Page 75 of Maid of Dishonor

“But we kissed,” I say to Sam. “Not even five minutes ago. What are you doing with Chet? I kissed you, remember?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, looking at me, rolling her eyes and smiling. “But it didn’t mean anything.”

“We know you get sad, man,” Chet says. “You’re going to be alone forever. I don’t blame you for trying to sneak a little lip action.”

My jaw drops open at his absurd words.

“Hey, by the way, thanks for babysitting for us,” Chet says before I can say anything. “Sam and I are going to make sweet love. Isn’t she a foxy mama? See you later!” He winks at me, his eyes the same unnatural green as the baby’s, before picking Sam up bridal-style and carrying her out of the room.

“You’re not my daddy,” the tiny little baby in my arms says to me once they’ve gone.

I frown. “I’m pretty sure I am,” I say. I look back over my shoulder at the door. “There’s no way Sam is with Chet. She hates him.”

“No, she doesn’t,” the baby says, although somehow it still sounds like nondescript baby noises. “Didn’t you hear my daddy? They’re going to make sweet love.”

“That’s not happening,” I say, my jaw clenching.

Then I scream.

I startle awake, sitting bolt upright, my chest heaving as I pull in great, gasping breaths.

It takes me two seconds of remembering to be totally weirded out. Sam and Chet? Really? Neon green baby eyes? An infant talking to me? And let’s not forget “Chetty-wettikins,” which I wouldactuallypay money to hear Sam say. I’d pay even more to see Sam’s reaction if Chet ever called her a foxy mama.

“So weird,” I mutter, rubbing my hand across my sweaty forehead. I get out of bed and trudge into the kitchen, but even after two glasses of water, that unsettled feeling remains, and I know why.

It’s because Wini was right. She was completely right: to be broken by Sam would be a million times better than losing her.

Slowly, and definitely not surely, I let my mind open—let it go down the paths I never allow. I let myself think of my favorite things about Sam, her smile and her wit and her kindness. I let myself picture how beautiful she is. I let myself reflect on my attraction to her, and I let myself reflect on my jealousy at the thought of her with anyone else.

And as I do, more and more of these blastedfeelingsrush in. They’re warm and glowing and strong—intense, really—and something deep within, some part of me I keep buried, reacts. It’s as though I’m nourishing part of myself with all of these feelings and thoughts—something that unfurls slowly, stretches, makes itself at home. Something that anchors itself in place with a sense of contentment.

And it hits me: I’m in love. I’m completely, totally in love with my best friend, and this part of me that I’m finally setting free isher. Because she’s a part of me, a part of everything I am and everything I do.

And I’ve been running from her.

But if I stop running? If I turn toward her instead? Loving her and letting her love me in return? Spending my days worshipping her, caring for her, making sure she’s happy?

It would be heaven.

Ugh. Guilt niggles at me as I think this through. Because do I even have the right to feel this way about Sam? I can’t keep jerking her back and forth, pushing her away and pulling her close and then pushing her away again. Ijusttold her we could ignore our feelings. Ijusttold her that was what we should do. I can’t keep doing this to her. She was right; I need to make up my mind.

I take a deep breath, filling and then draining a third glass of water, even though I know it’s going to make me have to get up and pee in a couple hours. Then I go back to bed, this time taking the time to change into sleep clothes first.

I find myself grabbing my phone from off the nightstand and dialing my father’s number. I don’t care that it’s the middle of the night or that he’s most likely asleep or that he’ll have a moment of thinking something horrible has happened because I never call him this late—I need to hear him say it one more time.

“Carter?” he says groggily after a few rings.

“Yeah, hi. Sorry it’s so late.”

“What’s going on?”

“You said it was worth it?” I confirm, my heart racing.

He’s silent for a second, but he doesn’t ask me to elaborate—he knows what I mean.

“Yes,” he finally says. “It’s worth it. And I would do it all again. I would make the same decision.”

“I think—” I say, my voice cracking as I cut off. “I think you’re right.”

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