Chapter Twenty-Seven The Morning After
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Morning After
Poppy
The couch. Right. I slept on Dean’s couch until after midnight, then stumbled back here like some kind of romance novel martyr. Because staying would’ve meant… what? Admitting I wanted more than post-wedding exhaustion cuddles?
My phone buzzes with a flight reminder.
Check-in now available.
Cool. Thanks, phone. Super helpful.
George bleats from the porch, because apparently he’s my roommate now.
“Morning, asshole,” I mutter, dragging myself vertical.
He bleats again. Louder. Like he’s personally offended by my life choices.
“Yeah, well, join the club.”
I stumble to the door, and there he is—my demon goat therapist, already judging me with those creepy rectangle pupils.
“What?” I ask. “You want life advice? From me? The woman who just spent a week falling for someone completely unavailable?”
He headbutts the doorframe.
“Right. That’s what I thought.”
I leave the door open, because why fight it, and start shoving clothes into my suitcase.
The safe green dress from the rehearsal dinner.
The silk burgundy dress from last night.
The heels that witnessed me wrestling a tent in a storm.
The backup planner I didn’t need because turns out I’m really good at memorizing disaster scenarios.
George wanders in, settles on the rug like he owns the place.
“You know what’s messed up?” I tell him, folding a shirt badly. “I actually pictured it. The whole thing.”
He tilts his head.
“Not like, wedding bells and babies.” I chuck a shoe in the general direction of my bag.
“Just… Tuesday nights, arguing about takeout. Him accepting that sometimes I’m going to prioritize my work over food, sleep, basic human interaction.
Me accepting the same about him. Fighting over the thermostat. Stupid, normal couple shit.”
George snorts.
“I know, right? We hardly know each other. That’s not—people don’t—”
I stop. Sit on the bed. Stare at my half-packed disaster.
“But it was kind of intense,” I admit. “Living on his property. The wedding pressure. Everything accelerated, you know? Like relationship boot camp.”
George chews thoughtfully on what looks like my phone charger cord.
“Hey! No!” I yank it away. “I need that for Italy.”
Italy. Right. My big escape plan. A week of pasta and wine and definitely not thinking about Dean Whitaker’s eyes. Or his laugh. Or the way he looked last night dressed in a tux and dancing with one of his little cousins.
“Nope.” I stand up. “Not going there.”
I attack the packing with renewed determination. George watches, occasionally offering commentary in the form of aggressive bleating.
“What did I expect?” I ask him. “For him to chase me to the airport? Beg me to stay? That’s not—that’s rom-com bullshit. This is real life.”
Although last night felt pretty freaking rom-com, with the dancing and the guitar and the way he—
“Stop it,” I tell my brain. “Besides,” I continue, cramming products into my toiletry bag, “we both have careers. Important careers. His is here, mine is…” I pause. “Nonexistent. But it’ll exist again. In California. Where I live.”
George looks skeptical.
“Don’t give me that look. It’s called being a grown-up. You make rational decisions based on logic, not on how someone’s voice sounds when they say your name.”
Poppy.
Damn. Even in my memory, it wrecks me.
My phone buzzes. It’s CeCe.
CECE: You up? Coffee before airport?
ME: Packing. Come by whenever
CECE: Bringing pastries and tissues
ME: Why tissues?
CECE: Because I know you
Ugh.
Fair.
I finish packing—badly—and hop in the shower. The water’s perfect, which feels like a personal attack. Even the guest house is trying to make me sad about leaving.
“Get it together,” I mutter, shampooing aggressively.
By the time CeCe arrives, I’m dressed and pretending to be a functional human. She takes one look at me and shakes her head.
“Oh, honey.”
I glance up from zipping my suitcase, defensive already. “What?”
She sets down the pastries and coffee, studying my face with that knowing look. “You’re wearing your feelings on your face.”
“No I’m not.” But my hand goes to my cheek automatically, like I can wipe them away.
“You’re literally pouting.”
She hands me a chocolate croissant and coffee that smells like heaven and bad decisions.
“Talk to me,” she says, settling on the bed and patting the space beside her.
“Nothing to talk about.” I take a massive bite of croissant, chewing deliberately. “Wedding’s over. I’m going to Italy. End of story.”
“Uh-huh.” She sips her coffee, waiting. “And Dean?”
The name alone makes my stomach drop. “What about him?”
“Poppy.” It’s not a question. It’s an accusation wrapped in concern.
I swallow the most delicious bite of croissant, buying time. “What? We had a moment. Now the moment’s over. That’s how things work.” I wish they didn’t, but they do.
“A moment,” she repeats, eyebrows climbing. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
I focus on my croissant like it holds the secrets of the universe. “Yes.”
“Not ‘the first time you’ve clicked with a guy in three years’?”
“Dramatic.”
“Not ‘the only guy who’s ever made you forget about your to-do list’?”
“That’s not—”
“Not ‘the reason you’ve been lit up like a lighthouse all week’?”
“I have not been lit up.”
George bleats in what sounds suspiciously like disagreement.
“Even the goat knows you’re lying,” CeCe says.
I slump next to her, the fight draining out of me. “It doesn’t matter. He didn’t ask me to stay.”
“Did you ask him to?” She sets down her coffee, turning to face me fully.
“That’s not—no. Why would I?” I pick at the croissant, pulling it apart into tiny pieces.
“Because you’re in love with him?”
The word hangs there like a challenge.
My hands go still. The croissant crumbles forgotten in my lap. My heart is doing something arrhythmic and painful in my chest.
“I’m not—we barely—it’s not possible, CeCe.”
“So?” Her expression is serious, unflinching.
“So people don’t fall in love in a week!” I wipe flakes of croissant crumbles from my cheek with more force than necessary.
“Says who?”
“Says… I don’t know. Science. Logic. Common sense.”
“Right. Because you’re such a fan of common sense.” She gestures around the chaos. “That why you’re running away to Italy?”
“I’m not running. It’s been planned for months.”
“Convenient.” She nods, but there’s no judgment in it. Just sad understanding.
I stand up, needing to move, and pace to the window. The main house sits there, all perfect and haunting in the morning light.
“What was I supposed to do?” I ask quietly, my breath fogging the glass. “Wait around hoping he’d suddenly develop feelings? Beg him to try long-distance?”
“Maybe tell him how you feel? Go from there?”
“I don’t—” I stop. Can’t even lie about it anymore. My reflection stares back at me, hollow-eyed and tired. “It doesn’t matter how I feel. He’s got his life, I’ve got mine. That’s how it works.”
“That’s how it works when you’re scared,” CeCe says gently.
My shoulders hitch up, defensive. “I’m not scared. I’m practical.”
“Honey.” She stands, coming to join me at the window. “You organized a wedding with no team. You wrestled a tent in a storm. You tamed George.” She gestures at the goat, who’s now eating my laptop cord. “You’re the least scared person I know. Except when it comes to this.”
“This is different.”
“Why?”
Because this matters. Because he matters. Because I can handle losing clients and jobs and dignity, but I’m not sure I can handle losing something I never really had.
I turn away from the window, from the view of his house. “I have a brunch to get to,” I say instead.
CeCe sighs, long and disappointed. “Right. The farewell tour.”
“Ivy specifically requested—”
“I know. I’ll drive you.” She’s already grabbing her keys, resigned.
“You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do. Because you’re about to go pretend everything’s fine when we both know you’re dying inside.”
“Dramatic.”
“Accurate.”
She’s not wrong. But what’s the alternative? Sob into my croissant about feelings I shouldn’t have for a guy I barely know?
No. I’m going to that brunch. I’m going to smile and hug people and pretend my chest doesn’t feel like it’s caving in. Then I’m getting on a plane to Italy, where I’ll eat my feelings in pasta like a normal person.
“Besides,” I tell CeCe as we head out, grabbing my purse and avoiding looking at the main house again, “I haven’t taken a real vacation in three years. Every weekend’s been a wedding. I deserve this.”
“You deserve a lot of things,” she mutters, holding the door open.
“What?”
“Nothing. Get in the car.”
I turn back to George, who’s watching from the porch with what I swear is disappointment.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell him. “This is the right thing to do.”
He bleats.
“Your opinion is noted and ignored.”
But as we drive away, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m leaving more than just a guest house behind.
I’m leaving the first place that’s felt like home in years.
And the first person who’s made me want to stay.