Page 55 of The List
The buzzing of my iPad halts Cassie’s question right there. I glance down, and instantly regret not disabling the feature that displays incoming calls to my iPhone.
Junie Traxel.
I snatch the iPad off the table and hit “decline,” angling the screen away from Cassie and I hope like hell she didn’t see the name. That she won’t ask questions or?—
“Do you need to get that?”
I swallow hard, doing my best not to look guilty. “Nope. I’m with you. I don’t take calls from other people when I’m with you.”
She studies me a moment, and I can’t tell from her expression what she saw. She picks up her wine and takes a casual sip, her expression giving nothing away.
“Can I ask you something?”
I swallow hard. “Sure.”
She seems to hesitate, looking down into her glass. When she meets my eyes, she looks serious. “Do you promise— cross your heart and hope to die promise—you’re not married?”
I don’t know why, but the question fills me with relief. This is one question at least that I can answer honestly. “I cross my heart and hope to die, I am not, and have never been married. Never,” I add for extra emphasis, just in case she doesn’t believe me.
“I believe you,” she says.
“Good.”
Again, I consider telling her. About my sister. About our parents. About all the women who’ve cut and run when they realized I wasn’t the jet-setting millionaire they thought I’d be.
But I can’t do that. I can’t risk everything now. All I can do is see this thing with Cassie through to the end, exactly like we planned it.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s Google some sex positions.”
“Okay,” she says and picks up the iPad again.
Chapter 16
Cassie
“Here, try the 2019 Golden Oaks pinot blanc. It’s divine.”
I look up to see Missy handing a glass of wine to Lisa, who’s balancing a blue plate topped with something I couldn’t possibly pronounce. I think there’s shrimp involved.
We’re at a fancy seafood-and-wine thing on the Oregon coast, which is actually more low-key than it sounds. I like seafood. I like wine.
What I don’t like is the fact that I’m bracing myself for a conversation about how likely I am to scandalize their college friends with tales of my debauchery. Now that Simon and I have turned my fibs into truths, I feel strangely protective of them.
Luckily, my sisters seem more focused on the wedding than the bachelorette party. As if on cue, Lisa whips out her phone. “What do you think of these napkin rings for the rehearsal dinner?” She thrusts out the gadget, and I take a step back like she’s holding kryptonite.
“I have no idea,” I tell her. “Can’t people just unfold the napkins and put them in their laps?”
My sisters both look at me like I’ve suggested an orgy in place of the first dance. Truth be told, that would be my preference. Thoughts of sex remind me of Simon again, which has me smiling in a way they probably interpret as approval of the napkin choices.
“Do you like the one on the right or the one on the left?” Missy demands.
“Uh—right.” I don’t specify her right or mine. I honestly don’t care.
I’m too busy trying not to think about Simon.
We haven’t talked for several days. That’s not unusual, especially since we’ve both been traveling. Me to the Oregon Coast to this wine thing with my sisters, and Simon to—well, actually, he never told me.
But I know he’s out of town, and I know not to expect a lot of communication.
