Page 63 of Forgotten Desires

“Barely.”

He chuckles. “I need to get up.”

I nod and try to adjust, but there’s literally no room, and when I move my leg, he grabs it quickly. “What?”

“Your knee was close to a certain part of my anatomy.”

“Sorry,” I mutter and let him move us both.

He heads to the bathroom, and I force myself to sit up. My neck is freaking killing me. Being stuck in that spot all night when there are six bedrooms with beds was probably not our brightest idea.

I see my phone light up and I mentally groan imagining the number of messages. There are eighteen text messages from people in Sugarloaf who saw photos of the wedding, sending their well wishes and asking where their invites were.

One is from Phoebe with a link to the article online about us and our story, and one from my father, saying how happy he is for me and wishes he could’ve seen it.

I sit back, feeling a horrific amount of guilt for not inviting him. It just was too fast to ease my brothers into seeing him, and while Howie and I have come to a place of understanding, it will never happen for them. Not after they saw the damage he did to me and my mother.

Howie said he understood and would never want to ruin my day and asked if Crew and I would have dinner with him when we’re settled a bit.

Then an email pops up from the charity about the surgery.

I open it quickly, scanning it for the words I’m desperate to see.

Dear Ms. Whitlock, we received your application . . .blah, blah, blah. We would like to set up an interview for next Monday at noon, where we’ll be able to render a decision.

Monday. Like this Monday. Okay, this is good, if I get the money from them, then the surgery is completely covered. If not, I’ll hopefully be on Crew’s insurance, so they will cover a good amount. Whatever they don’t cover, I’ll just pay over time. It’ll be fine. This will work and it’s one less thing on my never-ending list of crap.

I send messages back to everyone then reply to the email stating that Monday at noon is wonderful and I’ll be there. Crew comes back into the living room with a bottle of water, Tylenol, and a donut. “Here, in case you weren’t feeling great.”

I laugh. “You can’t get a hangover from sparkling juice.”

“Still.”

A very mild headache is lingering, but I don’t know if it’s from the neck pain or just the entire day. I take and swallow the pills, grateful that he even thought of it.

“Thank you.”

Crew nods once. “Flying with a headache is the absolute worst.”

I take a bite of the donut and swallow. “We have to fly back tonight, right?”

“Yes, I wish we could do a honeymoon, but we have to get Layla in two days.”

“I understand. I don’t need a honeymoon.”

I really don’t. Would it be amazing to go somewhere? Yes. I’ve never been out of the country and to go with Crew just seems like a dream. Then I remind myself that this marriage isn’t real, and there is no reason to honeymoon since we’re already planning a divorce.

“You deserve a honeymoon, Brynn. If I could, we’d go to Paris or Italy or Greece or whatever the hell you wanted. It’s just that we have to . . .”

I lift my hand. “I know, I’m saying it’s fine. Layla is our priority and I have to be in New York anyway. Paris, Italy, and Greece will be there for me someday. I have my passport and one day I’ll get a stamp in it. I promise, it doesn’t have to be now.”

“Okay. I’d like to get some work done and then pack up to head to your house for the weekend with Layla.”

He was serious about that. “You want to go to Sugarloaf this weekend?”

“You need to check on the farm, don’t you?”

“Yes, but . . .” I don’t know why I’m hesitating. I miss my home and Layla can stay in Olivia’s room, where I think she’ll be happy, but having him there is another thing. More people he’ll meet. More lies we’ll have to tell.

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