Chapter 21
29 hours until the wedding
When I wake up the next morning, everything hurts and my mouth tastes like the floor of a public restroom. Not that I know what that tastes like from experience. But based on the sour taste coating the back of my throat, I can guess.
“How do you feel?” The sound of Jack’s voice rumbles in my eardrums like thunder in the distance, slowly pulling me out of the thick haze of sleep.
“Like I’m gonna die,” I say, pressing my thumbs into my temples.
“Just wait until you get to your thirties,” he says. “You won’t be able to have one drink without getting a hangover.”
“Great. So much to look forward to.” I shut my eyes, willing the pain in my head to stop. “Will you please just toss my body into the sea? Tell my parents it’s what I wanted.”
“You mean after all this trouble to get to the wedding? No way. You’re getting there dead or alive.”
I try to laugh, but my throat is too sore.
“Our ferry leaves in thirty minutes. Are you gonna get up?” he asks. “Or should I plan to deliver you to this wedding in a body bag?”
“I’m getting up,” I tell him. “No need to call the coroner yet.”
I start to crawl out of bed when my eyes snag the unfamiliar logo emblazoned across my chest. Portland State. Wait a minute. This isn’t my shirt. Why the hell am I wearing this?
Jack must notice the confusion on my face because he says, “You can keep it if you want. I have like three of those shirts.”
My blood runs cold, unsure whether to focus on the fact that I’m wearing his shirt—which smells like him—or the question of why exactly I’m wearing it in the first place.
“We didn’t…?” I start to ask, but Jack shakes his head, features turning stony.
“No. Nothing happened,” he says quickly. “You threw up on yours, so I loaned you mine.”
Oh.
I freeze in place as, little by little, memories of last night thaw their way free. The pub. Wayyyyy too much Scotch. Dancing. Throwing up. Jack carrying me to bed. The phone call. Carter. Then…Oh God… the kiss.
No, correction, not the kiss . The almost kiss. The rejected kiss.
I wince. How is it possible that Carter and me officially breaking up wasn’t the worst thing that happened last night?
I look down at the bed, wondering if there’s any chance I can crawl under the covers and hide for, say… eternity ? But considering we have to leave in thirty minutes, a world-ending meteor is probably the best I can hope for.
When it appears that’s not likely, I climb out of bed—tugging at the hem of his shirt to make sure it covers my ass. At least I’m wearing underwear. So that’s something.
“You want some coffee?” he asks.
I perk up. “You have coffee?”
“And a croissant.”
My mouth instantly waters, embarrassment momentarily subsiding in favor of a much more pressing need. Carbs. I need carbs.
Jack hands me a waxy bakery bag and a coffee-to-go.
Is this some kind of peace offering? A symbolic gesture of you tried to kiss me last night but it’s okay, I forgive you ? But I’m too hungry to care.
I greedily bite into the flaky, still-warm croissant. “Oh my God,” I groan as crumbs cascade down my chin. “Where did you get this?”
“There’s a café just around the corner.”
“Please tell me you didn’t get up and go for a run?”
He winces. “No way. I’m too hungover.”
Our eyes meet and the contact feels like friction, a subtle acknowledgment of what happened last night.
Part of me wants to talk about it. To get it all out in the open. If nothing else, then we can move on. But another part of me wants to pack the whole messy affair away and pretend it didn’t happen. Anything to shield myself from the stomach-churning embarrassment that charges through me every time I look at Jack.
But what bothers me the most isn’t that I kissed Jack. Or even that I embarrassed myself. It’s that there’s a part of me that thought Jack would want to kiss me back. That whatever carefully managed self-control had snapped in me might also snap in him.
I think about the way he held my hand in the bookstore. How I’d caught him looking at me. The way he’d opened up to me about his divorce. How close we’d danced last night.
At the time, those had felt like tiny stars in a bigger constellation proclaiming that perhaps my crush on Jack wasn’t entirely unrequited. But maybe it had all been in my head. A byproduct of too much Scotch and close proximity. Or worse, maybe I had been the one to throw myself at him, acting off illusory clues and invented signs.
He called me sexy—that, I can be sure of—but maybe he’d meant it in a you’re objectively attractive sort of way, and not in an I really want to kiss you right now sort of way.
But it’s also possible that he hadn’t wanted to kiss me given the circumstances. After all, I’d been crying over my ex. And there’s a high probability that I was covered in snot and still smelled like vomit. Not exactly hot. Or romantic.
“Ada?”
I jerk my head up, facing Jack.
“You gonna get ready?” He taps his index finger against his Rolex. “The ferry leaves soon.”
Right. The ferry that will take us to the wedding where we will go our separate ways. The beginning of a gradual distancing, a slow but painful fade into oblivion.
But maybe this is for the best. Not just because of what happened last night, but because no matter how I spin it, we’re two ill-fated meteors destined for implosion. He’s getting divorced and I just got out of an eight-year relationship.
The flimsy logic that had egged me on last night now feels utterly laughable. An obvious blip in judgment.
What did I think was going to happen? That we’d kiss and he’d declare his feelings for me? That he’d sweep me off my feet, take me to bed, and make love to me? Tell me I was some kind of exception to literally everything he’d told me about himself? Then we’d ride off into the sunset together?
Not likely.
But as much as I try to convince myself it’s all for the best, it doesn’t stop the pound of want aching inside me, the feeling of being homesick for somewhere I’ve never been.
I’m sure there’s a long, eloquent German word with too many consonants to describe exactly what I’m feeling, but right now it just sucks.
Once on board the ferry, we stand on the outer deck, watching as the Scottish coastline disappears into a misty haze.
I lean against the railing, letting the crisp sea breeze lick my face. Jack stands beside me, a careful distance between our hips. We haven’t spoken since our brief exchange this morning, but I feel the tension drifting between us like smoke from an invisible fire.
I wonder if this is how it will be from now on. Awkward silences and careful avoidance.
I look down into the steely gray water, watching the whitecaps tumble and roll in the frothy sea, not entirely dissimilar from the waves in my own stomach. I sneak a peek at Jack, who doesn’t seem to be faring any better than me. His head sags at the neck, face the color of ash. I wonder if he’s going to puke.
Things might still be awkward, but our mutual hangovers have at least leveled the playing field.
After a moment, I say, “I’m sorry about last night. It wasn’t fair of me to get mad at you.”
Jack lifts his head, bloodshot eyes focusing on mine. “It’s okay,” he says. “You were upset. It was a mistake.”
I search his face, trying to discern whether he means I thought it was a mistake. Or if he’s calling it a mistake. But there’s a guardedness to his expression, like whatever walls came down last night have been hastily reconstructed.
“You’re right,” I say after a beat. “I was upset. It shouldn’t have happened.”
He nods and I watch the column of his throat slide up and down as he swallows. “It’s better this way. It would have made things too complicated. No mess, no fuss. Right?” He catches my eye, giving me a knowing look, like he expects me to agree.
No mess, no fuss? I know what he means, but somehow hearing our would-be kiss described as a paper towel ad leaves me feeling queasy. Is that what he thinks of me? Messy? Fussy?
But it doesn’t matter, because he’s right. It would be too complicated. If anything happened between us, he’d be able to walk away unscathed—just another hookup with an expiration date. Meanwhile, I wouldn’t be able to untangle myself so easily from the growing web of feelings I have for him.
Offer’s expired , he’d said at the inn.
At the time I’d thought he’d been trying to save face after I rejected his proposition. But now I wonder if he’d known something I hadn’t. If he could tell I was attracted to him and was merely trying to protect me. If he’d realized that I wasn’t someone for whom casual entanglements would bode well.
Thick strands of embarrassment wind around me. God, I feel like a teenager all over again. Like I’m fourteen, nursing a painful crush on a hot senior.
But there’s still time for me to fix this. To save face.
“I’m sorry,” I say again.
“Don’t be.” Then he gives me a look that I interpret to mean, You’re forgiven, let’s just drop it.
“Can we still be friends?” I ask.
His eyes move back and forth across my face, expression draped in uncertainty. Finally, he says, “Of course we can still be friends.” But he doesn’t sound enthused as much as resigned, like the idea of being friends with me is a plea deal he’s been forced to accept.
I wait for the swell of relief. The feeling of having cleared a major hurdle. Instead, I feel like a trapdoor has opened up beneath me and suddenly I’m in free fall, no solid ground to catch me. Because as much as I’d like to forget all about last night and move forward as friends , I’m not sure I can be just friends with Jack.
He’s drawn a bold and totally obvious line in the sand, lining it with caution tape that reads, Danger, do not come any closer, I am emotionally unavailable, and suddenly I’m hopelessly illiterate.