen, willing myself to imagine Tristan and me in this space, living as a couple in love. The image won’t materialize, so I grab my purse and leave.

Surely this is just me nitpicking him because of Conor. Or wedding jitters. Everyone says they’re natural. I’d be insane to call a wedding off this close to the big day.

Nine

Conor

My condo feels like a jail cell because I cannot stop thinking about Eloise and the fact that she’s getting married today. I walk out of our security gate, seeing a new sign plastered there. The Nest is written in girly script with notes and phone numbers from puck bunnies who know this is where three of the Chicago Falcons reside. I really should be plucking off a number and calling one of them to get my mind off who will soon be a married woman.

Instead, I walk into Peeper’s Alley, the bar under our building, and find the usual group of regulars there. Every bar stool is occupied by an older man with a beer mug in his hand and both eyes glued to the televisions above him. By the night’s end, two or four of them will end up in some heated argument about the Colts since Chicago baseball is in season right now.

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