“Is everything okay with Craig?”
I consider the question without turning to look at him. “He’s fine. It was a work emergency. I think he’s handled it.” It’d be easy to tell him the truth; I should tell him the truth. Trey isn’t just my boss—we have become friends. It’d be weird not to tell him.
But telling him I’ve broken off my engagement will lead to questions, ones that I haven’t quite worked out in my head. Maybe, back in the US, I will change my mind. Maybe, after cataloguing all of the decision-making factors, I’ll realize that I shouldn’t have made such a life-altering decision while drinking. Maybe I’ll call Craig and tell him that I’d made a mistake.
Or maybe I won’t. I feel absolutely zero regret over my decision. If anything, I feel better—the knot of anxiety over our future gone, my possibilities wide open. Last night, I had the best night of my life. At some point, we had danced, in a dark club off a side street, one where drag queens greeted us at the door and disco pumped through the speakers. I’ve never danced. Not in college, definitely not in grad school. The formal events that Craig and I sometimes attended had a few slow songs we’d swayed to, in the most dignified manner possible. But nothing like last night. That had been arms up, ass shaking, gyrations. We had moved deep into the crowd, in a place of rough, jam-packed movement, his arms protectively wrapping around me, my body occasionally brushing against his to the tune of the techno. When we made it to the upstairs bar, we took tequila shots and found a jukebox. I put on a country song, managed to mix it with an Irish jig, and Trey laughed and told me that I was a terrible dancer. He also, over tapas in another bar, brushed my hair out of my face and told me that I was brilliant. I don’t remember my response. I don’t remember much of the rest of the evening, except that I fell asleep in a taxi, and he ended up carrying me to my room.
“Is it bad that I’m almost happy he went home early?” He leans his head back against the headrest and turns to smile at me. “I mean, I’m sure it ruined your birthday but—”
“It’s not bad.” I gave him a half-hearted smile. “I think it was a good coworker bonding experience.” I reach out my glass, determined to return us to our proper relationship. “To Marks Lingerie.”
His tongue runs along the inside of his bottom lip and he, almost reluctantly, lifts up his own glass. “To Marks. And to bonding with coworkers.”
I tip back my glass and look away.
chapter 8
Her
“I just don’t understand why you haven’t told Trey.” Jess pushes the shopping cart forward and stops beside a rack of purses, picking up a knock-off Betsey Johnson clutch. “It’s been a month since you and Craig broke up. What do you guys talk about all the time?”
“Business.” I spin a rack of sunglasses and pluck a pair off the top. “And other stuff. I don’t know. He doesn’t bring up Craig.”
“You guys are weird.” She holds up the clutch. “Do you think this is worth forty bucks?”
“No.” I push the glasses on my face and bend down, looking into the mirror. “We aren’t weird.”
“You’re totally weird. Even Mom thinks you’re weird, so that’s pretty much the kiss of death.”
“In what way are we weird?” The glasses don’t look terrible on me. I tilt my head, considering them.
“It’s the way you look at each other. Like you guys are having subliminal conversations. It’s rude, you know. When other people are there. I felt left out having lunch with the two of you. Plus, there’s the whole attraction thing.”
I take off the sunglasses and check the price tag, sighing as I return them to the rack. “Lots of friends are attracted to each other.”
“Ummm … no.” She tosses the clutch onto the pile and pushes the cart forward. “Actually, they aren’t. It never works out.”
“You liked Gabe Jordan.”
“That was ninth grade, Kate.” She checks her watch. “Shit. It’s already two. We need to hurry.”
I watch as she turns down a housewares aisle, her steps increasing in speed as she moves past the cooking items, bee-lining for a display of picture frames. Maybe Trey and I are weird. I certainly feel ungrounded at times, as if we are tip-toeing closer and closer to the line of inappropriateness. It’s the reason I haven’t told him about Craig. I feel like my fake relationship with him is a layer of protection, something to point to and say See? We are just friends. We must be, since I am happily engaged.
“Hasn’t he asked about your ring?” Jess asks, carefully placing a picture frame into the cart.
“I told him I need to get it resized.” A terrible excuse, but one he hadn’t questioned.