Chapter 14
Ariana
SERIOUSLY CONSIDERING IT
“What do you think, Duchess?”
Duchess slinks out from beneath my hand and hops onto my dresser. She holds my gaze as she deliberately knocks one of my perfume bottles onto the floor.
I laugh, shaking my head. “Great advice. Thanks for that.”
Undeterred by me or my problems, she saunters into the hallway, leaving me alone in my bedroom with nothing but my racing thoughts.
Cole dropped a bomb on me today. Wanting to pretend to date me to make Wes jealous. It’s absurd. It’s laughable.
It’s the kind of thing that only happens in books.
By the time I made it back out into the shop, Wes was gone and it felt like the small window that had cracked open and let that moment through hadn’t just closed again, but disappeared completely.
Such a waste. I’m certain that’s where our conversation was heading. But thanks to Cole, I’m left wondering if it was all in my head.
What was Cole thinking even suggesting it? Fake dating might be one of my favorite tropes to read, but even the most contemporary romance is still a fantasy compared to real life. Real people don’t fake date unless they’re celebrities in a PR relationship.
And now I can’t stop thinking about the conversation I had with Layla shortly after Cole overheard us discussing my lack of orgasms…or, more accurately, my lack of everything. She actually suggested I sleep with him. Practice with him.
At the time, I thought the idea was completely preposterous. Borderline delusional. And yet here we are.
Now he’s all but laid out the plan. I was quick to shut down the potential for a conversation regarding sex, but only because it was the very first place my brain went when he suggested the whole charade.
The thing is…Cole isn’t entirely wrong.
My lack of experience—not just with intimacy, but with dating in general—could definitely cause problems. It might even turn Wes off completely. What grown, accomplished man wants someone who still needs training wheels in the bedroom? I might as well be a virgin with how much I don’t know.
I need to be prepared if Wes ever does try to ask me out again, or any guy for that matter.
Cole made me question what would happen if Wes and I did make it that far, and all I would likely be is a major disappointment and back at square one.
Maybe a little practice wouldn’t hurt. A test run. And it’s not like I would actually develop feelings for Cole. He wouldn’t want a real relationship, and neither would I.
It would be the perfect arrangement. It would give me the freedom to learn and explore, but I’d still feel safe because I know Cole.
Not that it matters. I already turned him down, so the offer isn’t even on the table anymore.
And it’s not like I’d ever have the nerve to bring something like that up anyway. I’d basically be asking him to be my personal sex tutor, which is humiliating enough on its own.
There’s no way I could cross that line with him. At least I don’t think I could.
It’s not that I don’t find Cole attractive. Pretty sure even straight men find Cole attractive. But I’ve also seen the women Cole has “dated,” and they’re all stunning. I don’t even fall in the same category they’re in.
He might want me to pretend to be his girlfriend for his ex’s wedding, but pretending is a far cry from actually doing anything physical.
And sex without feelings?
Am I even capable of something like that?
My mind is a mess, my nerves are shot, and I’m oscillating between embarrassment and the very real possibility that I’m seriously considering it.
I flop back on my bed and let out an audible groan.
Why couldn’t Cole just stay away like he had been? He disappears for months without a word, only to suddenly reappear and turn me into a twisted pretzel of anxiety. All because he planted a seed.
And now I can’t stop thinking about that goddamn seed.
Luckily, my thoughts are broken up by a knock on my door.
They’re early.
Layla, Elyse, Marisa, and Scottie said they were going to stop by for a bit in the group chat.
I made the mistake of telling Layla about the pipe bursting and the subsequent flooding, and now everyone seems to think I really am made of porcelain, because of course I must be broken beyond repair to have survived such an ordeal.
I make a quick sweep of the apartment—tossing a throw pillow back onto the couch, closing my bedroom door so no one has to witness the state of it—before pulling the front door open.
All four of them are standing in the hallway like a welcoming committee. Layla is holding wine. Elyse has a takeout bag from the Thai place on Third. Marisa and Scottie are mid-conversation about something, still laughing when the door opens.
“We come bearing gifts,” Layla announces, holding up the wine.
“I told you I was fine.”
“And we brought wine anyway,” Scottie says cheerfully, already stepping past me into the apartment.
I stand aside to let them all through.
It’s funny how not that long ago it was just us sisters, but adding Scottie and Marisa to the mix makes it hard to remember what it was like before them.
They fit so seamlessly with us. For all my brothers’ annoying antics in childhood and never-ending overprotection, at least they know how to pick partners.
The jury is still out on Shane, though. I suspect if he ever does settle down, we’ll either love her or she’ll be the bane of our existence.
Duchess, who normally treats guests with thinly veiled contempt, immediately goes to Elyse, which tells me Duchess can likely sense that Elyse is her in human form—wants to be included and loves attention, but do not touch her wrong because she will snap.
We spread out across the living room—Marisa and Scottie on the couch, Layla cross-legged on the floor, Elyse in the armchair with Duchess already in her lap, me wedged into the corner wrapped in my fuzzy throw blanket.
Layla gets up to rummage through my cabinets without asking and pours the wine.
The conversation flows, and thankfully I’m not the center of it.
Scottie tells us about her and Gavin and his daughter Lily’s time in Chicago.
Marisa talks about her and Ethan potentially having a big-ish wedding.
Ethan must really love her because I don’t think any of us could pay him to stand at an altar and declare his love for someone in front of hundreds of people, but we’re all quickly learning there’s just about nothing Ethan wouldn’t do for Marisa, and it makes my hopeless romantic heart squeeze with joy to witness it.
Elyse recently found out she’s pregnant, so she’s been happily sipping on apple juice and glowing, not the least bit envious of being excluded from the wine.
She and her husband Dominic have been very vocal about wanting to start a family, and after everything they’ve been through, they definitely deserve something to celebrate.
It’s so nice hearing about everyone’s lives that I almost let myself relax. But then I remember there’s no way they’re letting me off the hook that easily. They may be here to check on me, but they’re also here to meddle, like they always do.
“Okay so,” Layla says during a lull, setting her glass down. “We need to talk about getting you out there.”
I look at her. “Out where? I thought you guys were here to make sure I didn’t get hurt this morning.”
“Well, yeah. Clearly you’re fine. I’m almost an RN, so I’m qualified to say that.” She waves a hand vaguely at me. “What I mean is out there as in dating. Putting yourself out there. Meeting people.”
“I meet people every day. I own a coffee shop,” I say flatly, but beneath that my body tenses.
They do this once in a while, usually with Layla at the helm, trying to get me to date some guy they want to set me up with or convince me to join an app for the millionth time.
I’ve never had any interest, and I still don’t.
I don’t understand why they can’t just leave it alone and let me go at my own pace.
“Making someone’s coffee order is not the same as getting to know them,” Marisa says. “That’s different.”
“Where is this coming from? My life is perfectly fine.”
“Your life is great,” Elyse says carefully. “That’s actually kind of the point. You’ve done so much good work on yourself lately—the new clothes, the confidence, you seem so much more comfortable in your own skin. We just think—” she pauses, glancing at Layla—
“You should be putting yourself out there more,” Layla finishes. “While you’re feeling good. Strike while the iron is hot.”
I look around the room. Four faces, all varying degrees of earnest and well-meaning and absolutely not going to let this go.
“I appreciate what you’re all trying to do,” I say. “But I don’t need the advice, and don’t even think about trying to set me up.”
“What about a dating app?” Scottie offers. “It doesn’t have to be serious. Just—”
“No dating app.” I groan, slumping my head back.
“Why not?” Marisa asks, trying to sound enthusiastic even though I’m fairly certain she described them as a horror show when she tried them.
“Because I’m not interested in swiping through a catalog of men like I’m online shopping.”
“That’s literally what it is and it works,” Layla says.
“Not for me.”
“How do you know if you’ve never tried?”
“Layla—”
She leans forward, elbows on her knees, fixing me with the look she uses when she’s done being gentle about something.
“You’ve been saying you want love, you want connection, you want someone who sees you.
But wanting it from the couch surrounded by your books and your cat isn’t going to make it appear.
You have to actually do something about it. ”
“I do things.”
“Name one.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out because there’s nothing to say. She’s right. I do nothing.
Layla raises her eyebrows. “That’s what I thought.
” She’s not trying to be unkind, but it hurts all the same.
“Look, I’m not trying to make you feel bad.
I just know you. I know how you work. If we don’t push you, you won’t push yourself.
You’ll talk yourself out of it before you’ve even started.
You’ll find a reason why it’s not the right time or why it probably won’t work out or why someone like him would never go for someone like you.
” She holds my gaze. “And none of that is true. But you’ll believe it anyway. ”
The room is very quiet, uncomfortable, and suffocating. Duchess abandons Elyse and comes to sit beside me.
“Why are you guys pushing so hard?” I hate that my voice comes out smaller than I intended, emotional even.
“Because that’s what we have to do,” Layla says simply.
“Because you won’t give yourself that push.
You never have. You’re so used to playing it safe, staying inside your comfort zone, waiting for things to come to you instead of going after them.
” She softens slightly. “And you deserve to go after things, Ari. You deserve to want things out loud and actually try to get them. We just want to see you do that.”
I look at the coffee table, feeling moisture pool in my eyes. Crying is my default for most emotions.
I know she means it with love. I know all of them do.
But I hate that they think so little of me.
I’ve accomplished a lot on my own, without anyone having to push me.
Just because I haven’t pushed as far forward with my romantic life as I have with other aspects doesn’t mean I can’t.
I don’t need their meddling. They mean well, but they’re wrong and out of line.
“Fine,” I say eventually, just to get them to back off.
Layla studies me for a moment. Then she tops up my wine without another word, which is her version of I love you and I’ll leave it alone for now.
Scottie steers the conversation somewhere easier after that, and the evening settles back into the comfortable thing it was before. By the time they leave, it’s past eight and my apartment smells like Thai food and wine.
I sit on the couch for a long time after the door closes behind them.
You’re so used to playing it safe.
You won’t give yourself that push.
The worst part is I can’t decide if I’m angry because they’re wrong. Or because they’re right.
Determined to think about literally anything else, I throw myself into cleaning. I tidy up and deep-clean the kitchen and bathroom while listening to an audiobook, scrubbing and wiping like it might somehow quiet my mind.
It doesn’t.
By the time the moon is bright and the stars are out, I go through my apartment the way I always do in the evenings, turning off lights and making sure everything’s in order. I take a long shower and crawl into bed.
But sleep is the furthest thing from my mind.
I toss and turn for what feels like hours. When I finally glance at the clock, it’s eleven, leaving me with a little over three hours before my alarm goes off.
Whether it’s frustration from the insomnia or I’m truly losing it, I give up on sleep and get dressed.
There’s only one place I can go to escape this torture.