Page 2 of Married to Number 22
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I shake myself, tighten my hold on the edge of the door, preparing to slam it closed and ask, “Who the fuck are you?”
Her smile doesn’t falter as she says, “It’s me.” But as I stare at her, not recognizing whomeis,the edges of her mouth wilt just the slightest bit. “It’s Luna,” she whispers.
I continue to watch her uncomprehendingly.
“From Rockfield?” she adds.
Recognition begins to dawn, and I know why her eyes seemed so familiar. “Luna Maybelle?”
“Yes!” Relief dancing across her face. “That’s me.” She nods, grinning again, and I see it then, the smile that belonged to my best friend and first love. God, how could Inotinstantly recognize it? We spent hours and hours together inside our childhood rink, hanging out in between my practices and her figure skating training. And we spent time outside it too—mostly at my place, the chaos of my big family something she seemed to crave almost to obsession.
Probably because, aside from her grandmother, she only had her brother and father in her life, and her father was an asshole—and her brother an asshole in training.
But that’s not the point.
Luna is here now.
Luna Maybelle. The first girl I ever lusted after, ever kissed.
Everloved.
I see that Luna now in her smile—the mischief and brightness, the joy for life and wicked sense of humor.
But she’s not little Luna anymore.
Christ, she’s anything but—tall, beautiful, curves for days—and she’s staring at me.
BecauseI’mstaring at her.
Fucking hell.
I spur myself into motion.
“Luna! Oh my God!” I pull her into a hug. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“It’s your birthday!” She holds up a piece of paper that looks faintly familiar. “And, well, it’s mine too, remember?”
That’s right.
We have the same birthday.
“We’re both twenty-five, single, and?—”
My eyes narrow in on the paper. It’s crumpled and stained, as though it’s years old.
A purple and pink swirl decorates the edges and suddenly I remember her painstakingly drawing it as we sat side-by-side at one of the high top tables of the ice rink, waiting for the Zamboni to finish cutting the ice.
Her brow had been furrowed. Her movements carefully controlled.
And I had been obsessing over how pink her lips were and what her butt looked like in her skating dress, so much so that I barely remember what we’d been drawing.
No, I think hard, grabbing on to those memories, not whatwe’dbeen drawing.
Thecontractwe’d put together.
The contract my hormonal thirteen-year-old self had signed.
