16. Damage Control #2
Trish returns her wave with a smile. A smile that dims when she turns back to me.
Trish
After my grandparents died and I didn’t know how I was going to make ends meet, I didn’t have any trouble sleeping. The first night that I ran away from home, tail tucked between my legs and tear tracks on my cheeks, I slept like the dead.
But tonight, sleep eludes me. Which is supremely vexing, as I would very much like to put an end to this day.
I sneak my hand out from under Ian’s arm that’s draped over me and tap the screen of my phone lying on the nightstand. Two-fifteen in the morning. Technically, the day has ended, but I’m still letting the events of yesterday mar today. I yawn, my dry, exhausted eyes watering.
Ian shifts on the mattress, pulling me closer against him, like if he can just hold on hard enough I won’t leave.
But I will.
Last night made me realize that.
I mean, I’ve always known I was going to skedaddle after the wedding, but my subconscious may have been hoping for an alternate ending, even when I told it not to.
My subconscious is a fool.
Ian talked the entire ride home last night.
As the bright lights of the city faded into the dim overhead highway lights of suburbia, I heard him say things like family friend , lesbian , father’s side-piece , not all of it making sense.
But I listened. I even nodded when he finally ran out of steam and told him I understood.
And I meant it. I may not have understood the details of his night, but I very much understood the situation.
I am not a Brenda. I will never be a Brenda. And no matter what happens in the future, Ian’s parents will never want me posing in their family pictures, or even sitting at their table.
It’s better to end this now than continue to foster any hope for something more. Even my subconscious has come to terms with that. Probably why I can’t sleep.
Yee haw .
Ian huffs a breath against my neck at the sound, and I frown at my glowing phone screen. Since when did I have that as a notification sound?
Reaching out once more, I slide my arm against the cool sheets and manage to one-handedly unplug my phone from the charger. I have to squint against the light of the phone to see clearly.
A text from Rose.
I smile. I gave her my phone earlier at the fundraiser as we got buzzed on gin and tonics while waiting for Ian. She hadn’t wanted to stuff her phone into her cleavage ’cause she thought that might be the straw that broke the evening gown’s seams, as it were.
It really shouldn’t surprise me that while looking something up, she’d taken the time to change all my ring tones.
Her text is a shocked emoji followed by a web link. Under that a second text pops up.
You sure you don’t need me to come get you?
I wait a moment more before clicking the link, checking to make sure Ian’s still asleep. The even rise and fall of his chest against my back tells me he is.
The link goes to the city news web page, where pictures of Houston’s elite in diamonds and gowns are posted from the fundraiser.
Front and center is Ian, his arm held out for the woman he’d escorted into the ballroom.
The caption reads: Senator’s son and NASA engineer Ian Kincaid shown here with date Brenda McGowan.
Ms. McGowan is the daughter of former Dallas mayor Theodore McGowan, and according to an inside source, a very close friend of the Kincaid family.
Rose sends me an emoji of a shovel.
I’m a writer. I know that words can insinuate and shape the reality of the situation. Nothing the reporter said, according to Ian, is untrue. A high school friend is a close friend.
And I know that Rose is probably wanting for me to go all drama llama on Ian over this picture, but a sense of foreboding that has nothing to do with Ian’s supposed date forms in my stomach.
Going back over the night, I retrace my steps.
When the senator entered there were plenty of camera flashes, reporters vying for his attention, but I was well away from the mob at that point.
Not even when I was sitting next to a bona fide Houston oil heiress was I approached by anyone with a camera.
I don’t recall even one camera flash pointed in my direction.
As I try and convince myself of this, dread forms in my gut.
“Trish?” Ian’s sleepy murmur vibrates against my nape.
“Sorry.” Quickly, I click the side button of my phone, the room going dark once more. “I was just, uh, writing out an idea I had for my book.”
He snuggles against me, his hips pushing against my bottom. “What kind of idea?”
Smiling in spite of the anxiety churning inside me, I push right back. “Not that kind of idea.” His hand travels under my tank top while the evidence of his arousal grows. “But you could always try and inspire me.”
We’d been too tired for sex when we got home, or so I’d thought. It’s probably more likely Ian was too wary of me after the epic failure of the night, and I was too absorbed in my own downtrodden thoughts to consider it.
But now, as his hand palms my breast and my panties dampen, I’m thinking sex just might be the perfect solution to my sleepless night.
After all, I only have so long to enjoy it.
This girl is just too stupid to live.
I select the large amount of text I’ve been slaving over for the past two hours and hit delete.
Emma, the heroine in the new book I’m writing, is the new bane of my existence.
In romance there are a bunch of different categories for both the hero and the heroine.
Everyone’s probably familiar with the tried and true Alpha hero.
There are others— the Beta, the billionaire, the shifter, the special agent.
For women there are also categories, and one of the least feminist and most aggravating is the ‘too-stupid-to-live’ heroine.
This is the girl who runs into dark alleys when being chased or who will scream and wail at the smallest bit of conflict between the hero and herself.
In general she is annoying and sets women back fifty years, and yet somehow I have made Emma into one of them.
Yesterday I blamed my poor writing choices on lack of sleep, though I had managed to drift off after two amazing, coma-inducing orgasms from Ian’s long, slow, and intense lovemaking.
No. Not lovemaking. It was sex. Great sex, but just sex nonetheless.
These are the constant, small reminders I have to give myself now that I’m for sure cutting all ties and leaving.
As I was saying, after the great sex I was exhausted. So when I wrote that Emma bitch-slapped the hero and ran away in the middle of the night for no apparent reason, I simply told myself I was too tired to write well and snuck out while Ian was swimming laps.
I left a note saying there was a last-minute wedding planning session, and I wouldn’t be back until later. Later ended up being after Ian was in bed asleep, but still, it was later.
There wasn’t any wedding planning to do, but part of my plan to distance myself from Ian is avoidance.
Instead, I wound up at Heartbreakers. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a pole dance class that morning, but Angela let me in anyway.
I guess I must have had the look of someone needing to be left alone, ’cause she simply pointed to an unused pole and let me work out while the other dancers practiced for their Sunday night regulars.
Then I fed ducks at a park pond like the sad, lonely old woman I’m destined to become, followed by stargazing in the back of my truck, ignoring all of Ian’s texts.
Today, I’m working off of a good eight hours of sleep. So there’s no reason why I just made my heroine give up everything that she’s built— her career, her home, and her friends— just so she can prove to the hero that she loves him.
Ugh.
I close my laptop and lie back on my lounge chair. No, not my lounge chair. A lounge chair. More specifically, Ian’s lounge chair. A lounge chair that I have no claim over and will never have claim over.
Funny how that makes me sad.
Knock it off, Patty Ann . I need to keep my big girl panties pulled up for just a few more days.
That’s all there is between today and Jackie’s wedding.
If I minus Thursday’s bachelorette party night and Friday’s bridesmaid’s spa day and add in the fact that Ian is super busy at work this week getting ready for his Germany trip and seeing his therapist for help with his claustrophobia, that really just leaves three nights.
Just three nights I need to keep myself away from Ian.
A car’s engine revs, and my ears perk up. The sound fades as the car drives through the neighborhood. I’m annoyed how disappointed I am that it isn’t Ian. A glance at my phone tells me I have a few hours yet.
Since today seems to be a lost cause for writing, I collect my stuff and head inside. I should binge-watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer or see if Wonder Woman is on Netflix yet. Immerse myself with strong female leads try to rid myself of these too-stupid-to-live thoughts.