Chapter 19
37 hours until the wedding
Jack’s hands sink to my hips, contouring to fit the shape of me as he sets me down on the single bed closest to the bathroom. I assume I’ll feel some level of simmering humiliation in the morning when I’m hit with the reality that Jack literally carried me to bed, but right now I’m too drunk and too dizzy to care.
“Carrie Underwood was right,” I say with a groan. “I should stick to fruity little drinks because I cannot shoot whiskey.”
Jack’s laugh echoes all the way from the bathroom, where he’s filling up a cup in the sink. When he returns, he sits beside me at the foot of the bed. “Here. Drink this,” he says, nudging a cup of water in my direction.
I take one look at the cup, wonder if I might puke again, then swat his hand away.
Jack’s mouth twitches with amusement. “Oh, so you’re this kind of drunk?”
“I’m not drunk,” I protest.
False. I’m definitely still drunk. And the room is spinning. Or maybe I’m spinning. It’s hard to tell.
“Come on, please just drink your water,” he says, giving me an insistent look.
“Fine. You’re so bossy.”
I take a few dainty sips until he gives me a look, and I begrudgingly finish the glass, wincing as I taste the acid on my tongue.
“You feel better now?”
Jack’s face zooms in and out of focus, eyes too big for his face, body all out of proportion. I feel like I’m inside a Matisse painting.
“The room won’t stop spinning. And you have two heads,” I tell him. “You should probably get that checked out.”
He laughs. “I might have two heads, but you have vomit on your shirt.”
I look down. Dammit. He’s right.
“I’m gonna grab you a clean shirt, okay?” He moves toward my suitcase, but I shake my head. Confusion threads through his expression. “You’d rather wear a shirt covered in puke?”
“I don’t want you looking in my suitcase,” I say, words all slurring together in one long breath.
He frowns. “Don’t tell me you’re the one with cocaine after all. Because that would be quite the plot twist.”
“I don’t want you to see my vibrator.”
As I say it, I’m only vaguely aware that I shouldn’t.
Jack cocks an eyebrow. “You think I haven’t seen a vibrator before?” he asks.
“It’s embarrassinggggg,” I whine, covering my face with my hands.
There’s a flicker of surprise behind his eyes, but just as quickly as it appears it fades into something unreadable. “Fine. I’ll get you one of my mine.”
Jack rummages in his suitcase before returning a moment later with a T-shirt.
“Arms up,” he instructs, and I raise my hands like a toddler, letting him guide me out of my shirt and into his. It’s big and soft and smells just like him. Tangy with a hint of something sweet.
I reach for the button on my jeans, but I’m too drunk and my fingers can’t get a hold of the metal.
“Jack? Can you help me?”
Jack’s jaw tightens, the lines between his eyebrows sinking into deep ridges. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he says at last.
“Please? I don’t want to sleep in jeans.”
His mouth flatlines, but he steps toward me and brushes my hands away so he can finish undoing the buttons.
“Lift your hips,” he commands.
You’re going to regret this tomorrow , a panicky part of my brain whispers, but I do as I’m told anyway, too drunk to care that Jack’s undressing me, or that I’m wearing underwear that looks like it should say Tuesday on the back.
He shimmies my jeans down my legs and tosses them onto my suitcase, where they land in a crumpled heap.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” he says, turning toward the door like he can’t get away from my pants-less body fast enough. “Yell if you need anything.”
“Jack?”
He pauses, turning back to face me. “Hmm?”
“Can I ask you something?”
His eyes stall on me and I love the way they look right now, brimming with light and warmth and heat.
“What would have happened if we’d hooked up that first night?”
There’s a part of me that knows I shouldn’t ask, but I’m too drunk to remember why. All I can think is that I want to know. I really want to know.
Jack’s eyes go wide like a deer in the headlights. “What?”
“What would—”
“No, I heard you, I just…” Jack rubs the side of his face with the heel of his palm, eyes snapping toward the bathroom door like he’s looking for an escape route. “I don’t know. I probably would have kissed you,” he says at last.
Heat pours over my skin, slipping into all my nooks and crannies.
“Then what?” I ask, heart skipping a feverish beat.
Jack swallows hard, eyes sliding into the carpet, and my pulse jumps in anticipation. But when he looks back at me, his gaze is hard, resolute. “You should get some sleep, Ada.”
He lets his attention linger on me a beat longer before disappearing into the bathroom. A moment later, I hear the shower turn on.
The room is still spinning, and dizziness presses against the back of my throat. I shut my eyes and rest my head against the mattress before tumbling into a fevered, drunken sleep.
A distant trill pulls me from unconsciousness, and I slowly blink back the haze of sleep. The room is dark except for slices of moonlight sneaking past the curtains, painting stripes of pale light across the carpet. Through the darkness I can see Jack’s shadowy form asleep in the other bed.
The trilling sound continues, and it takes me a moment to realize that it’s my phone.
I’m about to silence my phone when I see the name on the screen.
It’s Carter.
His name acts as an instant shot of espresso, peeling back the blurry film of sleep as I reach for the phone. But I’m too late and the call goes to voicemail. A second later, a text pops up on the screen.
Carter
Can we talk?
I look at the time. It’s two a.m. here, which means it’s six p.m. back home. Part of me wonders if I’m still too drunk, too sleepy for this. I could go back to bed and sleep off the remaining dregs of drunkenness and talk to him when I’m fully sober. But another part of me wants to just get this over with.
Fingers racing, chest thumping, I type a response. Gimme a second
Three dots appear, telling me he’s typing.
Carter
Okay
I pull on a sweatshirt and slip outside, where pale moonlight casts shadows along the hotel walls. Overhead, a sugary smattering of stars flecks the inky sky. My bare feet sting against the cold concrete and I shiver, pulling my sweatshirt closer to my body. In the distance I can hear the shouts and laughter of merrymakers outside the pub.
I take a deep breath and press the receiver to my ear. He picks up on the third ring.
“Hey, Ada.” His voice comes through smooth and achingly familiar. My heart squeezes. “How are you?” he asks.
“I’m good. Or as good as I can be at two a.m.”
“Shit, I’m sorry. I forgot about the time difference. Is now a bad time?”
“It’s fine,” I tell him, sneaking a glance back at the hotel room door, hoping Jack really is sound asleep.
“I’m glad you answered my text,” he says. “I got worried when I didn’t hear from you.”
“Sorry, I just, uh…” I look out into the blackness stretching in front of me. “It was a long day.”
“Wedding stuff?”
I don’t really want to explain the whole flight cancellation and road trip with Jack situation, so I say, “Yeah. Sort of.”
“So…” There’s rustling on his end and I wonder if he’s pacing like he usually does when he’s nervous. “I wanted to see if we could talk when you get back from Ireland.”
“Talk about what?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even and not like my heart is hammering wildly inside my chest.
There’s a pause before he says, “About us. About getting back together.”
Suddenly, I’m queasy all over again. But this time it has nothing to do with Scotch.
“I know we have two more weeks before we said we’d talk,” he goes on, voice speeding up like he’s in a hurry to get it out. “But I miss you, Ada. I’ve been thinking about you going to Allison’s wedding alone, and I realized how much I wished I was there. With you.”
My stomach jolts, a million warning bells clamoring in my head.
Carter misses me. Carter’s been thinking about me. Carter wants to get back together.
In every imagined version of this scenario, I thought I’d be thrilled. That my insides would turn warm and gooey. After all, this was what I wanted. What I’ve been waiting for. It’s the exact scene I dreamed of all those nights I slept with my phone on the highest volume just in case he called. Instead, it feels like there’s a heel on my windpipe, blocking my airflow.
“Ada?”
It takes me a minute to realize he’s saying my name.
“Ada? Are you still there?”
Somehow, I find my voice and creak out an unsteady “Yes. I’m here.”
“I’m going to Moab next week to do some freelance photography,” he continues. “And I was thinking you could come with me.” There’s a thread of earnestness in his voice that makes my heartbeat stumble over itself. But there’s no apology. No, I’m sorry for walking away when you needed me most . He just expects me to go to Moab with him, like this break was just a little blip in the road. Like I’m a career he can just bounce back to at his leisure. Like I didn’t cry myself to sleep for weeks over him.
I press my palm to my forehead. “Carter, this is a lot to think about.”
“I know, it is a lot, but it would be good for us to talk and spend time together.”
“Carter, I—” But my breath stalls and I lean against the cold concrete, legs suddenly wobbling like jelly. “I don’t know,” I finish.
“You don’t know if you want to go to Moab?”
“No, not Moab…”
For a moment I consider how easy it would be to tell Carter, No, of course I want to get back together . How easy it would be to slide back into our old life. To pick up where we left off and pretend like the last few days hadn’t happened—hell, like the last three months hadn’t happened.
I imagine him picking me up from the airport. Me moving back into his place and us resuming our life. The clockwork regularity of date night on Saturdays and takeaway pastries from our favorite coffee shop on Sunday mornings. I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t at least a small temptation to return to normalcy. But the truth hammering inside me, the truth that’s now impossible to ignore, is that I don’t want that anymore.
It happened quickly, like a trail of dominos tipping over in rapid succession. But now that I’ve removed the blinders and started to see my life— our life —for what it was, I’m not sure I can put them back on. I’m not sure I can go back to the way things were.
I think about what Jack said when we walked to the pizza shop, about being with someone who is all in. Maybe there was a time when Carter was all in , when I was his person and he was mine. But he hasn’t been for a while, and I can’t go back to waiting on a proposal that may never come, just like I can’t go back to managing his emotions and walking on eggshells, all while negating my own needs. Most of all, I can’t return to him because I’m afraid of change. Because I’m afraid to let go.
It’s not fair to me. And it’s not fair to him either.
I take a deep breath. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to get back together, Carter.”
For a long moment he doesn’t say anything, and everything in me pulls tight, bracing myself against whatever’s coming next.
“I thought you’d be happy,” he says at last. “I thought you’d want to get back together.”
Me too.
“I did,” I tell him. “But I realized some things over the last few days.”
“Like what?” I can hear the tug of irritation in his voice, like he’s annoyed I’m not leaping at the chance to get back together.
“Like I don’t think we want the same things anymore,” I tell him. “I don’t think we’ve wanted the same things for a long time.” I pause, collecting my breath. “And I think it’s time to end things. For good.”
There’s some shuffling on his end before he finally asks, “Is there someone else?”
A hot whoosh of awareness rips through me.
I can still feel Jack’s hands on me. The weight of him pressed against my chest. I can still smell the Scotch on his mouth as he’d leaned in, lips hovering above mine. I can still feel the excitement in my belly as I wondered if Jack would kiss me. Jack, who is sexy and thoughtful and makes me feel cared for. Jack, who doesn’t do relationships.
“No,” I tell him. “There’s no one else.”
“Oh.” But I can’t tell if there’s relief or frustration behind that oh. “So this is about me?” he asks.
“No, Carter,” I say, voice tightening. “It’s about me. It’s about the fact that I’m not sure who I am outside this relationship, but I want to find out. On my own.” I’m surprised by the evenness of my tone and the clarity of my words, and all the while my heart is pounding against my ribs. “I think it’s for the best. For both of us.”
Silence stretches between us, and I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until finally I release a shaky exhale, watching the hot air rise like plumes of smoke.
“Maybe you’re right,” Carter finally says. “Maybe this is for the best.”
I wait for the precipitous lurch of my stomach. The feeling of being knocked off my feet as my world crumbles around me. Instead, his words wash over me with an unexpected calmness. Like we’re both taking one big, collective exhale and releasing the coils of tension that have been wrapped around us for too long.
The seconds mesh into a silent minute, filling with all the other things I think about saying but decide not to. We make lofty promises to talk again when I get back, with the full knowledge that we probably won’t. Then the phone call ends, and so does our eight-year relationship.
For good this time.