Page 191 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions

His clothes beside mine in the closet. Our suits mingling like they were as entangled as we were.

I’d piss him off by leaving my dirty socks places they shouldn’t be. And he’d drive me crazy with how anal he’d be about cleaning. We’d argue over crumbs on the counter—and kiss to solve our problems.

We’d adopt as many kids as we both wanted.

The pitter-patter of little feet pounding up and down the stairs. Pencil marks on the door marking every passing year. George would use my empty kitchen the way it was meant to be used. Crafts with the kids. Culinary escapades we’d all benefit from.

If George were mine, he’d lack for nothing.

I’d bend over backward for him.

We’d fight and fuck and make each other blissfully, wonderfully happy.

In my fantasy world.

The world where I wasn’t…me. Where I didn’t know how unpalatable I was. The world where I hadn’t been burned, and burned, and burned. The world where I could still believe that happy endings were possible, and people loved you—no matter how intense, or “much” you were.

Absorbed in my own thoughts, I began my hunt of the campgrounds for George—and food.

But primarily George.

I figured I’d find him in the kitchen, where he often was, spending time with his mom and siblings.Hopefully they haven’t hosted a club meeting without me.That would suck. I just joined! Mr. Milton had invited me—and wasn’t that a trip?

That he’d sought me out yesterday—and offered a personal invitation.

With words.

When I arrived at the main cabin, it was empty. Which was…strange, considering the hour. At this time, Mrs. Milton should have been prepping dinner like she’d done every other day that week—but she wasn’t. Which meant there were no signs of Georgie or any of his siblings.

Huh.

Maybe George was showering?

I checked the bathroom next, sandwich in hand. Maybe he was rinsing off the summer sweat? But nope. No Georgie in the bathroom. No Georgie in June’s cabin either. No Georgie at our tent—you know, in case he came back. And no Georgie at Joe’s tent, either.

I was, once again, perplexed.

Where the fuck was everyone?

And more importantly, where was George?

A small, insecure part of me worried I’d scared him off. That he’d somehow hailed a Ryde all the way out here in the middle of fucking nowhere and headed to the airport to escape.

What if I’d shared too much last night?

What if I’d freaked him out—talking about twenty-year-old Alex’s trauma?

What if I’dalreadybeen too much for him?

By the time I stepped onto the path down to the lake—the last possible place I expected George to be, and the only place left—the sandwich I’d eaten sat like a ball of lead in my stomach. I didn’t make a habit of getting overly emotional. Especially not about people I’d just met, so the strength of my current feelings was unfamiliar.

But even I knew George-Arthur Milton was different.

He was…Georgie.

MyGeorgie.

And the idea that I’d been too much for him was terrifying. Scarier than anything else I’d faced in all my life.

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