Page 50 of Maid of Dishonor

Part of that effort has been taken up by meditation and journaling. After Winifred’s well-intentioned-but-dismal attempts at teaching me how to meditate, I looked it up online instead. I’ve discovered that my favorite place to sit is on the floor in my living room, close to the kitchen, right where the sunlight makes its way across the floor. I can sit in the warmth and bask in that glow while I focus on my breaths, on stilling my mind.

I just can’t meditate early in the morning. I tried that yesterday, and I fell asleep sitting there.

I do have to say, though, there’s something…I don’t know. Steadying? Something steadying about spending thirty minutes of my day looking inward rather than outward. Thirty minutes of clearing out all the noise in my mind and descending into the stillness of just existing. I’m not a pro yet, or even good at it, but I think I’m moving in the right direction. Then, after I meditate, I write in the journal that I grabbed from the dollar bin at the store. I’ve been writing more about the stuff I read in the article Carter sent me; figuring out the thought processes behind my feelings. Trying to figure out how to convince my deepest self that my worth as a person isn’t tied to the fact that I was involved in the car crash that left my mom partially paralyzed.

I found something about positive affirmations online the other day; I’ve been considering doing that. I don’t know. All I know is that focusing on my mental health takes my mind away from Carter, and I guess that’s good.

But also, I miss him. A lot. I keep picking my phone up to call him before remembering why I’ve been holding off.

We’ve only texted briefly to coordinate rides to the bridal shop later today, because Maya wants us both to go try on our wedding attire.

Yep—our wedding attire. This wedding is supposed to be happening in a matter of weeks, and as of right now, it’s still on. I can only imagine the tracks Carter is wearing in his carpet as he paces anxiously.

In fact, that reminds me…

I grab my phone from its spot on my desk and shoot off a text to Carter, telling him we have a sign-from-the-universe stop to make before we try on our wedding clothes. Once I let him know, I turn back to my bed, looking at my options for this pool party I stupidly agreed to attend.

I’m not one of those fancy girls that owns ten different swimsuits. I have two of them. One is simple and functional—an athletic black one-piece suit that you’d probably see on any number of competitive swimmers. But the other one…the other one is just cute. I wish I could say I bought it for another reason than my vanity, but really, I just liked the way it looks. The bottoms are golden yellow with white polka dots, and they’re high waisted to cover a little more skin. The halter top is striped navy and white, and rather than a bikini top it’s more like a crop top, leaving only a couple inches of skin exposed rather than the entirety of my abdomen.

I decide on the cute one, slipping it on and then putting the black one-piece back in my closet. Standing in front of the mirror, I make sure everything is in place. This swimsuit accentuates my curves without baring everything to the world, which I like. I’ve never had that kind of confidence. I also like that it makes me feel feminine.

I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t mostly because of my bruised ego. But really—what woman wants to be called “one of the guys” by the man she’s crazy about? No one wants that. No one feels good about that. What was Carter thinking? I mean, he’s not always the most tactful, but he’s rarelythatbad.

The hurt stabs at my chest as tears sting at my eyes, so I force my mind to other, less painful topics, like figuring out where my swimsuit cover is. I finally locate it ten minutes later—in the dirty laundry. So instead I grab the longest t-shirt I own and shrug that on instead; it hits my upper thighs, so I’m good. I’ll toss some jean shorts in the car too, so I can put them on before we go to the dress and suit fitting.

The shirt used to be Carter’s until he gave it to me because I loved how soft it was, but it’s this or my silk robe.

I take a few deep breaths, feeling sort of silly; I shouldn’t be this nervous to see Carter, but…it’s been a week, and I’m still hurting over what he said. And yes, fine, I’m trying to convince myself that it doesn’t matter what he thinks of my body in a swimsuit, because I have more to offer than my skin.

Still. I get in a few more deep breaths, just to be safe. I remember at the last minute to call the nursing home and tell them I’ll be moving my visit to early next week. And then I’m off to this stupid pool party I already regret committing to.

* * *

It’sa good day to go swimming. However, I’m plus minus about the whole team being here.

They’re great guys, for the most part. It’s not that. It’s just a lot of men, although it looks like a few of the guys have brought their girlfriends. Still, I’m a little more aware of the gazes on me than usual as I round the pool, and I get the weird sense it’s because people actuallyarelooking at me more than usual. Maybe it’s the swimsuit? Except I’m wearing the shirt over it.

But the long shirt is still more flattering than the baseball uniform, so that’s probably it.

I cast my gaze around, looking for Carter, my heart beating out of my chest. I still feel dumb for being so nervous, but now that I’m here, I’m excited to see him again too.

And the second my eyes meet his from the other side of the pool, I know he’s not going to let me get away with ignoring him anymore.

He stalks toward me like a predator hunting its prey, hesitating only when his gaze drops to my body. Recognition flares in his eyes as he sees his old shirt, and his hand moves to the rubber band at his wrist, caressing it before snapping it a few times. But then he’s moving again, and before I even have time to think of what I want to say, he’s pulling me into a bearhug so tight I can’t move.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his breath fanning over the sensitive shell of my ear. “I’m so sorry. It was a total jerk thing to say.”

I’m not surprised by his apology, not really. One of my favorite things about Carter is that he’s not too proud to admit when he’s wrong.

“Yeah, it was,” I say, reluctantly wrapping my arms around his waist and hugging him back. “It was rude and embarrassing, especially in front of the team. And especially because now Vance keeps looking at me.”

Some sort of low sound rumbles through Carter’s chest, and I blink in surprise. I turn my head and rest my chin on his chest, tilting my head up so I can see him. “You’re growling. Why are you acting like an animal?”

“What? I’m not,” he says defensively. He pauses, then says, “Or maybe I am. I don’t know. What do you mean, he’slookingat you?”

I roll my eyes, stepping gently out of his embrace and moving toward an empty lounge chair. “Not in a creepy way. He’s just…you know. Looking at me. Checking me out.” I shrug, grabbing the hem of the t-shirt.

“That’s my shirt,” Carter says, pointing.

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