3. Lana
three
Lana
By sunrise, we’re two towns away, eating pancakes at a diner where no one knows Marx was supposed to get married today.
At noon, he buys jeans, boots, and three flannel shirts. Wearing a designer suit doesn’t make sense because that was all he packed for his wedding.
When he steps out of the fitting room wearing jeans and a blue flannel shirt, I forget to breathe for a moment. The way he looks in denim and flannel should be a sin.
He catches me staring. "Are you okay?"
"I’m fine.” I feel my cheeks heat up at being caught.
"You're staring." He teases.
"I am not." I suddenly become very interested in the men’s underwear on the table next to me.
"You absolutely are." He steps closer, takes the leopard-print men’s underwear from my hand, and places it back on the table. “Definitely not my style.”
"You’re insufferable.”
He steps closer, slides a finger under my chin, and tilts my head toward him. "Do you like my outfit?"
"It’s acceptable."
"Liar," he smirks.
I turn away so he won’t see me blush. This is supposed to be friendship—an escape. Nothing more. He's only been single for less than twelve hours. I'm not going to be his rebound. I repeat it several times, praying I'll start to believe it.
Rebound relationships are the worst. Not that I know firsthand. But I don’t want to be the woman he only fondly remembers as the one who helped him forget his fiancée while he grows old with the woman he later falls in love with.
After our shopping adventure, we drive into the mountains and, by evening, find a small rental cabin—one bedroom, of course.
One bed is a practical problem—sharing it with Marx is a whole other issue.
"This is a problem," I point out the obvious.
"I'll sleep on the couch," Marx says. I look at the couch—it’s about four feet long—Marx isn’t.
"We can share the bed. We’re adults. Nothing has to happen.”
"Nothing will happen unless you want it to." The way he says it makes my stomach flutter.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I blurt, breaking the spell. “It’s been a long day.” I grab a T-shirt, a pair of underwear, and my toiletries bag, then rush to the bathroom.
What am I doing here?
Quickly stripping out of my clothes, I turn the shower to hot, hop under the water, and think about the life choices I made over the last few hours.
I hope the note I left for my siblings is enough to keep them from calling the police.
I’m the responsible one—I don’t run off in the middle of the night with some strange man.
But here I am, hiding from both the man and my feelings.
Unable to hide in the bathroom any longer, I turn off the shower, dry off, and slip into the boring cotton panties and t-shirt before finishing getting ready for bed.
“It’s all yours,” I say to Marx as I step out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. He nods, grabs his stuff, and heads to the bathroom.
I pace the small room for a few minutes, thinking about sharing a bed with Marx, when I hear the shower turn off. Not wanting to be caught pacing, I slide under the covers and wait for Marx. I almost swallow my tongue when he walks out of the bathroom wearing only a pair of gray jogging pants.
“I forgot to buy pajamas,” he says, shrugging. “Or even a T-shirt. All I have are flannel shirts.”
Before I can even form a thought, he turns out the light and crawls into bed, making sure to keep some space between us.
"Marx?" I say into the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"Do you regret canceling the wedding?"
"No." He says without hesitation.
"Good."
The mattress dips as he turns toward me. "What about you?"
I roll onto my side and face him in the dark. "What about me?"
"Regret coming?"
The past twenty-four hours race through my head, and I’m not sure how to answer that. Marx has been nothing but a gentleman, except for that hungry look he gives me when he thinks I’m not looking. But I’m always watching him.
Maybe it’s the lack of sleep or the adrenaline from doing something so crazy as running away with a guy I don’t even know, but I’m not ready to regret anything. After we both get a good night's sleep, we might feel differently.
"Ask me tomorrow." I roll away from him, facing the opposite direction, not ready to give up all my secrets on our first night together.
His quiet laugh fills the dark, and I know in my heart that I will never regret running away with Marx.