Chapter Twenty
Wine & Whine
Emmie
“So let me get this straight.” Sadie tops off my wine glass—her third pour, my second—and tucks her feet underneath her on the couch. “He kissed you. Like, really kissed you. On the patio of Mi Cocina where anyone could see.”
“Yes.”
“And then you went home.”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
I take a very long sip of wine.
“Emmeline Rose Marshall.” Sadie’s eyes go wide. “Something happened. Something happened and you’ve been holding out on me for—” She checks her phone. “Three days! Three days of radio silence!”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Busy doing what?” She gasps. “Oh gosh. Busy doing who?”
“We didn’t have sex.”
“But you did something.”
I feel my face flush and hide behind my wine glass. Sadie shrieks.
“I knew it! I knew it!” She smacks my arm with a throw pillow. “Spill. Now. Every detail. Leave nothing out.”
“There’s not that much to tell.”
“Your face is the color of a tomato. There’s plenty to tell.”
I groan and sink deeper into her couch. This is what I get for having a best friend who can read me like a large-print book.
“Fine.” I set down my wine because I’m going to need both hands for this. “We got home. There was… tension. We talked about how we’re both attracted to each other and maybe the fake relationship should have some real perks.”
“Perks,” Sadie repeats, grinning. “I love perks. What kind of perks?”
“The, um… physical kind.”
“Go on.”
“He carried me to the couch.”
“Carried you?”
“Like I weighed nothing. Just—” I make a scooping gesture. “Picked me up. Carried me. Sat down with me in his lap.”
Sadie fans herself. “I need more wine for this.”
“And then we were kissing, and it was… God, Sadie, it was so good. Like, I’ve been kissed before, obviously, but not like this. He’s easily the best kisser ever.”
“I’m going to pass out.”
“And then there was some, um, grinding—”
“On the couch? Straddling him?”
“Yes.”
“With clothes on?”
“At first.”
Sadie actually squeals. “Emmie!”
“And then clothes came off. Some clothes. Not all clothes.” I’m talking with my hands now, the way I always do when I’m flustered. “And he touched me and I touched him and it was—”
“Was he good?”
“He was…” I think about his fingers inside me, the way he watched my face, the way he asked what I needed like my pleasure was the only thing that mattered. “Yeah. He was good. Really good.”
“How good?”
“Like, embarrassingly fast good.”
“For you or for him?”
“Both.”
Sadie cackles and clinks her glass against mine. “Look at you! Getting off with your fake boyfriend!”
“It’s not—” I take another sip. “It’s just physical. We agreed. No feelings, no complications. Just… blowing off steam.”
The look Sadie gives me could curdle milk.
“What?” I ask.
“Emmie.”
“What?”
“You have feelings for him.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I don’t.” I set down my glass too hard, wine sloshing. “It’s just attraction. He’s hot and we live together and there’s proximity and tension and—it’s just physical.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It is!”
“So you’re telling me,” Sadie says slowly, “that you had a deeply intimate experience with a man you’ve been living with for weeks, a man who makes you coffee and remembers your complicated drink order and looks at you like you hung the moon, and you felt nothing?”
“I felt… things. Physical things. Orgasm things.”
“But no emotional things.”
“Correct.”
Sadie just stares at me.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re waiting for me to realize something.”
“I’m not waiting for anything.” She sips her wine, the picture of innocence. “I’m just sitting here. Being supportive. Listening to my best friend lie to herself.”
“I’m not lying to myself.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not.” I set my glass down harder than necessary. “Sadie, I know what I want out of life. I’ve always known. Marriage. Kids. Sunday dinners and Christmas mornings and someone who wants to build something with me. A partner. A family.”
“And?”
“And look at him.” I gesture vaguely, as if Crew is standing in Sadie’s living room instead of back at the apartment, probably reorganizing the pantry by expiration date.
“He’s a federal agent who probably color-codes his sock drawer.
He flinches when people touch him. He’s had seven failed roommates because someone used the wrong coffee mug. ”
“So?”
“So can you picture that man changing diapers at 3 AM? Hanging Christmas lights? Standing at the end of an aisle saying ‘I do’ to anyone?” I shake my head. “Because I can’t. I literally cannot imagine it.”
“People surprise you sometimes.”
“Not like that. Not him.” I pull my knees up to my chest, hugging them. “He’s… he’s fun for now. He’s very muscle-y and apparently great with his hands and I’m not going to pretend I don’t enjoy that. But that’s all it is. All it can be.”
“Emmie—”
“I’ve spent my whole life watching my parents be in love.
Like, really in love. Disgusting, embarrassing, slow-dancing-in-the-kitchen love.
And I want that. I want someone who looks at me like my dad looks at my mom.
I want someone who wants to come to Sunday dinner, not someone I have to drag there as part of a business arrangement. ”
Sadie is quiet for a moment. “Has it occurred to you that maybe Crew wants those things too? That maybe under all that tactical gear and emotional constipation, there’s a guy who’s just… scared?”
“Scared of what?”
“Of wanting things he doesn’t think he can have.”
I snort. “You’ve been reading too many romance novels.”
“I learned from the best.” She nudges my foot with hers. “I’m just saying. The guy lowered your rent for no reason. He learned your coffee order. He carries you to couches. That’s not exactly cold and unfeeling behavior.”
“That’s just… that’s proximity. Convenience. It doesn’t mean he wants a life with someone.”
“Did you ask him?”
“Of course not.”
“Why not?”
“Because—” I grab the throw pillow and scream into it.
When I emerge, Sadie is still smiling that knowing smile. I hate that smile. I hate that she’s known me since freshman year of college and can see through every wall I try to build.
“Can we talk about something else?” I ask. “How’s Dave? How’s work? How’s literally anything that isn’t my fake relationship with real benefits?”
“Dave is fine. Work is exhausting. And no, we cannot change the subject.” She shifts to face me fully. “Emmie, I’ve watched you date a lot of guys. I’ve watched you bend yourself into pretzels trying to be what they wanted. I’ve watched you give and give and give until there was nothing left.”
“Sadie—”
“I’ve never seen you look at any of them the way you look at Crew.”
My throat tightens. “How do I look at him?”
“Like he’s something special. Like he’s worth taking care of.” She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “Like maybe he takes care of you too.”
I think about mandatory cuddle time. About the rent he lowered without telling me why. About the way he checks on me when I’m up late writing, how he appears with tea and doesn’t say anything, just sets it down and disappears.
“He does,” I admit quietly. “In his weird, grumpy, uptight way. He takes care of me.”
“And that scares you.”
“Terrifies me.”
“Why?”
I stare at my wine, watching the light catch the deep red. “Because it’s not real. We have an arrangement. An end date. And I’m really, really good at confusing being needed with being wanted.”
Sadie is quiet for a moment. “What if it could be real?”
“It can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because he doesn’t—” I stop. Swallow. “Because this is about avoiding a job transfer, not about me. I’m convenient. I’m useful. That’s not the same as being wanted.”
“Maybe it could be.”
I shake my head, reaching for the wine bottle. “Can we please talk about something else now? Tell me about Dave. Tell me about work. Tell me about literally anything.”
Sadie sighs but relents. “Fine. But I’m going on record saying I think you’re wrong about him.”
“Noted.”
“And I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so’ when this all works out.”
“Noted.”
She launches into a story about a kid at the hospital who somehow got a Lego stuck in his ear, and I let myself laugh, let myself relax, let myself pretend I’m not already in way deeper than I ever meant to be.
But later, in the Uber home, I think about what she said.
What if it could be real?
And I hate how much I want it to be.