Page 90 of Book Boyfriends
“And we’ve learned a lot from you. It appears that I’m taking a page out of your book. I’m withdrawing myself from this pseudo-Bachelorette competition.”
“Because not one of these men is the costar of your story.”
“Correct.”
“And you like Davis.” He squeezes me.
“And I like Davis.”
“I figured it out last night at the bar, but then Lars filled in the blanks.”
“And he says Owen has a big mouth,” I quip. “But this isn’t just about my feelings for Davis, it’s about me. It’s about me pushing past my fears to put my wants and needs first.”
He twists to face me. “Does that include putting your wants and needs first about the wedding?”
“Yeah.” I brush my hair behind my ears, the action settles the anxious knot in my stomach. “I spoke to Mom this morning.”
Before picking up the food for Hope and Rem earlier, I stopped by her place to tell her I’m not going to go to the wedding because it would be too hard to sit there, forcing a smile of happiness for two people who’d hurt me so badly. I don’t love Will anymore. My not wanting to be there isn’t about me wishing it was me, but about the knowledge that two people who supposedly loved me had no care for my heart.
Even if Will and I weren’t meant to be, he once claimed to love me, and Lena claims she still does. If you truly love someone, you don’t treat their heart like a flimsy napkin so easily tossed away.
“I’m proud of you for making this decision.”
“Mom said the same thing.” I smile. “I told her that she should still go. Lena hurt me, but I don’t want to take her family away from her.”
“Even though she took Will away from you,” he grumbles.
“She didn’t, though… Will and I were never going to be a forever thing. No matter how much I thought that was going to happen, it never was.”
Rem’s comment about Will accompanied me most of the night while mulling over this decision. Time allows us hindsight to see what we were once blind to. The future I envisioned with Will seemed so real… until it wasn’t. In the aftermath of that heartbreak, I see the little clues that I’d missed that it…thatwewould never be. Will’s hesitation to take our relationship to the next step. Every step of the way, he’d pull back just a bit. How everything was always about him. Even our dates. He never went to Fisher’s Landing with me, let alone show up at the ER with a to-go box from there for me.
“As much as I love this Zen Georgia, I wish I could see his face when he finds out you’re not coming. That guy hates losing.”
“Thathe does.” I loop my arm with Jackson’s and stroll toward the entrance.
The memory of how grumbly Will would get if Jackson beat him at basketball, or he lost to Rem at cards, is a sharp contrast to Davis’s pretend aghast expression each time Estelle squealedUnothe other night. Will would never happily lose to anyone, willingly or not.
“As devastatingly good as I look in my tux, I’m happy to stay home with you next weekend. We can?—”
“Not necessary.” I pat his forearm. “You go. As understanding as Mom is, she and Uncle Hans will be disappointed if you’re not there.”
“Will you tell Lena before or just not show up?” Jackson opens the door and holds it for me. “I kind of hope it’s option B, so I can see Will’s annoyed face that not only did you not show up, but he’d already paid for your meal. Which, out of principle,I will not eat, no matter how good the steak is… I’ll just let it sit there to mock him.”
“As delightful as that sounds, I’m still me.” I laugh. “Plus, Uncle Hans is paying for the wedding, so that dulls any perverse pleasure. I’m going to email Lena today, and I’ll offer to cover the cost of my meal to Uncle Hans.”
“Georgia,” he groans.
“Baby steps, little bro,” I coo, moving down the long walkway toward the pickleball courts.
Jackson reserved one of the four indoor courts. A mural depicting a park scene covers the walls dividing the four courts. The vibrant colors simulate spectators watching from checkered blankets laid atop lush green grass.
Above the courts, a balcony allows spectators to peer down on the matches. For the next hour, that’s where I’ll be. Despite my athletic wear, I slipped on a pair of black flip flops, so there’s no confusion that I will not be participating in this sporty escapade outside of spectatorship. Perched at the edge of the balcony, I nibble my pecan bar and watch Jackson, Lars, and James hit practice balls while waiting for Davis. The mix of the tasty pastry and relief about the decisions I’ve made relaxes every muscle into contentment.
My chill demeanor is short-lived with the slam of a door, drawing my attention to the court’s entrance. Davis strides in. A red muscle shirt molds over his sculpted torso, and a pair of black mesh shorts hang just right on his hips.
“Oh, my,” I almost whimper, my core clenches with the many illicit thoughts fuzzing my focus.
With a wave to the guys, he tosses his bag on the side. Bending, he unzips his duffle and pulls out an eyeglass case. Straightening, he looks around,
