Page 69 of Winter Wishlist
“Trois cœurs. Parfaitement synchronisés.” I tuck her palm to slip between both of ours so that we’re all joined.
“What does that mean?” That dreamy little voice of hers gusts a puff of shallow exhales across my neck.
I swallow thickly.It means, I think I’m in love with you.
“It means we’ve made a mess and we need to take a shower.” The attempt to laugh off the lie comes out as a hoarse croak.
None of us are ready to move. I see the three of us in a series of slow blinks. Mia’s eyelids can’t stay open. Reid is much the same. We’re all fighting the inevitable.
I hate the feeling hanging over all our heads, that by the next moment we open our eyes, that’s when our time will be up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Me:
Can I come eat my body weight in ice cream on your couch?
My heart forgot where it was supposed to live.
Keri:
Did it end up getting lost in your pussy?
Me:
Worse. I think it was found.
Keri:
Enough said. I’ll get the gallon tub rather than a pint.
Three Days.
Three days were all it took for me to discover just how miserable my life truly was. I can’t begin toform words, to find a way to explain it to these men, because nothing makes sense.
You don’t discover your soul mates and fall in love in three days.
I’ve had the flu for longer than that length of time. I’ve binge-watched an entire five-season TV series. A team of astronauts could set course for the moon, and I’d still have tumbled head over heels for Reid and Henri faster than you could sayNASA, we have liftoff.
And yet, here I am, floating in space with the imminent descent to Earth about to turn me into a fiery piece of space debris. Perhaps I’ll incinerate to ash on re-entry and no longer have to think about any of it.
I’m not ready to face the reality of my shitty apartment, with neighbors who blast teeth-rattling drum and bass through the walls at two in the morning, and my ever-so-lonely existence.
Because no matter how hard I try, no matter how many times I attempt to look in the mirror and tell myself I should be grateful for what Idohave, it doesn’t work. I’m not happy. I’m nothing remotely close to being happy. I’m a discarded cork bobbing around in the ocean as a flotilla of party cruises steams past. Everyone else is having the time of their life, and I’m barely keeping my head above water.
Space? Ocean? Whatever.
I cup a handful of water from the faucet to my face and then pat my skin dry with a towel. Doesn’t matter if I’m in a deep-sea trench or screaming into the inky void of zero gravity; either way, I’m unable to breathe.
I’m in love, and it’s pure torture. This is what the poets write about. The realms where musicians uncover their muse. Entire sections of the library devote shelf space to this awful, gut-churning feeling. The utterly painful power of a heart that both beats and bleeds for the ones I cannot have.
There’s nothing to be done, except to square my shoulders, take a deep breath, and pray I don’t make a scene by flooding their kitchen with snotty tears before I’ve even got one foot out the door.
My secret wish for a storm to end all storms that might keep me trapped here until long after the New Year never eventuated.
Isn’t that always what happens in romance novels? Doesn’t the heroine get snowed in and gets to enjoy having her back blown out while waiting for the weather to clear?
This was fun while it lasted, but reality calls. My landlord texted me earlier to confirm I can safely return to my apartment. I’m going to head back home to my crappy little life and probably sob about it to Keri and Sasha until my eyeballs bleed.
