Chapter 15
Simon
The rest of our getaway is amazing. Candlelit dinners. Midnight strolls under the stars. Mind-blowing sex on linen sheets so soft they feel like daffodil petals.
It’s like something out of a fucking fairy tale.
Which is the reason I’m trying to tamp down the romance now that we’re back. We’re at Cassie’s house a week later eating greasy pizza straight from the box. We’re almost to the end of the list, and saying good-bye is going to be hard enough.
De-romanticizing things might make it easier.
I watch Cassie take a bite of pepperoni pizza, reminding myself that this is just a game. She’s just a woman. Nothing magical. Nothing I should consider risking Junie’s happiness to pursue like some kind of selfish—
“I know I should change clothes first, but I’m starving!”
Cassie grabs another piece of pizza out of the box on her coffee table and shoves half of it in her mouth at once. Holding a napkin under her mouth, she closes her eyes in bliss.
I’m glad. It gives me a chance to study her. To commit every detail to memory. She wears tall leather boots and a pair of black skinny jeans that hug every delicious curve. Her sweater is a soft pink cashmere that she explained was a gift from the sisters when they all went shopping today.
“We need to freshen up your wardrobe,” Cassie mimicked when she told me about it over the phone, her voice high in an imitation of Lisa.
I don’t know that I’d like her sisters much, but I have to admit I like their taste in clothes. Pink is a great color on Cassie, and the sweater looks soft and touchable and—
“You’re staring.” Cassie finishes chewing her pizza and swallows, then dabs at her mouth with a paper napkin.
“You’re beautiful.”
She grins. “I’ll bet you say that to all the girls with a mouthful of pepperoni.”
“It is kind of a turn-on.”
I’m sure she thinks I’m kidding, but I’m not. I love seeing her like this. I love being cozied up beside her on the couch with a fire in the fireplace and a pizza in front of us. I could get used to this.
No, goddammit. See? This is what I’m talking about. How can I say good-bye if I can’t stop ogling her like a love-struck dumbass?
I pick up my own slice of pizza and take a bite. Cassie sets down her slice and boots up her laptop, then grabs the pizza again and takes another huge bite.
I pull the computer closer and open a browser window. “Okay, then. Our mission, should we choose to accept it, is to determine whether there is, in fact, a sex position called the Post Hole Digger.”
Cassie giggles. “And if there’s not, to make up our own.”
“It’s a tough job, but someone’s gotta do it.”
Cassie polishes off her last bite of pizza and wipes her hands on a napkin.
She turns the laptop toward her and places her fingers on the keyboard.
I can see her sisters must’ve talked her into a manicure today, and I feel a twinge of sadness.
It looks nice and all, but I’ve grown fond of Cassie’s natural fingernails.
No sharp claws or red lacquer. Just Cassie, perfect the way she is.
“Thanks again for fixing this,” she says as Google flickers to life on the screen. “It’s run much faster since you worked your magic.”
“My pleasure,” I say. “I only regret your loss of the letter X.”
“Didn’t I tell you? It suddenly started working the other day. It was the craziest thing.”
Maybe not that crazy. Wanting to help her out—but knowing her frugality would never allow her to buy a new computer—I rebuilt the machine a few days ago when Cassie went shopping for bridesmaid dresses with her sisters.
If I can’t shower her with expensive gifts, I can at least do that.
I say none of this as I watch Cassie type the words, “Post hole digger sex position” into the Google images search bar. The screen flickers and row upon row of flesh-filled photos appears.
“Yikes.” She stares at the screen for a second, then hits the back button. “I can’t unsee that.”
I nod and pick up another slice of pizza. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for what that man was doing to the tractor.”
“Gross,” she says. “I must’ve missed that one. I was too busy trying not to look at the one with all the mayonnaise.”
“I don’t think that was mayonnaise.”
Cassie makes a face and taps at the keyboard again. “Maybe I should switch to a text search.”
“Good idea.”
She toggles to the Google search bar, but the screen flickers a low-battery warning. Before she can say anything else, the screen fades to black.
“Damn,” she mutters. “I meant to plug it in earlier, but I left the charger cable at my office.”
“It’s okay, I have my iPad.” I reach for the ratty-looking backpack that’s held all my important gear since my college years.
I always meant to trade it in for a fancy briefcase, but that hasn’t happened.
Probably never will. My mom bought me this backpack my freshman year at Stanford, and I’m kind of attached to it.
I pull the iPad out and set it on the coffee table while Cassie studies the backpack.
“I was wondering what you had in there,” Cassie says.
“You thought it might be an arsenal of sex toys?”
“One could hope.”
I grin and flip open the case on my iPad, then hit the power button. The screen flickers to life, and I click the Google app before handing it to Cassie. “Here. Knock yourself out. You mind if I grab something to drink?”
“Please do. Sorry I didn’t offer.”
“No worries,” I call as I stand up and head toward the kitchen. “You got the pizza.”
“There’s a pinot noir open on the counter,” she calls. “There should be some beer in the fridge, or you can grab Coke if you feel like it.”
“Can I get you something?” I call back.
“A glass of the wine would be great. Thanks, Simon!”
“No problem.”
As I locate the glasses and pour a little wine in each one, it occurs to me how cozy we’ve become.
In just a few short weeks we’ve gone from strangers to fuck buddies to— hell, we’re still just fuck buddies.
But we’re fuck buddies who finish each other’s sentences.
Fuck buddies who make each other laugh and make each other come our brains out on a regular basis.
But still just fuck buddies.
That’s all we can be, I know.
But it doesn’t stop me from wishing for more. For loving the intimacy that’s formed between us and racking my brain to come up with some way to protect Junie’s heart and my own from the inevitable disappointment I know would result if I tried to turn this into something more.
“Um, Simon?”
“Yeah?” Something in her voice sounds funny, and I pick up the glasses with a spark of alarm flaring in my chest.
“I think I hit a button on accident. I’m in a different window, and the screen is showing something else. Another window you had open or something.”
I sprint into the living room so fast wine sloshes over the rim of one glass. Cassie looks up, startled. Then she glances down at the screen again. She isn’t smiling.
“What is this?”
My heart zaps frozen in my chest. God, what is it?
My new interview with Forbes magazine? My profile on the Hot Swap website?
In an instant, everything flashes before my eyes.
She knows who I am. The money, the status, everything.
All the things that have made every woman before her morph into a different person. I swallow hard, braced for it.
She looks up again, and I can’t read her expression.
“You like cheesy ‘80s flicks?” Her face breaks into a grin, and she swipes a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
I swallow hard. “What?”
I walk around the sofa as Cassie sets the iPad on the table and turns it around to reveal my movie library in all its embarrassing glory. There they are, with their familiar, campy screenshots and promotional images. Sixteen Candles. Say Anything. St. Elmo’s Fire.
All my favorite films, laid out for Cassie to see.
I set down the wineglasses and feel myself starting to grin. “Guilty as charged,” I admit as relief floods through my limbs.
Cassie grins back and cocks her head to the side. “Well, aren’t you full of surprises?”
I laugh, so happy to learn my cover isn’t blown that I start blurting out the whole story.
“It started with Pretty in Pink when I was a teenager,” I confess.
“A girlfriend made me watch it, and even though I’m sure I was supposed to roll my eyes and act all annoyed by it, I loved every minute of it. Still do.”
“Pretty in Pink?” Her grin widens as she picks up her wineglass and takes a sip.
“I love that era of film. Molly Ringwald, Anthony Michael Hall—the whole Brat Pack. By the time I saw The Breakfast Club, I was hooked.”
She laughs as she picks up a second piece of pizza. “Would you believe I have most of that movie memorized?”
“No way!”
She nods and makes a big show of crossing her heart with a fingertip. “Yep. My sisters and I watched it over and over again one summer until we could quote all the lines. Ally Sheedy’s character was my favorite.”
“The weird girl?”
“Yeah. Were you more of a Judd Nelson or an Emilio Estevez? The jock or the delinquent?”
“Neither,” I tell her truthfully. “I was Anthony Michael Hall all the way.”
“The brain?”
I nod and take my own healthy slug of wine.
I watch Cassie’s gaze drift back to the iPad.
I can tell she’s thinking of picking it up again and continuing our quest. It’s the reason we’re here, after all.
To figure out the best ways to cross off all the items on The List, and to execute the plan with efficiency and a healthy dose of passion.
To check things off one by one and then part company with our hearts unscathed.
But part of me wants to draw this out. To put off items number one and nine and whatever the hell else is left. Are there really only two things?
My heart is racing again, and I know it has nothing to do with the iPad scare a few minutes ago. I don’t want this to be over, but it has to end, and I hate that. I hate it.