Page 55 of Pick-Up
26 | That GuyEDITOR IN CHIEF
I strip off my clothes, toss them on the chair ’cause tonight I can’t be bothered and collapse into bed, willing myself not to think about Sasha doing the same on the other side of the thin wall. I will not think about her pulling that flowery dress up over her head. Past freckled shoulders and the pink bra that snuck out from underneath the straps.
I will not think about her hair, messy from the sea air. The arch of her neck, when she threw her head back to laugh at dinner.
How much I wanted to punch Martin when he wouldn’t let her go.
I throw a forearm over my eyes and groan.
I will not think about what would have happened if Stephanie hadn’t come along.
The shadowy lantern light. The beach. Sasha smelling like honeysuckle. Her eyes reflecting my own urgency back to me. Her lips parted as she leaned in. The push and pull of her lips against mine for that brief moment, sending shock waves through me.
I’m only fucking human.
So, I didn’t stop it. But I let her take the lead. That’s something, right?
I think about the way we have a kind of silent communication, like I never had with my ex. With Sasha, it feels like I’ve known her forever, even though it’s basically only been weeks.
But it seems like maybe Derek was right, though I don’t plan to tell him. Whatever she’s feeling, she doesn’t want to give in. And I’ve got to respect that. Iwillrespect that.
Even if it’s torture.
The last thing I want to do is stand between her and this opportunity. The last thing I want to do is bethat guy.
TO-DO
Make sure Sasha knows I didn’t orchestrate the room assignments.
Focus on the shoot. Work. Remember that?
Speaking of: email corporate an update.
Stop wondering what her shiny pink lips would have tasted like, given more time.
Stop thinking about that second when I almost knew.
Go the hell to sleep.
27 | Snack AttackKAITLIN
Sasha is nowhere to be found.
Judging by the photo she posted, she’s still somewhere tropical. Meanwhile, I am down two more followers.
That’s the big news in my life.
She isn’t at drop-off. She isn’t at pick-up. I know because I am at both.
You know who else is at both? Celeste. And it is both pleasing and strange to see her arrive harried at 3 p.m., answering the kids’ demands in place of greetings with a dip into her tote for whatever snacks she grabbed as she rushed out the door.
Of course, her tote is still Goyard. I’m wearing a faded canvas giveaway from a health food store in the Berkshires. Until this moment, I thought it was kind of cool. Coolenough.
The kids emerge.
Celeste takes the little one’s backpack. Sasha’s youngest, Bart. By all appearances, he is the world’s cutest five-year-old and easy as hell. Of course he is. He dances at Celeste’s feet, cheering his strawberry fruit roll-up like he has won the lottery.
In some ways, Nettie already embodies the Sasha I first met. She is pretty, precocious, too cool, with eyes that miss nothing. But she has a seriousness that her mother never had; she is not carefree.
