Asher
As long as you have hope, things will get better, and no one can take your hope but you.
—My Therapist
Sitting alone, cross-legged in the middle of my couch the next evening, I glare at my phone, hoping the woman on the other
end of the line can sense my ire. “What do you mean there aren’t two rooms available? The hotel says there are rooms reserved
for wedding guests.”
“There were rooms reserved, sir, but we have two weddings booked that weekend. Unfortunately, there’s only one room left.”
Eyes closed. Deep breath.
Charm. Must turn on the charm. “Come on, Lucy.” I draw her name out like we’re best friends. “There isn’t anything? Not even a tiny room with a broken lock that’s only ever been used by smokers?”
She laughs. “I’m sorry, sir. I know this is inconvenient.”
Inconvenient doesn’t begin to cover it. I can’t share a hotel room with Joss. Not after yesterday. Not after that life-altering kiss.
“Does the room at least have two beds?”
She clicks a few times, and says, “It looks like . . . this is a single king room.”
The bitter laugh that rises in my throat tastes a bit like battery acid. Fused with the zest of desperation. Not a good combo.
I drop my face into my hand. “Of course it is.”
This is what I get for waiting so long to book the room. Procrastinators are always punished, but this penalty seems wildly
out of proportion to the crime.
“Can I be real frank with you, Lucy?”
“Of course, Mr. Foley.”
“I need two rooms. I’m going to the wedding of a girl I used to be in love with, and my date is my best friend, who I accidentally
kissed yesterday. And I sort of think I might be falling for her, but she wants nothing to do with those sorts of shenanigans,
and I cannot share a room with her, Lucy. I just can’t.”
Should have expected that pregnant pause. What else could the woman do? I’m a pussy, and we both know it.
Really need a better word for that.
Finally, she replies, “How do you accidentally kiss someone, Mr. Foley?”
“That is not the point, Lucy! Please help me. Please?”
More clicking. “Looks like there was a cancellation for a two-bedroom suite that weekend. Club level.”
Club level at a Ritz-Carlton. This wedding is going to cost me my retirement. How rude would it be to cancel two weeks out?
My mother’s voice shrieks through my thoughts. You will do no such thing, Asher Ray!
“Fine. I’ll take the suite.”
After I relinquish my credit card number and my firstborn child, Lucy chimes in with a chipper, “We look forward to your visit,
Mr. Foley.”
“I’m sure you do, Lucy. It’ll be great.”
Now I get to figure out how to tell Jocelyn we’re sharing a hotel suite after I mauled her yesterday. Foresee a painfully
awkward conversation in my future.
Hey, Joss. I know you’re appalled that I kissed you, but hey! How’d you like to spend three days in very cramped quarters
with minimal privacy? Oh, you despise that idea? Sure, I’ll go fuck myself.
Just the teensiest bit scared how she’ll react. Maybe I can sneak it in through text to minimize the fallout.
Can’t believe I kissed her. What the hell was I thinking?
I had her under me. Her skin against my hands. Her mouth pressed to mine. Can’t unfeel that. Untaste it.
Would have been better to never know. Ignorance is bliss.
Trust Jocelyn to serve up the best kiss of my life, then instantly follow it up with I changed my mind. Can’t take a chance on you. Sorry! You can’t be weird about it though. BFFs?
But that isn’t the worst part.
The worst part is that I’m falling for her. Like the biggest idiot to ever idiot.
Before that kiss, I was so used to being out of sync. Didn’t even realize my rhythm was off. Kissing her was like that feeling
when your ear’s been clogged for days, and it finally pops. It was that release of pressure when you extract that thing from
between your teeth. It was the satisfying pop of a joint, one that restores full range of motion.
Somehow, Jocelyn Mattox has reset the rhythm of my entire life. In her, I found harmony, and she won’t even listen to the goddamn music.
Casual is just all I’m capable of.
Such lies.
She’s capable of so much more. Just not with me, I guess. If she can’t have me casually, she doesn’t want me at all. Sounds
about right. Did all the women in the world have a meeting or something? Reach some sort of consensus?
Periods suck.
Female beauty standards are unattainable.
Asher Foley equals casual.
Wish I could get a second opinion on that last one, but the universe seems pretty dead set on it.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
“Hey, Mom,” I say after switching it to speakerphone.
“Did you forget to tell me something?”
I freeze. Shit. Did I forget a birthday? Mother’s Day? Her anniversary? “Uh—”
“Why are there engagement pictures of you all over the internet?”
Oh.
Oh, no.
This is what my life has become. Timelapse destruction. A line of cascading dominoes heading straight for a cliff.
My mother has seen the photos.
Must force out a laugh for her sake. “All over the internet is extremely dramatic, even for you.”
“When did you and Jocelyn get engaged?” she shrieks. “You never tell me anything.”
“Mom, do you really think I’d get engaged and forget to tell you?”
Something that sounds a lot like a pot banging onto a stove crashes through the speaker. “Sure looks like it. You seem pretty in love to me.”
Ouch. That hurt more than I thought it might. “How did you even find them?”
“Mary Ann’s girl is getting married in Galveston. She was looking at photographers in the area. You can imagine my surprise
when I open the link she sent to find you.”
I sigh. “We were just acting.”
The faucet runs on her end. “What are these pictures, Asher Ray? And don’t tell me they’re nothing.”
I dig my thumb and forefinger into my closed eyes. Sparks burst behind my lids. Doesn’t help the gnawing in my diaphragm,
though. “A friend of mine needed a couple to pose for engagement pictures so she could advertise her photography business.
It isn’t a big deal.”
I can practically hear her deflate. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, they look very convincing.”
I know.
Her tone softens. “Tell Jocelyn she looks beautiful.”
“Tell her yourself. You talk to her more than you talk to me.”
“She hasn’t answered my texts. Why do you think I came to you?” Something else bangs on her end.
“Jeez, Mom. What are you doing?”
“Making Sunday dinner. Your brothers want spaghetti. Again.”
Something cold and lonely pulses deep in my chest. God, I miss Sunday dinners. Miss my parents and my brothers. Why did I
ever think it was a good idea to move so far from my family?
Maybe I should move home.
What do I have here that’s worth staying for?
“You okay, honey?” she asks, more quietly.
Hate that Mom thing. How do they always know when something’s wrong? “I’m fine. Just been a weird few weeks. Work’s been . . .
work. And—”
“And what?”
I jerk to my feet. Need to do something with my hands.
Also need Tums.
“Asher?”
“Yeah?”
“What’s wrong?”
I wind up in the kitchen, wiping down counters that don’t need it. “It’s nothing, Mom. Really.”
“Brandon!” she screams, and I wince. “Your brother needs to talk to you!”
“Ugh. Mom. Why?”
“Oh, hush.”
A series of clicks and brushes precedes my big brother’s booming voice. “What’s doing, little bro?”
I sink my forehead onto my forearms right there on the kitchen island. “Hey, Brandon.”
“Everything okay?”
I take two long breaths. How to extricate myself? Could pretend I’m on call. Would he believe me?
“Ah.” His tone grows more serious, and the noise in the background dims to nothing. “Girl problems?”
“What?” Great. My spine has learned to absorb tension like a sponge. Not a fan of this development. “That’s— No.”
He laughs. “Okay.”
“I mean . . . maybe? Are you alone?”
“Yeah. Is it the girl in the pictures?”
My hands clench, and I rise to my elbows, staring at the blue veins in the granite beneath. Of course Mom would show my brothers. Discretion is not her forte. “Yeah. That’s Joss.”
“That’s Joss? Christ, Ash. How have you been staring at that for three years and done nothing?”
Honestly? Now that I consider it, I’m not sure. Joss has always been on a different level than everyone else. Until recently,
I was able to separate her from my baser desires. She stayed squarely in the Friend Zone despite her attractiveness.
Really fucked things up letting her in on my secrets. Never should have done it.
Now she’s in a whole new zone. Totally out of bounds and impossible to reach.
“It was easy,” I say. “Until it wasn’t.”
He sucks in a breath like ouch. “She mess you up?”
I slide my phone toward me, ignoring the repeat Dragon training email and idly clicking on things until I come across those
forsaken photos. Worst mistake of my life, immortalizing these stupid feelings on the internet. How obvious is my face here?
I clearly want her.
Don’t need to keep looking at it, honestly. Strange sort of torture. I flip my phone, so the screen faces the granite. The
PopSocket on the back stares back at me—a rubber duck surrounded by the words “Dear Autocorrect, it’s never DUCK.”
Sometimes it is duck, though. Other times, it’s most definitely fuck. Like right now.
“I think I want more,” I say. Wow. The words actually came out. Can’t take those back. They’re in the universe forever.
“But she doesn’t.” It isn’t a question, and for some reason, that stings. My brother thinks Joss is out of my league.
Joss is out of my league. But still.
“No.” Hate that word, but it has to be said. It’s the truth. “She doesn’t. Found that out after I kissed her.”
He grunts, all gruff like he’s not sure what to say. I’m not sure what to say, either. Nice that he’s here, though.
“Really sucks, little bro.”
“Yeah. It sort of does.”
“Well, come home, if you want. I’ll take you to Jake’s. We’ll shoot some pool like the old days.”
Sounds nice. Really nice. But impossible on such short notice.
“I gotta work, Brandon. On call this weekend and going to Florida for Labor Day.”
His tone perks. “Oh, yeah? What’s in Florida?”
“Friend’s wedding.”
“Oh. Then stop being a pussy and take a date, bro. Surely there’s a lady down there willing to go to the beach with a fancy
doctor.”
Oh. No, no, no.
Don’t want to tell him.
Can’t not tell him.
“I’m going with Joss.”
He’s quiet for several seconds, and then: “Not smart, bro.”
“I’m aware.”
“Gonna get hurt.”
My eyes fall shut. “I know.”
He sighs. “What can I do? Anything?”
“Just don’t tell Mom.”
His booming laugh vibrates the phone against the granite. “Ash. Have you met Mom? She definitely already knows. Wouldn’t be
surprised if she knows the color of my future child’s eyes.”
He’s right. Of course he’s right.
Doesn’t stop me from groaning. Last thing I need is my mother intuiting things like this. The woman has direct access to Jocelyn—and uses it frequently.
“Tell her it was a work thing bothering me,” I say.
He’s still laughing. “All right, little bro. Whatever you say.”