Page 33 of Misadventures of a Curvy Girl
; I bolt down the sidewalk, Greta at my heels, both of us dodging debris and the haggard townspeople milling around the ruined Main Street. It’s a testament to how awful the day is that no one seems to notice or care that the town barkeep and his dog are sprinting back home, not that I’d care if anyone did notice.
My mind is full of Ireland and her blue eyes brimming with wounded hurt. Of Caleb and his disappointment.
I have to get to the farm. Now. Because I can’t bear to lose Ireland, and if I do lose Ireland, I may also lose Caleb, and I also can’t bear that. I won’t survive losing either of them.
I’d rather go back to war.
The two miles home are hot and punishing, but if there’s one thing I carried over from the army, it’s the habit of going on hot and punishing runs, so I make decent time, even though I arrive a sweaty mess and Greta arrives soaked after taking her detours through farm ponds and stock tanks along the way.
It doesn’t matter what time I make, though. No one’s here.
I walk through the house in a numb kind of daze, set out cool water for Greta, and then wander upstairs. I don’t bother calling any names—the emptiness in the house is palpable, almost like a living thing itself.
I go to the guestroom where Ireland would have stayed and stand at the foot of the bed, my hands dangling uselessly at my sides. I just stare in a kind of blank hurt at it. I know I don’t deserve this moment of pain, so close to self-pity, because every part of this is my fault, but I’m also not strong enough to push the hurt away. I indulge in it and let it take me because I deserve to hurt. I deserve this shame and loneliness.
Sweat from my run here burns my eyes, and I wipe roughly at my face with an equally sweaty arm, which only makes it worse. With a sharp growl of frustration, I yank the unused guest towel that Ireland left folded neatly on the still-neatly made bed—neatly made because she slept with us last night—to dry my face.
That’s when it catches my eye. Her camera, sleek and expensive, still nestled atop the faded quilt.
She wouldn’t have left that on purpose.
Maybe she’ll come back for it.
My heart lifts at the thought and then crashes back down, because even if she comes back for it, even if I get to see her pretty heart-shaped face and luscious body again, it doesn’t mean I have a right to ask for more.
Like asking her to listen. Asking her to stay.
Making up for my earlier cruelty with as much pleasure as I can possibly visit on her body.
But still I find myself taking the camera in my hand, thinking about how her hands must have cradled it in exactly the same way.
It makes me feel closer to her.
I stopped questioning myself and my feelings when it comes to sex and love a long time ago—the way Caleb and I love each other necessitates a certain amount of adaptability and spontaneity—but I still can’t help wondering about my feelings. To be so gone for someone after only a night? It’s never happened to me before—not with Mackenna and not even with Caleb. Both of those relationships gradually evolved over time. But falling for Ireland was like an explosion—jagged and fiery and quick as hell.
By the time I heard the click, it’d already gone boom.
I go out on the porch, as if that will somehow bring her back to me. I’m clutching her camera like a child clutches a toy when I see the distinctive glint of sunlight on metal coming from the north.
My chest tightens; something inside it flips over and flips over hard.
Ireland.
The length of another breath brings a little Prius into view, bright blue and flecked with mud, and I know for sure it’s her. I know that somehow I’m being given another chance, and I decide I’m taking it no matter fucking what. I’ll beg her to listen, and I’ll never stop begging if that’s what it takes. I fucked up, but I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to her, if only she’ll let me.
Oh God, please. Please let me, sweetheart.
“I’m just here for my camera,” she announces briskly as she climbs out of her car. She’s still in her distractingly sexy shorts and clingy tank top from earlier, and there’s still sheetrock dust in her hair, but she has a bandage on her leg now and a heat in her eyes that means she’s either furious or aroused. Or both.
Hot blood kicks to my groin, and I feel myself thicken against my zipper. Fuck, I want her. Even furious with me, I want her. I want her to scratch at me as she holds my face to her pussy. I want her to bite my neck and shoulder and chest as her heels dig into my back to drive me deeper inside her.
I hand over her camera without any additional urging from her. I’m not interested in holding it hostage or using something important to her as leverage. I’m only interested in her—her happiness and her safety and her pleasure.
She doesn’t meet my eyes as she takes the camera, and she turns back down the porch stairs after she takes it without another word.
“Ireland,” I say in a strangled voice. “I was wrong. I was cruel. I’m sorry for it, and it won’t ever happen again.”
My words halt her progress, and she slowly pivots back to face me. The hurt and anger in her expression would be enough to drive back armies.
