Chapter 7
Seven
Flames leap against the dark, lambent on flushed cheeks, half-empty wine glasses, and my teacup.
Laughter flows easily, softened by good food and wine.
But the glow from this afternoon has faded.
Whatever glimpse of freedom I found earlier is tucked away again, buried beneath the layers of obligation and expectation, under the weight of tomorrow’s test. I curl deeper into my chair, wrapping my arms around my legs, sealing in whatever warmth remains.
“I love all the questions it raises,” Ivy muses, picking up the thread of conversation about the movie I put on the other day and its sequel. “Can you imagine? Meeting someone, falling in love over the course of a single day, and reconnecting years later, after life has completely changed?”
Tom leans back, resting a hand on Jules’s thigh. “It’s a question of soulmates, right? Are they real, or something we convince ourselves of?”
Jules sighs dramatically and drapes herself across his lap.
“You know you’re it for me, baby. Forever and always.
” She leans in and kisses him as though the rest of us aren’t sitting here.
When she finally comes up for air, she picks up right where she left off.
“But it does make you think. What happens if you meet ‘the one who got away’ again, and you’ve already built a whole life? ”
Silence falls as we all sit with the question, suspended in the winter air.
“People aren’t stagnant. If the person you choose doesn’t grow with you… That’s when the questions start forming.” James stares into the flames, shadows dancing across the planes of his handsome face. “Do you stay where it’s comfortable? Or do you take a chance?”
He leans back, all casual ease, but his eyes find mine.
Jules rests her glass on her knee. “You’re right. That movie only works because neither of them is happy. If they were, there wouldn’t be anything to tempt them. No what-ifs to chase.”
“Exactly.” James nods. “I think connection is like music. You don’t always know why a song stays with you or strikes something deep, but when it does, it’s as if you’ve touched something larger than yourself.”
The fire crackles. The cold bites, challenging me to hear him. Hear her.
Mason looks up from his phone. “Are we still talking about this? This soulmate stuff is Hollywood nonsense. Relationships are about making smart choices, not some mystical connection.”
Ivy leans in to nuzzle James. “I don’t know about mystical connections and soulmates, but I’m really into this guy and the orgasms he gives me.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Mason groans, shaking his head. “No one wants to hear about your orgasms.”
Laughter erupts around the fire, as if the night itself is in on the joke. Everyone’s caught up in Mason’s response, everyone except me and the man whose gaze finds mine through the flames.
He looks away, a swift, guilty movement.
The flush creeping up his neck turns his honeyed skin a deep crimson.
He looks... apologetic? As if the thought of me picturing them together unsettles him.
I tug my shawl tighter around my shoulders, hoping the soft fabric might somehow shield me from the unwelcome pang twisting in my stomach.
“Orgasms and soulmates are entirely different questions.” Tom clicks his tongue to stop the giggling nonsense. “The real question James asked was about that deeper connection when you and someone just click. How do you work as a partnership, and does it endure as you grow older?”
“Exactly.” James recovers with a casual tone. “People evolve. Sometimes what someone once thought was right turns out to be all wrong. To continue the music metaphor: one day, a soulful R&B track catches your ear, and suddenly your love for country doesn’t feel so steadfast anymore.”
His eyes sweep to mine again, just for a second. But it’s enough.
I suck in a deep breath as the anger—a slow burn from the last few days, months, and years—rises unbidden. Fuck him, his knowing smirk, and bullshit metaphors.
“That’s ridiculous. There’s not some music god strumming a guitar and saying, ‘Let’s switch things up today.’ We have free will. We decide what music we enjoy. Who we connect with.” My voice is steadier than I feel.
Laughter ripples. But James doesn’t flinch.
“Who are you trying to convince, Sydney? Us… or yourself?” He leans back, ankle crossed over opposite knee, eyes full of challenge. “Can you say you’ve never felt a connection you couldn’t explain? Something that defied logic or reason?”
My breath stalls somewhere in my chest, and I grip my tea with white-knuckled fingers.
Mason pauses swiping across his phone. His eyes lift in a long, slow analysis. But he says nothing.
I keep my face neutral, take a slow sip of tea, and let the moment hang while buying time. “Well, I once felt an inexplicable connection to a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream after a particularly bad day. Does that count as transcendent, or just pathetically basic?”
Jules chuckles. “Oh man, I was waiting for this. You’re both too stubborn to back down. We needed someone, besides me, to keep Syd on her toes.”
I force a smile and play along, pretending his words mean nothing. I sink deeper into my chair, tugging the shawl tighter, grateful for the firelight. Because I can feel it. The mask I wear is slipping. And I need to fix it. Fast.
Mason leans in, whiskey on his breath. “Let’s go upstairs.”
His hand slides up my inner thigh, a touch that leaves no room for misinterpretation. Maybe I can lose myself in the one part of our relationship that works. Let the physical drown out everything else. Drown him out.
“Sure.”
But as we leave, I can’t help myself.
I glance back one last time.
James watches with a stern furrow to his brows.
***
Mason closes the door behind us, the soft click echoing through the quiet. He steps closer, thumbs grazing over my cheekbones. “You’re so beautiful.”
When his lips meet mine, I savor the taste of whiskey on his tongue, the feel of his soft hands against my skin. His arms, warm and familiar, circle my waist, pulling me closer as he moves us toward the bed.
There’s no music in this, just rhythm. Motions I know well. I surrender to the feeling, the knowledge he’ll bring me pleasure as his lips move to my jaw, my neck, nip at my ear.
“What do you think of James?” he asks, watching me as I try to keep my breath even and face blank.
The way he’s studying me makes it clear he’s trying to piece something together.
Needing to distract him, I unzip his jeans and reach inside, wrapping my fingers around him.
He hurriedly pulls down my leggings and slips his fingers between my legs. A moan escapes before I can swallow it.
“Shhh, or I’ll have to stop. And you still haven’t answered my question.”
“He’s fine. We’ve hung out some. Ivy’s infatuated,” I add, hoping it’s enough to satisfy whatever suspicion is brewing.
“I’ve noticed him checking you out. He can’t keep his eyes off you.” He pulls back, his free hand caressing my cheek. “I know I’m not good with deep conversations, and I don’t always say the right thing. But I do love you, Syd.”
How convenient. Suddenly, he’s self-aware.
His mouth returns to my throat, his hands strip away my shirt and bra. He murmurs, “How can I blame him for looking at you? You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Maybe I should feel guilty, but my mind slips sideways into forbidden territory.
Mason’s hands may be on my body, yet my imagination overlays them with different ones.
Rougher. Calloused from graphite pencils and blueprints.
How would James touch me? Would he be assertive, taking what he wants with quiet confidence?
Or slow? Would he tease me until I’m shaking, pleading for more?
I let myself linger in the fantasy a breath too long, until Mason pulls me back to reality. I flinch as pain flares on my chest where Mason’s teeth graze too hard.
“Mase, they’re feeling sensitive.”
“Oh,” he chuckles against my skin. “I guess it’s about time. It’s been a while since you mentioned your period.”
A cold wave crashes over me, but Mason doesn’t notice. He’s focused on chasing his own release, lost in the rhythm as he pushes inside me, oblivious to the way my body has gone still. The climax that had been building? Dismantled in an instant, like a match tossed in a snowbank.
Mason shudders between my legs, then presses a quick kiss to my lips before rolling to his side and falling asleep.
I stare at the ceiling, his arm heavy across my abdomen, wondering if there’s a Guinness World Record for “Most Inconvenient Time to Discover a Pregnancy.”
If there is, I’m surely in the running for gold.
Because in the morning, I’m taking a pregnancy test. And there won’t be room for fantasies. No space for reckless indulgence in the way James looks at me, or in the quiet connection simmering between us.
If only I were Kesha, and I could take what I wanted.
But I’m me. And a baby changes everything.