Wedding Dashers

Chapter 12

58 hours until the wedding

When I return from my walk, Jack is sitting on the bed, eyes glued to his phone. But as soon as he sees me, he perks up. “Finally. I thought I was going to have to break down another door.”

“Very funny.”

I shift toward the bed and remove my shoes and jacket. I’m just hanging my jacket on the hook behind the door next to the garment bag with the veil when I see it: a tear in the bag. And not just a tiny little tear but a gaping hole, big enough that the lace is visible through the opening.

My stomach drops and all thoughts of Jack and Carter dissipate, instantly replaced with a more pressing need as I thrust open the bag.

Please, please, please don’t let anything have happened to the veil. My eyes zip from the tulle to the custom lace flowers, searching for blemishes. Then I see it. The tiniest tear near the seam.

My mouth falls into an oval, hands flying to my face in what I imagine is a perfect re-creation of Edvard Munch’s The Scream.

What am I going to do? Allison can’t see this. She’ll have a heart attack. Then she’ll kill me, and we’ll never repair our relationship because, one, I’ll be dead, and two, she’ll never be able to forgive me after this!

Panic strums my internal nervous system as I rack my brain, trying to figure out how this could have happened—how I could have been so careless—then it hits me. The restaurant. Something had caught on the door, but in our haste to flee, I’d ignored it. Now I wish I’d stayed locked in the bathroom. At least rotting in a public restroom would be better than whatever fate I’m now facing.

Jack must sense that something is wrong because he sits up straighter, eyes wavering across my face, and asks, “Ada? Are you okay?”

“There’s a tear. In the veil,” I say, voice shaking.

“What? Let me see.”

Jack appears by my side, and I cringe as I point out the tiny tear that might as well be a formal execution notice. “See? She’s gonna kill me.”

“This?” Jack takes the velvety lace in his hands. “She’ll never notice. It’s barely bigger than the tip of a pen.”

I cough out a laugh. “Oh, Jack, you sweet summer child. I don’t know if you’re aware, but this is a very expensive, one-of-a-kind Demi Karina veil. Not only will my sister notice it, she’ll have a full-fledged meltdown and it’ll be my fault!”

“No, she won’t.”

I turn to face him, brows scrunching. “What do you mean no, she won’t? I just said—”

“I mean,” he says, cutting me off, “that we can fix it.”

“We?” My eyebrows shoot up. “How are we going to fix it? I don’t know how to sew, and even if I did, I don’t have a sewing kit on me.”

“Well, lucky for you, I do.”

I gawk at him. “You know how to sew?”

“And I have a travel-sized sewing kit that I always bring for emergencies.”

For a minute I just stare at him, mouth dangerously close to hitting the floor. “Are you serious right now?”

“I always come prepared,” he says with a casual shrug, like it’s no big deal that he’s just saved my ass from certain death. Again.

At first, I’m speechless. Because what even are words? And how could I possibly arrange them in a configuration that adequately conveys just how impressed, relieved, and downright astonished I feel right now?

“Okay, it’s official,” I finally say. “You are absolutely the hero in a rom-com.”

A low, throaty laugh breaks in his chest. “Does this mean you’re not mad at me anymore?”

“Mad at you? I think I love you,” I say, clutching my heart like it might beat right out of my chest. “I’m trying to think of how best to demonstrate my thanks. Is naming my firstborn after you too much?”

Again, Jack laughs, and maybe I imagine it, but a blush colors his neck. “Don’t thank me just yet.”

He takes a tiny, travel-sized sewing kit from his luggage and meets me on the bed. As I stand beside him, our hips meet in a casual brush, subtle enough that I probably wouldn’t notice— if every place his body touches mine wasn’t humming with awareness.

I’ve never been a terribly observant person. Not the type to notice every subtle shift in expression or body language. But when it comes to Jack, I can’t help how aware I am of him. How every movement, every pull of the face and brush of the knee draws my focus.

We spread the veil out across the bed, assessing the tear.

“What do you think? Can you fix it?” I ask.

“Shouldn’t be a problem. We’re lucky it’s on the seam,” he explains, pointing to the delicate lace flower on the seam. “If it was the tulle, we’d be in trouble. But if I do a slip stitch on the hole with invisible thread, it’ll be good as new.”

“Okay, I don’t know what any of that means, but I’m very turned on right now,” I say.

“Looks like I found out your kink after all. Who knew it was domestic skills?”

“Trust me. I’m just as surprised as you.”

His lips pull up and I like the way his eyes catch mine. The little secret smile that lands in the corner of his mouth like he’s trying and failing not to grin.

Jack threads a needle and gets to work. All the while I watch with rapt attention, oscillating between fear that he’ll mess up and arousal at the competency porn playing out before me.

So much for packing away my dirty thoughts about Jack.

“So,” I say, spreading myself out on the bed and propping my chin up on my elbows. “Do you also know how to churn your own butter?”

“Hilarious,” he says, eyes remaining pinned to the lace.

“Hey, I’m just asking. You seem to be full of surprises. Banging down doors. Sewing. Improv acting skills,” I say, ticking them off on my fingers. “What else can you do?”

“Some might say I’m a Jack-of-all-trades.”

I slap my knee, barking out a laugh. “And he does puns too!”

His mouth quirks like he’s trying to hold back his amusement, and I can’t help the tiny whoosh of heat that rushes into my stomach.

We drift into silence, and I watch him work, enjoying the flex of his forearms a little too much as he draws the needle in and out of the fabric.

“So, where’d you learn to sew?” I ask. “I feel like it’s sort of a lost art for our generation.”

“ Our generation?” he asks, one eyebrow flicking upward. “I thought I was old .”

“Good point,” I say, nodding sagely. “I’m sure it’s not that impressive for someone who was alive during the Oregon Trail.”

Jack shakes his head, grinning, and a piece of hair falls into his eyes. He brushes it away, but it falls back, determined to remain seductively strewn across his brow.

It shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s just skin—warm, supple skin—but right now the sheen of sweat gathering at his hairline, the dimple emerging on the side of his mouth, the swoop of dark hair threatening to fall into his eyes are more erotic than I can explain.

“My mom taught me, actually,” he says, pausing to rethread the needle. “When I was in high school, I did a lot of sports, and my clothes were always getting tears in them. My mom got sick of repairing them all the time, so she taught me how to do it.”

“Smart lady,” I say. “Teach a man to fish and all that.”

He smiles, but I can see the lines pulled taut around his eyes. It feels like a tiny mark in a scratch-off ticket, the barest hint of a reveal. But of what, I’m not sure. I only know that I’m greedy for more.

“So is that a yes or a no on the butter churning?” I ask.

His eyes rise to meet mine. “You’re distracting me.”

“Sorry,” I whisper, inching back onto my heels. “I’ll shut up.”

“It’s okay,” he says, eyes hitching to mine. “You’re a good distraction.”

My heartbeat stumbles, heat inexplicably blooming in my chest. Though I can’t determine if that’s from the way he’s looking at me, with upturned lips and teasing eyes, or the way his mouth wraps around the word distraction , like he means to say temptation.

It doesn’t take Jack long to finish, and when he’s done, he holds the veil up for my approval. “What do you think?” he asks. “Will she notice?”

I examine the lace flowers, searching for imperfections Allison might notice, but it’s perfect. Almost like it never happened. And before I can stop myself, I’m flinging myself into his arms.

At first he freezes, limbs stiffening against mine, but once the initial shock wears off, he hugs me back, pulling me into the firm wall of his chest.

I’m not sure if it’s the fact that he just saved my ass. Again. Or that I can’t remember the last time someone hugged me like this—like they really meant it—but I lean into him, relishing the heat of his body and the now-familiar scent of tangy cologne with a hint of something sweet.

“Thank you,” I whisper into his chest.

“You’re welcome,” he says back, voice low, barely above a whisper. The sound of it vibrates inside me, making my skin run hot like I’ve just come down with the flu.

I expect one of us to break away, to end the hug, to return to whatever we were just doing, but neither of us does, and with each passing moment that we don’t break away, I become more and more aware of how close we are. Of all the places we’re touching. And all the places we’re not. I’m even more hyperaware of my own rapidly increasing pace of breath and inconvenient heat simmering in my belly.

It’s just a hug , I tell myself. A simple, friendly, uncomplicated thanks-for-saving-my-ass-again hug. But by the way my body is responding, we might as well be on top of each other. Naked.

I hook my gaze up, and for a brief second our eyes catch, twin electric currents pinging between our bodies. I wonder if maybe he can feel it too. But just as quickly as the pressure builds, the valve opens, and cold, sobering awareness washes over me. Awareness of what this must look like—what I must look like—and I jolt backward, untangling myself from him like his body is made of hot coals.

Jack’s eyes narrow, lips parting into a confused frown, and I’m suddenly overcome with a powerful need to be anywhere that’s not in Jack’s direct line of sight.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” I blurt out.

His jaw tightens, muscles pulsing at his temples. “Ada—” But I’m already across the room, hands flying to open the bathroom door.

“Try not to lock yourself in this time,” he calls after me, but I don’t turn back.

As soon as the bathroom door slams shut, I grip the sink, eyes lifting to meet my own reflection in the mirror. My face is flushed, skin glowing red in all the places I can still feel the ghost of his touch.

I splash some water on my face. Then I close the lid on the toilet seat and sit down, placing my head in my hands, waiting for my breathing to steady.

What. Was. That?

I mean, it was a hug. But not a regular hug. A really fucking hot hug. The kind that felt more like foreplay.

But maybe I’d imagined it. Maybe it hadn’t been hot at all. Maybe I’m so starved for intimacy that I mistook a simple hug for something more erotic .

I replay the moment, searching for logic, something to explain away the dizzying tangle of feelings currently tying knots inside me.

I’d just been through a harrowing experience with the veil. And he’d saved the day. So it’s only natural for me to feel a rush of affection for him. Right?

I let the thought take hold, allowing myself a brief respite from the flurries of panic and guilt swimming inside me. But deep down I know that the situation with the veil isn’t enough to explain the surge of need I’d felt. Or the momentary wildness that had raged inside me. No, what I’d felt—am still feeling—was loud. Insistent. Demanding. Like a note played low, suddenly cranked to full volume.

I try to pack it away, to shove it into the depths of my mind where I don’t have to think about it— about him —but it only grows more incessant, an incurably catchy tune I can’t seem to shake.

When I emerge from the bathroom, I find Jack asleep—zebra eye mask on—sprawled out across the bed like he owns the place. The blanket has slipped, exposing the hard ridges of his chest and abs.

Ugh. It’s like he’s taunting me.

I think about sleeping on the floor, but then I’d have to sleep with the special blanket , so I tiptoe to the bed and slide under the covers beside him, careful to shove the extra blanket all the way to the foot of the bed where it can’t touch either of us.

I shut my eyes and try to concentrate on falling asleep. But my body doesn’t seem to want to drift off. I toss and turn, trying to get comfortable until I remember that at home it’s three p.m. Fucking jet lag.

I stare at the ceiling, willing sleep to come, but it’s no use. I’m wide awake.

“Hey.” Jack’s voice breaks through the silence.

I thought he was asleep. Was he pretending?

“What?” I whisper back.

“Are you awake?”

“Clearly.”

He rustles beside me. “I can’t sleep. You?”

“No.”

“What should we do?”

It’s eleven p.m. here. And we’re in what is likely one of the least interesting towns in the UK. There’s nothing to do .

“How about we watch TV?” he suggests. “Or the telly as they say?”

I cast a glance toward the shadowy outline of the ancient TV box. “Something tells me that thing doesn’t get cable.”

“C’mon, we’ve got nothing better to do.” He climbs out of bed, and I watch the dark outline of his broad shoulders as he makes his way over to the TV.

He spends a moment fiddling with the buttons until the screen flashes and TV voices and canned laughter break through the silence.

“Aha!” Jack pumps a triumphant fist in the air. “Looks like we only have one channel though.”

Jack crawls back into bed and I scoot over to make room for him. His thigh brushes mine and my skin burns, every atom humming with awareness like I’ve been plugged in and jacked up with electricity.

I’m so absorbed in the closeness of him that it takes me a moment to realize what we are watching. It’s some kind of British reality dating show. Or at least that’s what I think it is until the shot widens, granting us a view of six naked men all standing in front of a clothed woman. And yup. That’s a penis. On TV.

“What the hell is this?” I demand.

“Beats me,” he says with a laugh. “I guess the Brits aren’t quite so prudish about nudity on TV.”

“Are you sure this isn’t porn?”

“It’s Channel Four.”

A blush works its way up my neck as the camera pans to do a close-up of a particularly hairy man. Nudity isn’t something that’s ever embarrassed me—especially after years of fine arts class—but right now, staring at a penis with Jack right beside me sends strange feelings of heat and curiosity through my brain. None of which are G-rated.

I clear my throat. “So, uh, what exactly is the objective? She’s supposed to pick one of them based on how they look naked?” I ask. “Isn’t that sort of shallow?”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize this wasn’t sophisticated enough for you. Should I see if the news is on? Maybe a World War Two docuseries? I heard there was a good one about the Battle of the Bulge.”

“I’m pretty sure we’re already watching that.”

A cackle rips out of him.

“I’m just wondering what the criteria is,” I say, pointing to the screen. “Length? Size?”

“If that’s what she’s judging on, she’s going to be disappointed. Everyone knows it’s not about length or size, but what you can do with it,” Jack says, giving me a knowing look as though he’s just imparted some great wisdom.

I try to laugh, but the sound doesn’t quite make it out because now I’m wondering whether Jack is speaking generally or…? Stop it! Don’t think about Jack’s penis . Or what he might do with it. Focus. But focus on what , exactly? The naked men on TV? That doesn’t exactly feel like a safe choice either.

I stare straight ahead, hoping he’s too busy watching the TV to notice the heat creeping into my cheeks. We stay like that, both of us looking ahead, pretending to watch the woman choose between the final two contestants. But I can feel the tension radiating from his body. I feel it every time he shifts his weight and we touch for a beat too long before he pulls away and starts the cycle all over again.

“You know what this needs?” he asks after a moment.

“A trigger warning?”

“Food. I’m starving.”

The last time he was starving it didn’t really end in our favor. But he has a point. We haven’t eaten in hours.

“It’s the middle of the night. How are we going to find food?” I ask.

“We could order pizza?”

“At twelve a.m.?”

“Twelve a.m. is the best time to order pizza,” he says. “It’s a universally agreed upon concept.”

My mouth salivates at the mere thought of warm, yeasty crust and melty cheese.

“Fine. I’m in.”

Jack scrolls on his phone for a minute before putting it to his ear. I hear someone answer on the other line.

“Hi. Can we order a…?” He looks to me and I mouth the words large pepperoni with pineapple.

He makes a face of disgust and vigorously shakes his head. “One large pepperoni, please,” he says.

“And chips…Great. Okay, thanks,” he says before ending the call. “Pepperoni and pineapple?” he asks. “I don’t think I can trust you.”

I laugh. “Why not? It’s good.”

“Fortunately for me, and all of humankind, they don’t do pineapple on pizza here. Also, they don’t do delivery. Takeaway only. You up for a little nighttime stroll?”

“Do I have to put pants on?” I ask, scrunching up my face.

“Pants are optional,” he says. “But highly recommended.”

“Fine,” I say crawling out of our little cocoon of blankets and pillows. “I’ll put on pants, but only for pizza.”

I wriggle back into jeans and toss on a sweatshirt over my T-shirt.

As we make our way back downstairs the floorboards creak under our weight. Jack and I lock eyes and I can tell we’ve had the same thought.

“If she catches us, what are we going to say?” I whisper.

“That we’re running out for sustenance after our marathon lovemaking session?” Jack tries, and I’m thankful the hall is dark enough to conceal the blush I know is crawling up my neck.

Outside, cold night air envelops us and my eyes quickly adjust to the shadowy street, blinking back the darkness.

“Do you know where we’re going?” I ask, shivering in the chilly air.

He holds up his phone, frowning at the screen. “Says it’s just three blocks this way.”

Jack’s tall frame towers beside me, casting long shadows on the concrete. Overhead, a swollen moon paints the street in swaths of yellow light.

We turn the corner onto a main street, when my phone vibrates in my pocket.

Allison

Is the veil okay? Make sure it gets here in one piece.

Seriously? How does she know? Does she have some kind of ESP telling her when the veil might be in danger? If only she had ESP to tell her it’s maybe not a great idea to marry a guy you barely know.

I type out a quick, yes, it’s fine , then shove my phone back into my pocket.

“Allison?” Jack asks.

“She won’t leave me alone.”

“Can’t you just tell her to piss off?”

“I’m the maid of honor,” I explain. “It’s sort of in my job description.”

After a beat, he asks, “Is it always like this with you guys? Fighting, I mean?”

“We used to be really close,” I say, kicking at a pebble. “But things have been weird with us since she got engaged to Collin. Turns out telling your sister you think she’s making a huge mistake that will ruin her life doesn’t exactly go over well.”

My throat squeezes, reliving how much it had hurt to find out that she was engaged to a man I’d never even met. The memory still stings, dragging me back into that moment. The confusion. The pain. The hollow clench in my chest when I’d seen the ring and known Allison was rushing into things and there was nothing I could do to stop her.

“I can’t imagine Allison taking that well,” Jack says.

“She didn’t. She was pissed. She accused me of trying to control her, of not trusting her decisions with men. Which is true, I don’t,” I say, eyes cutting to his. “The last guy had a literal restraining order against him. And the guy before that tried to convince her he was allergic to condoms, so excuse me if I’m dubious of this whirlwind marriage.”

I expect Jack to once again defend Collin, or perhaps turn the conversation into another example of why marriage is a bad idea. Instead, he takes a long breath, eyes snagging mine. “I’m really sorry, Ada,” he says. “That’s shitty.”

I’m not sure if it’s the weightiness under his voice or the warm, melting glow behind his eyes, but I feel like he means it. Like it’s not just a throwaway comment or an empty statement, but a real moment of solidarity. And I can’t help but feel the ache of loneliness that I’ve come to accept over the past few months start to recede just a little bit.

“We’ve fought before,” I say after a beat. “But it’s never been like this with her. Usually we fight, then make up twenty minutes later when she wants to borrow a shirt or something. But this time we haven’t made up and…” An unexpected crack worms its way into my voice. “This wedding, this fight, it’s all been really hard on me, especially after losing the business and Carter.”

I think about how it felt to lose my business, to watch my sister grow distant, to feel like everything around me was unraveling piece by piece. I thought Carter would stick by my side, that he’d always be there for me the same way I’d been for him, but he slipped away, too, leaving me even more lost and confused and alone. And yes, afraid.

But it’s not just a fear of being alone, of not getting my old life back, it’s the feeling of helplessness, the confusion, the lack of control. It’s seeing a future I’d thought was certain begin to fade away, replaced with bleak, untethered nothingness. A nothingness my brain can’t fill in for me.

We walk a little farther until I say, “I guess it’s why I’ve clung to Carter so hard. I’ve already lost so much, and I don’t want our relationship to be one more thing I lose.” As soon as I say it, I look away, embarrassed. “Sorry,” I say to the concrete. “You probably don’t want to hear about Carter again. I know you think I’m naive for wanting to get back together.”

Jack shakes his head, eyes catching mine. “I don’t think that, Ada.” He pauses. “And I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have overstepped like that. I was an ass. Again,” he adds, wincing.

I take a deep breath, lungs expanding with cold night air. “It’s okay,” I say. “Maybe you were right.”

His eyes flash with something unreadable. “About what?”

That I am afraid.

“Just that maybe being with someone for a long time isn’t enough,” I say instead.

As soon as I say it, I brace myself, expecting Jack to gloat and say I told you so . Instead, he asks in a tone that’s surprisingly soft, “Are you saying you might be having second thoughts?”

The question tugs at my insides, tying them in knots I can’t seem to untangle.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m just…” But I don’t know how to finish that sentence, at least not in a way that won’t make me feel sick. “I don’t know,” I repeat.

Jack nods, dark eyes warming in the yellow glow of a streetlamp. For a long moment neither of us speaks, but I’m newly aware of how close we are, how his hand keeps grazing mine as he walks beside me. I wonder if he’s aware of me the same way I’m aware of him.

“I know we don’t exactly see eye to eye on matters of the heart,” he says after a minute. “But I feel like if you’re going to do the commitment thing, then you should at least be with someone who is all in. Someone who appreciates you and wants to grow together, not someone with one foot out the door, looking for the next exit.” He watches me tentatively as though waiting for me to push back. When I don’t, he continues. “If you’ve got something good, something worth having, you do everything you can to keep it, right?”

The words ping around inside my brain like metal balls in a pinball machine, springing from one thought to the next.

He’s right. I do deserve someone who doesn’t get squeamish every time marriage gets mentioned, someone who doesn’t need to take a break to see how he feels about things. Someone who is all in.

And yet, it’s not that simple.

Maybe if every area of my life wasn’t in varying degrees of upheaval. If the last year hadn’t stolen my confidence brick by brick. If Carter didn’t feel like my source of stability…But I can’t take another risk, romantic or otherwise. Not when the only risk I’ve ever taken, the one thing that was just for me and no one else, was an abject failure. A failure that landed me in the exact position I’m in right now.

When I look back at Jack, his brow is furrowed, the corners of his eyes scrunched in thought, and I can’t help but wonder where his mind is. If maybe it has to do with the personal stuff he mentioned earlier.

Part of me wants to ask him. To whittle down this unspoken barrier between us. But another part of me senses that whatever it is, like me, he’s not ready to talk about it yet.

We don’t say anything else the rest of the way to the pizza shop, but a strange kind of solidarity hangs between us. Like we’re both fighting to stay above different waves. He doesn’t tell me what’s on his mind, and I don’t say anything more about Carter, but I can feel the invisible threads between us tighten, keeping each other afloat.

The pizza shop is a greasy takeaway spot with harsh neon light and cold red plastic booths. Despite the lateness of the hour, the place isn’t empty. A few drunk kids stumble in behind us followed by a group wearing soccer (football?) jerseys, talking loudly about the score of a match.

By the time we make it back to the inn I’m delirious with hunger and the scent of garlic and cheese wafting from the cardboard box is torture.

I shimmy out of my jeans and back into my cat pajamas before flopping back down on the bed.

Jack opens the pizza box and I moan with pleasure.

“Oh, I see,” Jack says, sliding in beside me.

“What?”

“That noise you just made, that was a sex noise. A real sex noise,” he says, mouth twitching. “Good to know.”

I snort and reach past him for a slice, stuffing as much as I can into my mouth.

For a moment we chew in silence, savoring the tangy tomato sauce and greasy, melted cheese.

“Just like Italy,” he says between bites.

I’m sure this crapfest of a pizza would mortify the Italians. But right now, this is the best damn pizza I’ve ever had.

“Just like Italy,” I repeat, holding out my slice to his like we are cheersing.

He smiles and I smile back.

There’s a kind of unexpected intimacy to the moment. Like a hug that lasts a beat too long. Or catching someone’s eye in a crowded room.

“We should go,” he says after a moment.

I frown, tugging at a particularly gooey strand of cheese. “Go where?”

“Italy.”

“ We ?”

“Why not? It’ll be a pizza field trip. I’ll take you to that place I told you about, Pizzeria Vergini in Naples.”

“You would want to go to Italy? With me?” I shoot him a conspiratorial look. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re not exactly the best travel companions.”

“Come on, you’re not that bad as long as you clean your hair out of the drain and don’t get locked in any bathrooms,” he teases.

I give him a playful shove. “Excuse me, but you’re the one who woke up cuddling me this morning, so it’s not like you’re perfect.”

“First off, that wasn’t intentional.” He dabs at the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “And second, how about this: if one year from now you’re still single, we go to Italy together.”

He holds out a greasy hand and I look down at it, skeptical. “Is this one of those pity pacts where we promise to marry each other if we’re both sufficiently desperate enough?” I ask.

He laughs. “I can assure you there will be no marriage pact. Just pizza. In fact…” His brow scrunches. “It’s a pizza pact.”

Part of me wants to tell him I’ll probably be back with Carter next year, like I’ve been telling myself. But there’s another part of me that likes the idea of making a silly promise with Jack. Even if we’ll never have a reason to keep it.

“Okay,” I say after a moment. “I’m in.”

We shake on it, and for a second the moment fills with possibility. I imagine us together in Italy, drinking prosecco under the shadow of the Colosseum, or wandering the narrow passages of Venice as we stuff our faces with pizza and gelato.

It’s a nice image. But while it’s nice to dream about some kind of vague future trip we might take, like we’re more than just two people headed to the same wedding, like we’re real friends, I know it’ll never happen.

We won’t go to Italy. Just like I won’t go to Paris. But it’s nice to pretend.

We watch the rest of the episode and another and another until my eyes sag with tiredness. Jack says he’s not tired yet, but he falls asleep first, chin dipping steadily toward his chest until he finally slumps against my shoulder. A piece of hair falls into his enviably long eyelashes, and I reach out to push it away.

Perhaps it’s silly considering I’m in a janky old bed-and-breakfast watching a shitty reality TV show, but this is the best night I’ve had in a long time. And it occurs to me that if Carter were here—like he was supposed to be—then this wouldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t be here with Jack, eating pizza in bed, making future travel plans we’ll never act on. I’d have been with Carter, somewhere else, doing something else. And somehow that thought disappoints me.