Page 41 of My Favorite Bad Decision
I frown at him, ignoring the dig. “I don’t know. I don’t know if marriage will make my life Thursday again. Or kids. Or moving up in the company. None of those things necessarily feel like the answer, but if they’re not, what is? Do I just stay in bed and hope life will move forwardforme?”
He’s quiet. Maybe he just agrees with my plan, though it seems unlikely. When does Miller agree with anything I’m doing?
“I like Mondays,” he says after a moment, partly unzipping his jacket. “I like Tuesdays too. You know why? Because I make my own schedule. I don’t have to go into a job I hate, so all the days are good ones. When I worked summers for my dad, doing that grind, I was miserable.”
I groan. “I thought you might take my analogy a little more metaphorically than you did. I’m not talking about theliteralworkweek.”
“I know. And I’m not either. I’m saying that maybe the reason you can’t escape from Tuesday is because you’re on the wrong track, because you’re living a life where Tuesdays suck. And you keep trying to make this one set of plans—marrying the idiot and taking over a company you’re not all that interested in—work. What if it isn’t where you’re stuck in this life, but that you’re not in the right life at all?”
My eyes fall closed. “I wouldn’t have the first clue what to do with my life instead.”
His exhale ruffles my hair. “Maybe instead of planning a wedding, you should be trying to figure that out.”
I say nothing, but it’s been hitting me more and more on this trip—how much I miss the way I felt with Rob. I’d thought I was ready to go through life without it and now, looking over at Miller’s concerned face…I’m not quite so sure.
* * *
Eventually,we reach Kosovo. The porters cheer for us as tears roll down my face.
It seemed like we were climbing to the summit forever, as if it would never end, and now it has…and I wish I had more time. Not a month. Not even a week. Just a handful more of these simultaneously peaceful-yet-anxious, boring-yet-thrilling days with him.
I laugh as I brush tears away, and Miller wraps an arm around me. “It’s okay, Kit,” he says, plucking the water bottle from my hand. “Get out of your clothes while I refill these.”
I dive into the tent and strip, then quickly wipe myself down and put on a fresh base layer. If I never have to wear another sweaty jog bra for the rest of my life, it will still be too soon.
Miller taps on the pole just as I’m sliding into my sleeping bag and I shout that he can come in.
“I assume you won’t be offering me a similar amount of privacy?” he asks, grinning.
“What tipped you off?”
“Well, the fact that you’re already in your sleeping bag was the first clue.”
I laugh and roll toward the outside of the tent. “I already got an eyeful the last time,” I reply, closing my eyes. “I’m covered.”
The clothing he’s removed lands just behind my ear. “You sure?” he asks, his voice a low growl, and I clench at the sound.
In a parallel universe, one in which I’m not nearly engaged, one in which he isn’t the love of my sister’s life, I’d roll over and take a nice long look.
And then I’d pull him down on top of me and it wouldn’t matter in the least that neither of us had showered in seven days. I’d welcome every dirty inch of him.
Repeatedly.
“Positive,” I reply, but my voice is wispy, threadbare.
I am not positive. At all.
When I hear him climb into his sleeping bag, I roll in his direction and tear up again. It’s just exhaustion making me so emotional, but it’s still embarrassing.
“You did it, Kitten,” he says, squeezing my hand. “I’m so proud of you.”
I smile. “I’m glad you were with me for it.”
“Me too.”
When we wake two hours later, we are still holding hands.
* * *
