6. LARISSA
CHAPTER 6
LARISSA
“So, that’s how you know him. I was wondering.” Matilda wiggles her eyebrows at me as I quickly redo my ponytail, my whole face flushed.
As soon as my unwitting friend caught us, Wyatt yanked his hands from my body and snatched his hat off the floor. He hurried out of here like he was caught with his pants down—which he almost was.
My cheeks heat further with thoughts of Wyatt’s kiss.
His rough touch.
The growls.
And holy shit, I had my freaking hand down his pants. I felt his thick length for the briefest of seconds, and my mouth watered for it as if I’d die without his cock shoved into it.
I’m feverish and sick. I must’ve caught the bug going around for real. It’s why I shouldn’t joke about such things, because they come true. The universe is always listening.
It’s the only explanation as to why I stuck my hand down my no-good, arrogant ex-boyfriend’s pants.
“Are you going to give me the deets, or do I have to get you drunk first?” Matilda gives me a sly smile, and knowing her, she’d like to get me drunk either way. I’m more spontaneous when I’m buzzed, which is why I always limit myself.
The last time she and I sucked back a pitcher of margaritas, I ended up booking us both flights to Turks and Caicos. I even started packing that same night. But can I really call filling a suitcase with gummy bears packing ?
“Well?” she pries.
And the lust-filled fog clears. My lips sink into a frown, and I slump against the wall. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“You’re going to have to do better than that. You were just about to fuck him in the linen closet, babe, and actually, considering how long it’s been for you, I’m sorry I interrupted.” She snorts.
“I’m glad you did.” I sigh. The ghost of Wyatt’s touch still burns my skin. The sting might be delicious, but what I’m saying is the truth. It’s a good thing we didn’t take this moment of insanity any further. “It’s the same old story, really. Boy meets girl. Girl falls deliriously in love. Boy replaces girl with a bag of golf clubs and disappears for five years.”
“I can’t be with you anymore.”
Tears stream down my face as I grip his shoulder and force him to turn around. “If you’re going to break up with me, at least have the balls to look me in the eye, Wyatt.”
“I can’t be with you anymore,” he repeats, but it’s not as assertive as before. His monotonous words sound rehearsed, like they aren’t easy for him to say out loud.
They’re not easy to hear, either.
I choke on more of my tears. “Don’t do this. Don’t let your father do this to us.”
“He’s right, though. He might be cruel about it, but he’s right, Larissa.” Wyatt blows out a humorless laugh, and it reaches me like a knife to my chest. “This weekend at state was proof. Every time I stood over the ball, I just kept thinking about you at prom in your sparkling dress, with your hair and makeup done. Having fun on your own. Were you even alone? Or were you dancing with someone else? I couldn’t stand the thought of someone else holding you, and I fucking lost it.”
“I went with my friends—you know that.”
“But it doesn’t change the fact that I was obsessing over you when I should’ve been focused on the game.” His eyes droop in the corners, his irises clouded with defeat and agony. This isn’t the fun, playful Wyatt I’ve come to know.
He hasn’t been himself for weeks.
He’s been slowly and quietly pulling away for a while, and I’m tired of trying to convince him to keep being my boyfriend. I’m not going to beg him to change his mind this time.
I cup his warm cheek, and he hisses an obviously painful exhale. “I hope you and your game have a nice life together.”
What was I thinking? How could I have allowed myself to fall right back into Wyatt’s arms so easily? He ripped my heart out, teed it up, and launched it into oblivion.
He’ll do it again too, if I’m not careful.
“I’m sorry, babe.” Matilda offers a sympathetic smile, which transforms into a mischievous one. “Would it help if I entertained you with a tale of two golf rivals? One ran over the other’s foot with his golf cart today.”
The laugh I release is very genuine, thanks to my friend. I would not have survived the last few months of limbo without her. “Now that sounds like a story I’d rather discuss, although it might taint my very nice picture of the pleasant community out here.”
“You’re always so positive, and I hate to tell you this, but it’s pretty basic.”
“I thought you were supposed to make me feel better.” I smack the side of her boob, and she tsks.
“You are so naughty, even without a margarita in you.” She slings her arm over my shoulders and leads me out of the linen closet. “So, one guy’s name is Thor—honest to God.”
“I love it already.” I giggle.
“He and this Dane guy have been at each other’s throats the last couple of tournaments, and I guess Dane had enough today. Ran right over Thor’s foot.”
“Doesn’t he have a hammer to protect himself with?” I tease, my heart still a little deflated, but it feels good to joke with her like this.
She promises to finish the rest of the story after our shift, and I look forward to it—anything to get my mind off Wyatt Drake.
“How was it today? Any drama?” Mom leans over the counter with her chin in her palm, and I slouch against the barstool, my purse and vest clutched to my chest.
The sun has set, and I survived the rest of the afternoon and evening without another run-in with Wyatt, thank God.
I clearly can’t be trusted around him, and there’s still the issue of seeing him tomorrow. But right now, the only thing that matters is throwing on my fuzzy socks and grabbing my coziest blanket for a little Hallmark movie night with my mom and sisters. Dad is working late tonight, so we’re taking advantage.
He’s not a fan of the fall romance movies we like, although he does enjoy the snacks we prepare.
“Please tell me you have a good story like the time the maniac bit someone’s nose at the after-party.” Mom’s smile is wicked. She’s far too amused with my stories, and between my shifts at The Tipsy Tap and the resort, I have plenty of them.
“Nothing will ever be as good as that one, but I do have a story involving a guy named Thor and his archnemesis.”
She claps and squeals like I just told her we won the lottery. “Go change and get comfortable. Your sisters should be here by then, and you know they’ll want to hear everything.”
“Stay tuned.” I shimmy along the way toward my old bedroom, which I’ve been occupying since my sad return to Magnolia Point last summer.
I came back with the intention of using this room only temporarily, but it’s beginning to feel more permanent. Perched on the walls and my nightstand are pictures of my sisters and me with mermaids at Mermazing Adventures last July, Mom and me at the first bouquet bar we hosted together, plus many more.
I’ve printed and pinned up pictures in my room as if I’m never leaving.
I’ve even unpacked. It takes me months to unpack from a short vacation, but I emptied all my suitcases and boxes from college within the first few weeks of living here.
On top of that, I have sketches scattered about my desk and floor, although some did make it onto the corkboard on my wall. Even more sketches are bunched into pathetic paper wads littering the floor like oversized dust bunnies.
I’m supposed to be here to work on my portfolio. To pinpoint my signature style. My niche. My thing . I’m supposed to be seeking inspiration and strengthening my portfolio for a better shot at a future in fashion design. How else am I going to reapply for internships and move out of my parents’ house?
But nothing has felt right. None of these styles are me, so I stopped searching altogether.
Instead, I’ve taken odd jobs around the area to fill the void—and because I needed funds. I asked my parents one too many times for money to fulfill my daily caffeine fix from Deja Brew.
The last time I sketched a new design was two months ago, and even that is only half-finished.
And today, I made out with my high school boyfriend and was ready to do far more had my friend not intervened.
What is wrong with me?
My heart thumps wildly—almost painfully—as I toss my things onto the edge of the bed, but my vest slides off. The card from Gladys flutters to the floor next to it, and I bend at the waist to scoop it up.
No matter how good it felt to be complimented on a piece of clothing I designed, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m a failure.
And in hindsight, Gladys was likely only being nice. That, or the booze was talking.
She doesn’t want to buy anything from me.
I open the desk drawer and stuff the card inside on top of the rejections from FIT and my other shattered dreams.