38. Miles
38
Miles
I ’m not the type of guy who completely loses himself because of a woman, but Veronica Prescott has completely flipped my entire world upside down in only two months. Strangely, I don’t hate it. My life seems to be a hell of a lot brighter and more colorful, and only half of that is because my home has slowly been taken over by Veronica and her things.
It’s not a surprise to anyone to learn that my favorite color is black. Just open my closet, and you’ll see that seventy-five percent of it is dark, along with my decor. Slowly, though, more and more of Veronica’s things have appeared around the apartment. If this had been anyone else’s shit, I’d say something and put a stop to it—but with her, I can’t—or really, I won’t. What she wants, she gets. Hell, I’d give her the entire fucking world if that were an option.
The truth of the matter is, I’d do just about anything to see her smile, even if it means letting her bright and colorful clothes, blankets, plants, and decor take over the living room. Hell, even the outfits that I once rolled my eyes at for being absolutely ridiculous are now something I love seeing, especially when they’re randomly tossed or scattered across my bedroom floor.
Even coming home is something I look forward to more each and every day. Bubba had always seemed to be all I needed, but there’s something different about walking through the front door only to find Veronica sitting on the couch, her face lighting up just as much at the sight of me.
Plus, my dog is equally smitten. I can see it even now as I stand in the kitchen, finishing up the last of the dinner dishes, while the two of them snuggle on the couch and some ridiculous crime documentary plays in the background.
I glance at the sink, knowing I should tidy up a bit more, but the selfish pull to be near her is impossible to ignore. Shutting off the water, I dry my hands, my heart picking up the pace as I stride toward the couch.
Between Veronica, with her legs draped across the entire thing, and Bubba, with his head in her lap as she writes in some large notepad, there isn’t much room, but I make do as I lift her feet, with her pink and yellow painted toes, and take a seat, letting them fall into my lap.
“You want me to move?” she asks, looking up from whatever she’s been working on.
“Nope. I’m fine just like this,” I assure her as I take one of her feet in my hands and begin a light massage.
She raises an eyebrow, not fully convinced, but she doesn’t press it, lifting one shoulder instead. “If you say so,” she says, seemingly distracted.
Her eyes move back down toward her pad, which I soon realize is a sketchpad. Normally, after dinner, she works on grading art projects and doing schoolwork while I clean up, but that pad clearly means something else. I tilt my head to the side as I watch her sketch, and my mouth tilts into a smile as her tongue lightly darts out to the side in concentration, before her eyes lift and they meet mine.
Her cheeks turn a light shade of pink, almost as if I’ve somehow caught her doing something she considers suspicious.
My brows knit together. “What?” I ask, a soft chuckle leaving my lips as my hands switch to working on her other foot.
“Nothing,” she says, closing the pad and tucking it aside.
“This doesn’t feel like nothing. What are you drawing over there?” I ask, assuming that’s what she must have been up to. Plus, it’s not like I hadn’t seen her sketching and drawing like that plenty of times during our road trip.
“Who says I’m drawing something?” she asks, innocently fluttering her lashes.
I tilt my head to the side. “What else would you be doing with a pencil and a sketchpad? Now, come on,” I say with a suggestive nod. “Spill it, so I’m not forced to drag it out of you.”
She lets out a scoff. “And how exactly would you do that?”
“I have my ways,” I say, a boyish grin tugging at my lips, a look that seemingly only she has the power to bring out of me.
“Prove it,” she challenges, and with that, I tug on her foot, pulling her body toward me as I reach out to tickle her side. The gamble pays off as girlish laughter erupts, uncontrollable and infectious, filling the room with a melody of gorgeous giggles that makes my chest swell.
“Miles, no, stop,” she begs through her laughter.
“Only if you show me what you were doing over there,” I demand, my hands continuing their movements as my fingers get dangerously close to her armpits, which I’m assuming, like most people, is her most ticklish spot.
“Okay, fine, stop. Stop. I’ll show you.” She gives in, letting out a small chorus of giggles as I remove my hands, holding them in the air to surrender.
"Good to know I’ve cracked the code on exactly how to get what I want,” I smirk.
“You know, there are other , much funner ways you could have gotten it out of me,” she challenges as she reaches for the sketchpad, still holding it tightly against her chest.
“I don’t know, that was pretty fun,” I admit with an arrogant grin, draping my arm across the back of the couch.
“I was thinking more along the lines of sexual favors, but if that’s your thing...” She casually shrugs as my eyes go wide.
“Damn,” I curse, “you’re right. That is much more fun. I’m going to have to keep that in mind for next time,” I muse, already mentally preparing for the future.
“Well, then again, how many more next times do you think we have left?” she asks, the smile on her face slowly disappearing as my mind unfortunately follows her train of thought.
“I don’t know, but is that really something we want to think about right now?” I ask. It may be selfish, but the idea of us ending and her moving out is something I’ve purposely avoided thinking about.
“No, but as fun as it is to play house, this can only go on for so long. We both know that. Eventually, I’m going to need to move on, and in just over a month, the annulment is going to go through. Us getting married will be nothing more than a silly memory that we can hopefully laugh about later.”
I know she’s right. I should be thinking about this, and normally I would make myself be the one to constantly remind both of us of the reality of things, but for once, it’s been nice to follow in her footsteps and get swept up in the moment.
Instead of worrying about what comes next, I’ve allowed myself to focus on the here and now, letting go of the constant pressure to plan for the future—especially one that doesn’t include her in it—at least not like this. Not in the way I want her to be.
“Well, it’s not like we didn’t know this was coming,” I say, tilting my head to the other side. “Plus, aren’t you usually the one to preach about letting go and not stressing over the stupid shit? What happened to living in the moment and saying ‘fuck the consequences?’” I challenge.
She looks down at the still-closed notebook as she lets it fall into her lap. “I mean, sure, but I’m also not looking to leave here in a place where I’m worse off than when I showed up.”
My brows crease. “And you feel like that’s how this is going to end?”
She lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know, maybe. I mean, right now everything is good,” she says, casting her gaze upward as she meets my eyes. “But I’m scared too. You’ve somehow turned into my safety blanket, and I’m not sure what I’ll do when things go back to how they were before, especially if you go back to hating me.”
A frown tugs at my lips as I stare at her in disbelief. “I never hated you,” I admit first and foremost. “And I never could. Honestly, you’ve become one of my favorite people. From here on out, you’re always going to have a place in my life, you have to know that. Sure, you might not always be my wife, but you’ll always be my friend,” I promise, even though every word I say somehow hits a little too hard, my heart breaking with each and every one.
I like having her as my wife, and while I understand there’s a timeline for all of this, and everything I’ve told her is true, it doesn’t mean I’m suddenly ready to let go.
The corner of her mouth lifts into a smile, even if it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, maybe that means we should start being more strategic and smart about things and go back to acting like friends, if that’s what we plan on being for one another."
I know she’s right. I need to stop letting myself get lost in this, but even the suggestion makes my heart ache. I’m not ready to stop pretending, even if deep down I already know that what’s been happening here has never been pretend—at least not for me.
“Well, does that mean we have to start that today?” I finally ask, the hollowness already filling my chest as I regret not only letting her move out of my grasp, but also letting it get to a place where this sort of conversation could happen. I’m not ready for this.
“Maybe we should,” she admits, as I try to take solace in the fact that she looks just as depressed as I do right now over the mere idea of this.
“Or maybe—” I start, but she stands up and interrupts.
“Or maybe we protect what we have and stop. Stop all the pretending and just go back to being roommates. Isn’t that what you wanted all along?” she asks, awkwardly folding her arms, sketchpad and all.
“Well, maybe it was at first, but things have changed since then,” I argue, sitting up straight.
“Exactly. Things have changed, and I know that’s because I pushed for this, but I really think we need to be smart here and start thinking about protecting ourselves.”
“You don’t need protection from me,” I assure her, scooting to the edge of my seat, especially since I have no intention of being someone who could hurt her, not after witnessing all the pain she experienced from that douchebag Pete.
“I know I don’t.” She laughs with absolutely no hint of amusement. Opening the book in her hands, she turns to the page where she’d left off and tears it out. “It’s myself I need protection from. We both know I’ve never been known for my smart decision-making, and I think it’s time I finally start doing what I should, instead of what I want.”
“What makes you so sure this is a smart decision?” I ask, the desperation seeping through, but I can’t help it. If I had known those last few minutes would be the last time we got to act normal and be ourselves, I definitely would’ve gone about things differently.
“Believe me, when you’ve spent your entire life acting on impulse and ignoring the consequences until it’s too late, you start to get a sense of when things are going to work out and when they won’t. And with this being something I really don’t want to do, that’s exactly why I know I need to.”
“Look, Vee, I’m not going to force you into something you don’t want to do, but I’m not ready to call it quits. I want to keep exploring this. I want to see what can happen here.”
“Until when? You get bored of me, or go back to finding me annoying?”
“I wouldn’t—” I argue, but she holds up a hand to silence me.
“You don’t know that, nor can I let it happen. I promised Blair I wouldn’t let any of this affect our friendship, and if I let myself get hurt in all of this, that could change things, and not for the better.”
“Why do you keep saying that you’d get hurt? I have no plans to hurt you or let you hurt yourself. I’m just not ready to let this end,” I say as I stand up and take a step toward her. She once again holds out her hand and takes a step back.
“Believe me, Miles. This is for the best,” she tries to assure me before finally holding out the paper she ripped from the sketchbook.
My eyes flick between the paper and her, but my curiosity wins out as I reach out and take it. As I hold it up, I’m stunned to see a perfectly rendered portrait of myself. Every detail is spot-on. It’s so lifelike that, if I didn’t know it was a sketch, I’d swear it was a photo someone had snapped with their phone.
“This is amazing,” I tell her, truly meaning it.
“These days, you’re all I think about. Hell, all day, every day, all I can think about is that stupidly handsome face of yours,” she says, pointing toward me. “So, between classes, I started this sketch and finally took the time to finish it just now. But I’m starting to think I need something else to focus my time and energy on. I already left one unhealthy situation. I can’t let myself jump right back into another.”
My heart sinks. Is that really what this feels like to her? The last thing I ever want to be to anyone—especially her—is a source of pain. So, instead of voicing what I really feel and what I truly want, I swallow it down and nod. Maybe it is easier this way, even if every part of me is screaming to be honest with her.
“If this is really what you want and need, then that’s what we’ll do,” I give in, despite the fact that my brain is yelling at me to put a stop to this. Then again, maybe that’s my heart speaking, since usually my brain is a lot smarter than this.
“It is.” She sighs, her shoulders falling in the process.
With one final dejected breath, I hold the drawing back toward her.
“Keep it,” she directs, taking a step back as she taps the side of her forehead. “I already have the image seared right here,” she softly offers with a weak smile before walking out of the room.
I run a hand over my face, trying to process what just happened. Did I really let her walk away? Did I just let the one woman who’s truly made me feel something real and raw slip through my fingers? Then again, as much as I hate to admit it, maybe she’s right. Not only is she at risk of getting hurt by all of this, but so am I. That aching pain in my chest? It’s unmistakable, and for the first time, I think I’m fully experiencing what true heartbreak feels like.