Chapter 29
April
Six Days Until The Wedding
Toss. Turn. Kick the horrid Lorax pillow off the couch. Pull the blanket over my head. Throw it on the floor.
Repeat.
I’m too exhausted to walk the ten feet to my bedroom but too wired to actually fall asleep. You must be out of your damned mind. The one scenario I’ve envisioned for fifteen years finally played out in front of me and what did I do? I said no thanks and sent Carter on his merry way.
For fifteen years, I’d snuggle into my patchwork quilt and imagine the day this would happen before dozing off to sleep.
Romantic comedies of my teen years provided the soundtracks, the speeches, and grand gestures for my wildest daydreams. Carter holding a boom box above his head.
Carter running through the airport, knocking down TSA employees in pursuit of his sole objective: me.
And yet, this isn’t the same.
Instead of my insides fizzing like a shaken-up soda, they’re flat—like an open can that’s sat out too long, neglected.
Carter Coldwell tried to kiss me, and I rejected him.
Screw it. Where’s that throw pillow? I pick it up off the floor, press it to my damp eyes and running nose, and let a scream rip loose into the depths of the orange fuzz.
A skittering tells me Kotka has abandoned me for a safer space.
I don’t blame her. My judgment can’t be trusted.
“Time to throw that pillow away,” says an all-too-familiar baritone.
Fuckity fuck fuck. I wrap the cushion tighter against my face, letting it absorb the sting in my eyes, the wetness of my nose. Maybe it will block all my air passages. Asphyxiation by Lorax.
“You might consider a tissue next time.”
Sarcasm? Contempt? His voice is muffled and I don’t have facial cues to read.
I drag the pillow down toward my stomach and clutch it there.
The living room’s features come into focus piece by piece.
Then, two eyebrows—furrowed and thick as my pointer fingers.
Pink lips tinted blue in the evening light.
A jawline so sharp it casts a shadow on everything below it.
“Trip.” My throat is scratchy, and my voice comes out in a croak.
“Well, your vocal cords still work.” He’s propped on the windowsill, the moonlight painting him in a palette of blues and whites that make him look more like a ghost than ever.
I sit up straight. “Sorry about earlier.”
He cocks an eyebrow and leans forward, clasped palms resting on his knees.
“You left.”
He studies his knuckles. “I didn’t think it was something I should be a part of.”
I mimic his position and lean forward on the couch. “So, what now?”
“You tell me, Elz.” A muscle in his jaw feathers, but it’s the only hint of agitation. He’s still as a cat. “Is he calling off the wedding?”
I chew on my thumbnail. “I think it depends on my answer.”
Trip scoffs and hangs his head. “Classic.”
“What?” But I know what he’s thinking. “Carter never makes his own decisions?”
He spreads his palms wide. “And now, he’s making this one yours.”
He stands and moves closer, the shadows playing tricks across his nose and the hollows of his eyes. His presence is ominous—a stark contrast to hours earlier when I was kicking at him and giggling on the couch.
He stands just in front of me—basically through the coffee table—so I have to crane my neck to look at him.
“And if you said yes to him? Could you do that to Sabrina? Could you do that to—” He swallows and his throat bobs.
Him.
I stand and meet his eyes. “I love Sabrina. But Carter and I have been friends for fifteen years. I’ve loved him for fifteen years. It—it’s complicated.”
“Is it?” One of those flawless eyebrows cocks skyward.
I want to press my thumb into it, massage the lines on his brow, dissolve the worry from his brain. Instead, I press my fingers against my temples, grasping at the strings of a thousand thoughts fluttering about like kites in a storm.
“And if you say no?” Trip’s voice is rough but hushed. “He’ll just continue with this wedding, business as usual? How do you feel about that?”
“I don’t know—”
“And Sabrina would just marry him, never knowing any of this”—he waves a hand—“happened between the two of you.” His tone is more urgent, his volume rising.
The digital clock on my TV console starts spitting out random combinations that aren’t even real numbers.
“Trip, calm down.” I narrow my eyes. “And you seem awfully concerned about Sabrina in all of this.”
“I’m concerned about Sabrina because she’s a human with fucking feelings. She’s a friend. And right now, she seems a lot like collateral damage in whatever game you and Carter are playing.”
I sigh and roll my eyes. He tips his chin down and refuses to break eye contact.
“Forget about Sabrina, Elz. Forget about Carter. I asked how you feel about all of this.” His hands skim my biceps.
That warm, buzzy feeling fills my chest.
I fiddle with the chain around my neck. “I—I honestly don’t know.”
The corners of his mouth turn downward, and he finally breaks eye contact, eyelashes sweeping toward his cheeks.
“Not even a small part of this makes you mad?”
“Mad? Sure, the timing is terrible and—”
Trip sighs and runs a hand through his hair.
“That. And the fact that he’s strung you along for fifteen years, let you love him and dote on him, and never disagree with him.
Dammit, Elz. He doesn’t deserve the love you give.
And now, just days before his wedding he has some freakout and takes advantage of you always being there yet again.
Except he doesn’t even have the balls to make the decision on his own. ”
Yeah, it’s shitty. Especially since Carter asked me to befriend Sabrina in the first place and is now putting me in such a tough position.
But I also don’t think he would make a declaration like this if he hadn’t given it serious thought.
There are too many people’s emotions involved for this to be happening on a whim. Right?
Trip starts pacing, left side of the coffee table to the right. “Tell me this, Elz. When he calls off the wedding, what then? Do you think he’ll marry you?”
“It was a single conversation, Trip. We obviously didn’t get that far.”
“Okay, but tell me honestly. Once this all blows over—the guests have been called, the gifts sent back, the Carmichaels back in London—will he commit to a life with you?”
“How should I know?”
“Because you have fifteen years of evidence to draw on. When it comes down to it, he doesn’t follow through.”
“What if this time is different?”
He stops pacing and shoots me a skeptical look. “Definition of insanity, sweetheart.”
My butt hits the center cushion of the couch and I lean back into the plush upholstery until it envelops me.
I feel like a caterpillar inside my cocoon in more ways than one.
I’m so close to saying, “To hell with it,” to fully trusting my gut, to feeling confident in my own opinions, my own worth. But one tiny fear still holds me back.
“What if I don’t get another chance at love?”
Trip is beside me in an instant. “You will, Libby.”
I look up at him through tired eyelids. “You called me Libby.”
His face is just a shadow of his profile—sharp nose, full lips, pointed chin. Still burrowed in the pillows, I watch him out of the corner of my eye, too nervous to face him fully.
“I told you I’d choose a life with you after all of this, if you let me. But even if that doesn’t happen”—the shadow of his face dips toward the floor—“you’ll get another chance. Just promise me you won’t settle for someone who only gives you part of themselves.”
“You think Carter—”
“He’s using you. Maybe not in the most obvious, terrible ways. But he’s not giving you what you deserve. Instead, he treats you like his personal ego stroker, always there when he needs a pick-me-up.”
A spark ignites in my chest. “That’s unfair. I’m not some bumbling idiot who just follows him around with her tongue on the floor.”
“No, you’re not an idiot. At all. That’s not what I—” He scratches the back of his neck. “Just sometimes I’m surprised how much you bend.” He sighs. “But I don’t blame you. The Coldwells can be persuasive when they want you to do something for them.”
“Says the man who persuaded me to help him break his family’s curse.”
Trip pulls away as though I’ve slapped him. If only that kind of contact were possible. My words hang there in the air between us.
I continue my train of thought. “How is that fair when the genesis of our relationship is you using me and my feelings for Carter to break your family curse?”
“Is that—”
“I mean, when you really think about it, you found me, you came to my apartment.” I stand up and start pacing, the jute rug like little speed bumps under my socks.
“You knew I was in love with Carter, and you used that information to persuade me to help you.” I bite at a cuticle, drawing blood. Shit.
“Elz, you can’t—”
“Aren’t you the person who has the most to gain if the curse is broken?”
Maybe I should stop, but I’m in my wagon, and adrenaline just gave me a big old push down the hill.
I’m an associate attorney again, putting the pieces together for a case, the satisfying click when they lock into place.
A knot in my chest screams at me to slow down.
Words have consequences, Libby. But I’m also right, and Trip is failing to hold himself to the same standard that he asks of his family.
“A bit hypocritical, isn’t it?” I throw my arms out to my sides.
“You’re so quick to jump on Carter for every little thing.
” I can’t look at him, so instead I fix my gaze on the rug, digging into the ridges with my big toe, words bubbling out of me like a pot boiling over.
“And you’re getting in my head. I never questioned my friendship with Carter before I met you. ”
There’s silence. Seconds tick by without so much as a grunt or a hint of movement in my periphery. This is a battle of wills and I won’t break first. Instead, I’ll count the individual woven strands on the rug.
By strand fifty-seven, my swirling thoughts interfere with my ability to keep count. What if he left? Just disappeared without a sound?
Kotka’s soft steps come from the bedroom behind me.
She slinks her way through my legs, wrapping her tail around my calf.
She pads toward the couch and lets out a mew as soft and pathetic as I am.
I follow her tail. I’m watching Kotka, not giving in.
Inch by inch, my view expands until I see a brown leather dress shoe.
The same one that revealed Trip’s presence on that first day in the library.
Something in my chest settles. He’s still here. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. I drink in the rest of him.
His head rests in his hands, silky strands of hair escaping through the spaces between his fingers. Kotka hops up on the couch next to him and starts swatting at his shirtsleeve, but he doesn’t move an inch. He’s a statue, painted in moonlight. And devastation.
“Trip?” My voice has none of the bravado of several minutes ago.
For once, I’m worried about spooking him. One wrong word and he might vanish from this apartment. Now you’ve done it, Libby.
“Trip, look at me.”
He raises his head, and the strands of hair between his fingertips fall across his brow. His eyes are those of a man who just watched his own death. How is it that in the span of one night, I’ve managed to put that same look on the faces of the two men who mean the most to me?
“I don’t want your help anymore.” His normal baritone has the texture of sandpaper.
“What?”
“You’re right, Libby. I won’t be my grandfather, asking you to do things you don’t want to do to serve some wild goose chase for me—for my family.
” He stands and reaches a hand out toward me, but quickly tucks it in his pocket.
“In fact, I don’t want you to live even one more day in service to a Coldwell.
You have so much more to offer the world.
Your life is yours. You deserve to live it. ”
Maybe I should feel some tremendous release, a weight lifted. Instead, I’m hollow. What if I don’t want to be set free? What if watching him leave will also break my heart? Not to mention what giving up on our task would actually mean.
“But you’ll—” I can’t bring myself to say the word. “Trip, we’re running out of time. I don’t want you to—”
“Don’t worry about me.” He steps forward, cups my chin, and runs a thumb across my cheek.
I close my eyes and savor the buzz, what could be the last time I feel his touch.
“Start worrying about yourself, Libby. I can’t wait to see what you’ll do.”
A single tear rolls its way from my eye to my jawline, and just before it falls, I feel his absence. I open my eyes and he’s standing by the door, head bowed, hand on the knob.
He looks back at me over his shoulder and his eyes trace a slow, languid path from my head to my sock feet. “You were right about another thing.” There’s a twitch in his upper lip, but the sadness in his eyes betrays him. “I did have the most to gain.”