Page 82 of What's in a Kiss?

“It’s still me,” I whisper from the bottom of my heart.

She whips her hand away and turns. “That’s the problem, Olivia.”

Then she walks inside the glossy building and is gone.

Chapter Twenty

I run my hand along the mattress the next morning, seeking my husband’s heat. We’d made love in the wee hours, both of us half asleep, and the memory of it is hazy and wonderful, like the luckiest kind of dream. This is the first time I’ve awoken in the High Life without Jake holding me—and it’s the first time I’ve wanted him to. My body feels cadaverous, buried in the bed, and it takes me several seconds to remember why:

In the parking lot yesterday, Lorena looked at me like I was dead to her. I saw with my own eyes and felt with my own heart that my mother and I are estranged.

I want to go home. I want my mom back. I’ll never take her love for granted again. I want out of the High Life. Except—

“Jake?” I say his name before I know I’m going to. I say it with an urgency I’m not ready to know I feel.

He appears in the doorway between our bedroom and the master bath, wearing a robe and bringing sexy back to brushing teeth. He smiles, toweling off his freshly showered hair like it’s no big whoop to be so gorgeous.Hey you, my loins demand,get back in bed where you belong.

“Good morning,” he says, wasting America’s Sexiest Voiceon just me. Concern narrows his eyes and he sits by me on the bed. “You’re still upset about yesterday.”

“It’s not just yesterday,” I say, my voice cracking. “Has she hated me that much for ten years?”

“Olivia—”

“How did I let this happen?”

I slump against him and begin to cry, my shoulders shaking in his embrace. His arms are a comfort, but I’m so lost and scared. I don’t know how to get home to my real world, where my mom calls me fifteen times a day and borrows my shoes without asking and clips comics from the paper for my refrigerator and texts me songs that suit my vocal range for the next time I karaoke. And likes me.

But when I do find Yogi Rabbi Dan, and I convince him to take me back to my Real Life, it will mean leaving this version of Jake behind.

A week ago it would have been an easy bargain.

I think of the ridiculous fun we had planting our garden together. The connection flowing between us, pitcher to catcher to pitcher on the mound. The magic of his skin on mine in the middle of the night. To say nothing of what he can do with his tongue. This week with Jake, I’ve experienced a level of intimacy I’ve never let myself imagine having with anyone.

Especially Glasswell.

And that’s who he’ll be again when I go home.

It hurts to think of that, and I wonder—could I make him love me in Real Life? Hah. That feels about as likely as making up with High Life Lorena.

Why can’t I take him with me? Why can’t I cobble togethermy best life, picking and choosing the choicest parts like an interdimensional Frankenstein?

I don’t know who made the rules, but it appears that no one gets it all—not Helen Gurley Brown, not Frankenstein, not Ebenezer Scrooge. Perhaps the purpose of this glimpse of parallel-Olivia is for me to choose. What matters most to me? What sacrifices am I willing to make?

Not my mom. Not Masha. I’ve been clear on that since Day One here. But now... how do I turn my back on Jake? He’s too good—we’re too good—to make that call just yet.

And... I’m crying again.

He kisses my forehead, dabs my tears with his fingertips. “Do you want to skip the party? Stay home and take it easy?”

I shake my head. For once, I know what he’s talking about. Having finally wised to the Delphic powers of iCal, I’m equipped with the knowledge that Jake and I have RSVP’d to celebrate Aurora’s thirtieth birthday.

Nothing fancy, just your basic chartered yacht to Catalina Island, which lies an hour off the coast of LA. Followed by your basic formal ball at the historic Catalina Casino. The basic Wrigley Mansion rented out for Aurora’s guests. It’s as over the top as Aurora—but it would be a lie to say I’m not tingling about another hotel tilt with Jake.

I want to see him in a tux, his hair wild from the ocean breeze. I want to dance in his arms as an orchestra plays Count Basie. I want to kick his ass at mini golf. I want to snorkel with garibaldis, share a waffle cone from Scoops, and muse about returning in the winter to read novels by the fire in a cottage within walking distance of the library.

Maybe it’s frivolous, and maybe it will make leaving the High Life that much harder when the time comes for me to go.

Or maybe it will be the trip that convinces me to stay.

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