“What’s going on?”
“I’m sad.” She swipes at her nose. “Today was surreal, a moment I thought I would share with my mom one day, and the fact that she wasn’t there, it’s just killing me, Breaker. I keep wondering, would she have liked the dress I picked out? Would she have cried? Would she have taken a picture with me celebrating the moment?”
“Yes,” I say flatly. “Yes, to all of those things.”
“I love that dress,” she says. “But a part of me just feels empty about everything, and I wish I could be happy about getting married, but I have my doubts, I have my worries.”
“About Brian?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she answers quietly. “I love him, but I feel like my entire life has been strained ever since he proposed. I don’t feel right, not like myself. I feel trapped in this little box of what’s expected of me, and now, I think I’m starting to lose my mind over it.” Her eyes meet mine, and she says, “When we were fighting, I had no one to turn to. Not a parent, not a friend, and I didn’t want to tell Brian because he probably would have used it as fodder as to why I shouldn’t hang out with you, despite him saying he’s okay with our relationship.” She glances down at her hands. “I’m starting to realize how much I lost when my parents died.” Her eyes well up again, and she leans back on the couch, crying.
I don’t know what to say, because I agree with her—she lost so much when she lost her parents. I think she settled with Brian because he was there at the right time, but how the hell am I supposed to say that to her?
She’s already going through a rough time, and clearly, my motives have been skewed ever since my realization this morning, so instead of saying something, I say nothing and just listen to her cry while I hold her hand.
After what feels like an hour, she turns toward me and says, “I just want to go to bed.”
“Okay.” I stand and pull her up with me. “Let me get you situated in the guest room.”
She shakes her head. “No, I don’t want to be alone. Can I sleep with you?”
That would be a hard no.
Very hard no.
No way can I let the woman I love sleep in my bed while she belongs to another man. Nope, that’s asking for trouble.
“Uh, don’t you think that might be a little inappropriate?” I ask gently, trying not to rock the boat on the emotions.
“We’ve done it before. Why would it be any different now?” she asks.
Very valid point.
Because we have done it before, so . . . what’s changed?
Well, you love her, that’s changed, and you’re still trying to sort through those untimely feelings.
She’s engaged, that’s what is different. That’s a sound excuse. And will save me from utter embarrassment and the possible agony of sleeping in the same bed with her.
Yup, let’s go with the engaged thing.
“Well, you’re engaged now.” The moment the words slip out of my mouth, I watch her shoulders droop, and her lashes flutter down in disappointment.
It’s like a fucking knife to the heart, twisting and gutting me as I watch her slowly turtle in on herself. Yup, you did that, you ass.
“But,” I find myself saying like a dipshit, “if that doesn’t bother you, then sure.”
Her eyes float up to mine. “It doesn’t.”
I plaster on the fakest smile I can muster. “Okay, well, great. Let me just lock up and get ready. You know where your toothbrush is.”
Yup, we’ve done this enough that she has a toothbrush here.
It started back in college when she’d sleep on the futon in my dorm, and I’d sleep on my bed. We’d spend countless hours talking until one of us passed out.
When we graduated and our beds got bigger, we’d just share a bed and fall asleep facing each other. The next morning, we’d order donuts, drink coffee, and play dominoes.
But this feels different.
My body feels itchy with her around.
My mind feels like mush, like I can’t conjure up the right thing to say.
So this should be fun. thumbs up
I pour out the rest of my beer and lock up my apartment. Then I wait a few seconds in the living room, mentally preparing myself. Sure, it’s the same bed, but it’s not like we’ll be touching.
It’s not like I’ll be sharing a pillow with her.
There will be at least two feet of neutral zone between us, and if I’m good at anything, it’s respecting the neutral zone. I’m a gentleman, after all.
With a touch more confidence, I make my way to the bedroom, where I find Lia sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing one of my T-shirts.
Fucking . . . great.
The sleeves swallow up her shoulders while the shirt extends to her mid-thigh, covering enough, but making me sweat from the mere thought that her naked body is under that fabric. My fabric.
“I borrowed a shirt. I hope that’s okay.”
“Yup,” I squeak and then clear my throat. “Sorry, don’t know why that came out like that.” I awkwardly chuckle, and then in a deep voice, I say, “Yup, all good.” When she just lightly smiles, I point my thumb toward the bathroom. “Just going to get ready, and then we can do all the sleeping because I love sleep. It is truly the natural medicine we all need in life.”
“Are you okay?” she asks with an inquisitive look.
“Great. Real great.” I fist-pump the air. “Sleepover. Huzzah.”
Huzzah?
Jesus Christ, Breaker.
Why don’t you just go stick your head in a microwave after that?
I slap my hands together. “So yeah. Brushing teeth now.”
I turn on my heel, head into the bathroom, and shut the door.
I grip the counter, glance up into the mirror to see how truly pathetic I am, and that’s when I spot her pink lace bra hanging on one of the hooks behind me.
Oh hell.
My muscles contract, creating a tangled, claustrophobic sensation to squeeze me so hard that all air escapes my lungs.
Panic. It pierces through me because yeah, that’s her fucking bra.
Her bra that’s probably warm from wearing it all day.
Her bra that cups and props her tits up.
Her bra that makes me wonder just how fucking good she probably looks in it.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Uh, Lia, you left your bra hanging in here.”
“I know. I didn’t want to fold it,” she calls out.
“Okay, but why isn’t it on?” I ask stupidly. I know why it’s not on. Who wants to wear a fucking bra to bed? Not me.
I hear her step up to the door and then open it. She pokes her head in and says, “I never wear a bra to bed. Breaker, I’ve hung my bra there before.”
Ehhh, has she, though? I think I would have noticed, especially with the cup size banging a hole in my brain, that she has big tits. She has big tits.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks, her hand falling to my chest.
“Whoa, hey there, watch out, heh, heh.” I let out a breathy laugh. “Hands to ourselves, let’s remember that.”
“What?” she asks, her face drenched in confusion.
“Um.” I swallow hard. “You just startled me because your hand was cold.”