Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
WHITNEY
Cold water covers my face as I splash it not once, not twice, but three times.
I don’t care if it smears my make up. The only thing I seem to care about after Wyatt made me a moaning, weeping mess in a hidden room is that that can never happen again.
It was a momentary lapse of weakness. We set boundaries. For both our sakes, we set boundaries.
Granted, we didn’t set a boundary against private intimacy, but we only agreed on keeping up appearances. Not sneaking off to seduce each other in quiet corners.
We didn’t agree on that at all.
But the way his breath brushed against mine, the way his sapphire eyes roamed over my body like he couldn’t get enough of me–it was impossible to not let him touch me. I remember, very vividly, what it felt like the first time. I will never forget what he–we–felt like.
But like I said, it was a moment of weakness.
One slip in my desires just to feel something good again.
And fuck me, did it feel good. That’s what I keep telling myself as I splash another wave of cold water onto my face.
I refrain from rubbing my legs together, the need still burning between my thighs.
It’s like Wyatt was made to tempt me–like he understands every dip, every spot on my body that begs to be touched.
It’s torture, pure torture, knowing exactly what he’s capable of in the bedroom.
I drank a fair amount of alcohol while getting ready with the girls, and again while dancing.
I look in the tiny mirror above the sink and hope the flushed skin could be blamed on that alone.
Seeing Brinley in her flower girl dress nearly killed me this afternoon.
I’ve dreamed of my wedding day and how important it will be for Brinley to be part of it.
How will my wedding day be with Wyatt? Planned and thoughtful?
Rushed and a trip to the courthouse? I know the latter is more realistic, but I hate how deep it cuts.
I hated that we were not marrying for love, but that we’re marrying for convenience.
I’m terrified that when all of this ends, Brinley might be the one who hurts the most. When she saw Wyatt today…
God, she adores him. More than anyone else she’s ever met.
What if this ends in disaster, and he refuses to see her?
What if Ana hates me for lying and wants nothing to do with the little girl who screams “Nana” every time she walks into the room?
Am I a terrible mom for putting her in a position to have her heartbroken?
Or are Wyatt and Ana the type of people that would still show up, even if it’s just for her?
Letting him touch me was a terrible idea, because I want him to do it again. Need him to do it again. I don’t care if it’s an orgasm or a quick brush of his knuckles against my cheek, I crave him like heat in the dead of winter. If he does it again, I’m not sure how long I can pretend after that.
“Hey! You, okay?” I glance in the mirror to find Blake, wedding dress hiked up to her knees.
She’s probably the most sober one here today, even though it’s her time to shine.
I turn, leaning against the sink. “Yeah,” I nod eagerly, trying to convince myself of the words.
I let my tone turn teasing, “How are you feeling? Officially a Conway and all that.”
She’s just finished writing her book. I’m so excited for her and so proud of the things she’s survived and thrived through.
Wesley is hers, and has been since they were little kids.
It’s about time the two figured their shit out.
Blake ignores my question and comes to lean against the bathroom sink with me.
“You’ve been a shit liar since we were kids, Whit. ”
I huff a laugh at her blunt reply, running both hands over my face. Her words remind me just how much we’ve been through together. I lean my head against her shoulder, finding comfort in the proximity of my closest friend. She smells like lavender and gin. “I’m tired, B. Just really fucking tired.”
“You wanna talk about it?” she asks, voice soft, but ready to go to war if needed. She tucks her head against mine.
I give my head a little shake. “Sorry, B. If I talk, I’ll lie. And you’re the last person I want to lie to.”
“Fair enough.” I watch as she reaches into the front of her dress, pulling out a white flask with her new initials, BC, on it. She flashes it towards me, the diamond studded cursive reflecting off the light glow of the overhead lights. “How about a shot, instead?”
I truly laugh this time–deep and rich–the only kind of laugh that a friend like Blake can draw from me. “Yeah,” I say, taking the flasks from her hands, “A shot will do.”
Blake and I hide away in the bathroom for quite some time, with Vivienne and Harper eventually finding us. We drink the entire flask, taking turns cheering to things I’m sure we won’t remember in the morning.
I’m still conflicted with my earlier thoughts, but it’s nice to be distracted, just for a little while.
Hungover doesn’t begin to describe what I feel the morning after Blake and Wesley’s wedding. The daylight breaking through my bedroom window is equivalent to a rebar through my skull.
I cringe, knowing I’ve probably slept in for way longer than I should have.
When my phone dings, the sound ricochets in my head.
I rub the bridge of my nose, rolling over in bed to find a glass of water and medicine on the bedside table.
Wyatt must have left it there after carrying me to bed last night.
I pinch my eyes shut when I see it’s a new group chat with Haden, Wyatt, Wesley, Harper, Blake, and Vivienne.
Blake
On a scale of 1-10, how much did you puke last night, Whitney?
Attachment: 1 Photo
I cringe at the photo of me slumped against the DJ booth, a half drunken cup of clear liquid in my hand, someone’s tie wrapped around my forehead, and sunglasses I don’t remember stealing on my face.
Yup. I am never drinking again.
I did not puke.
I will also be murdering you for sharing that photo.
Wyatt
She’s a liar. My new shoes say otherwise.
And the couch…
Get fucked, Wyatt.
It was your fault, Blake. And Haden’s. He’s a bad influence.
Haden
I am an innocent bystander.
I can’t help the giggle that escapes when everyone sends laughing emojis in response to Haden.
Wesley
Bullshit. I saw you shove that bottle of tequila in her face. It was all downhill after that.
Harper
Wanna talk about downhill? Vivienne started the table dancing. Those poor venue owners will never host a Conway wedding again.
Vivienne
I hate you guys. It’s too early for this.
I close the texts out after that, head spinning and throat parched.
I reach over to grab the glass of water and pop the life-saving pills right when Wyatt walks in.
He’s already dressed head to toe, like he didn’t drink just as much last night.
The smell of greasy bacon and fresh bread hits my nose right before I notice the plate in his hand.
I nearly sigh in relief. Food is most definitely what I need right about now.
“Breakfast in bed?” I ask, cocking a quizzical brow. Wyatt smirks, coming to sit on the side of the bed and setting the plate where my glass of water was. “I didn’t trust you to make it out of here without keeling over.”
I huff, snagging a piece of bacon off the white porcelain plate and shoving it in my mouth. He watches me, and I become keenly aware that I’m in nothing but a T-shirt. No bra, no underwear. I tug the comforter up as much as I can with him sitting on it.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, dropping back to lean on one elbow.
“Like death.” I reply, eating a bite of toast and flopping back against the pillows. I’ve never been so thankful for Ana taking Brinley overnight. “I need coffee.”
“Finish your glass of water, and we’ll talk.
” I glare at him, nearly tempted to throw the damn glass at his head, but the desire for a steaming cup of coffee is greater.
I keep my eyes narrowed on his, making a show of chugging the water while he watches.
I pull the empty glass from my lips, slowly running my tongue along my bottom lip, freeing it of any water droplets left behind.
I watch as the fist resting against his head tightens, but he pulls himself up from the bed.
With his back turned to me, and his new task to make me a cup of coffee, he says, “Careful, Whitney. You keep lookin’ at me like that and you won’t be able to leave that bed for a week. ”
I internally beg myself to leave it, to not respond to his obvious, and successful attempt at making me blush—but I’m opening my big, fat mouth before I can stop it. It makes him pause, hand resting on the doorway. “Last night didn’t feel like pretend.”
“That’s because it wasn’t.” His words echo as he softly shuts the door.