Epilogue
LILY
Whoever wrote the sixties song “Breaking Up Is Hard to Do” didn’t know the half of it. I’ve been living in Breakup Limbo for a year. A quiet town, population: two. Three hundred and sixty-five days of indecision.
Each month I wonder when I’ll find the courage to break up with Kevin, crushing our eleven years together. Each month my fear and nerves and doubt feed my uncertainty. Then my design partner and boss, Sawyer West, comes to town, and I’m a walking mess.
We stand back from the takeout counter now, Sawyer with his arms crossed, me biting my lip, while we examine the chalkboard menu above.
Normally ordering lunch is a simple affair.
I might take a while deciding between a wrap or a salad, sushi or dim sum, but I don’t stare at the menu as if the letters are rearranging themselves.
That only happens when I’m with Sawyer.
He squints at the scrawled letters. “I’m obviously getting the Pig Wrap. Chipotle bacon and porchetta were invented for me. You know what you want?”
You, I should say. I’ll take all six feet, the sandy hair, brown eyes, wide shoulders, and lean body to go. With an extra dimple and sexy smile on the side, please. Unfortunately, my boyfriend might put up a fuss when I show up with my purchase.
“Can’t decide,” I say. The theme of my life these days.
A month ago, I dragged Shay and Raven out for a girls’ night.
I was desperate to unload my dizzying thoughts about my stagnant relationship with Kevin, and I laid out the details.
How we’d grown apart. That I loved him but wasn’t in love with him.
They were the same words I’ve been parroting mentally for over a year as I flipped through old photos solo, gorged on chocolate, and wondered when we lost what we had.
My decision seemed clear in that moment with my friends.
I was sure I’d march home and finally end things with Kevin.
But when I arrived home, he smiled at me from our couch, his nose poking above his book as he said, “Your mom called. I told her I’d head up north this weekend to help with that charity drive.”
My resolve plummeted, and anxiety cramped my stomach.
He’s a good man, I thought. He loves my family as much as I love his.
So, I said nothing. I went to sleep alone, the way I often do, my abdomen twisting in discomfort, and when he crawled into bed, we slept with our backs to each other.
Now Sawyer is in town from Vancouver, his first visit since that night, and I hate myself a little more for not being strong enough to move on with my life.
Oblivious to my turmoil, he says, “If you can’t decide what to order, we’ll have to break it down. Pros and cons.” He steps behind me as a group of three squeezes past us to order at the counter. The toes of his shoes touch the heels of my ankle boots.
“Okay,” I say all breathy, like I’m twenty-six going on sixteen.
“The Veggie Vixen is off the list for obvious reasons. Portobello mushrooms don’t replace meat. The Napa Wrap could be decent since turkey is your go-to choice. The apple is a plus, and you eat kale like it’s going out of style. But the blue cheese is a deal-breaker.”
“I like blue cheese.”
“No, you don’t. No one actually likes something that smells like feet. And the honey-mustard dressing is questionable. If they use that Dijon crap, it’s a hard no.”
I tilt my head so he can see me roll my eyes, and my hair catches the stubble along his jaw. He brushes the strands away, grazing my ear.
My IQ joins my belly in a free fall.
It’s been like this since Aspen, my feelings and attraction to Sawyer growing by the week. The day. The minute.
I often pick apart the domino effect that led us together, a string of innocent coincidences: Shay staying in her toxic relationship with her ex, him dumping her, then Raven and I taking her on a girls’ trip to Aspen.
Shay skiing into Kolton, and us girls unknowingly knocking on his condo door, where we met his friends.
Without any of those choices, I wouldn’t have looked into Sawyer’s brown eyes as we talked design and clothing for five days, my I have a boyfriend the only thing keeping him at a platonic distance.
Now, nine months later, I’m working for his retail chain, while crushing on my boss.
And I still have my boyfriend.
Another couple hurries in, and the man accidentally brushes against us.
Sawyer tips into me and grips my waist to keep from falling.
The man apologizes and Sawyer replies, but I don’t hear a thing.
I may be wearing a thick pea coat, but I sense each of his fingers—his thumb on my back, his large hand curling around my waist, his index finger touching my ribs.
I inhale deeply, and I swear his grip tightens. I’m on my feet, no chance of falling, but he doesn’t let go.
“Back to the pros and cons,” he says, his voice deep and heavy in my ear. The rest of his playful menu descriptions barely register.
His lips stay near me, his hands spanning my waist as he helps me decide what to order, and I’m hazy, almost weightless from his proximity.
As though I’m air and he’s light and we’re lost in space.
The way he takes advantage of moments like this, touching me, talking close, I wonder if he feels it, too.
But I’m not available.
“So, what will it be?” he asks.
“Sorry, what?”
He pauses, drops his hands, and steps to the side. No air. No light. Only confusion. “What will it be?” he repeats. “The offensive blue cheese wrap, or the Greek chicken one with the olives and feta?”
Just like that he flips us back to friends and coworkers, as though I imagined the heat between us. “I’ll get the blue cheese one.”
As he heads to the counter, he says to me, “If you’re nice, I’ll let you have a bite of mine when you realize you made the wrong choice.”
I almost laugh. Almost. He has no clue how badly I want that bite.
More excruciating minutes later, Sawyer turns with our food. We remove our coats and sit at the counter. He takes the radish garnish from his plate and sticks it on mine. I give him my pickle.
After a few bites of his wrap, he says, “This is amazing. How bad is yours?”
I pick up a piece of fallen blue cheese and make a show of placing it on my tongue. “Delicious.”
“That’s nasty. But I’m glad my pros-and-cons exercise worked. When I go home and you get stuck making a decision, you should call me. I’ll talk you through it.”
That would be quite the conversation. “I’m capable of making my own decisions.”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
He swallows another bite and shrugs. “When it comes to work, you’re a decisive champ. You play around with options until you nail an idea. But when we go out to lunch or you rent a movie—you know, the important, life-altering decisions—you freeze. That’s where I come in.”
That is where he comes in. Kevin often works late, and I use the time to sketch, sometimes brainstorming with Sawyer. If I plan to watch a movie afterward, Sawyer and I sit on the phone while I scroll through listings, laughing at the options, me unable to decide.
His voice fills me with static. Electromagnetic interference. If he were one of the comic book characters he obsesses over, he’d be Captain Distracto.
Sawyer’s powers are even stronger in person.
Since he and Kolton opened their newest Moondog location in Toronto—another coincidence, fate guiding my life—Sawyer flies down from Vancouver monthly to check on the place.
We review my sketches, and I try on sample clothing while we swap ideas.
I often zone out then, too, wondering how his stubble would feel against my inner thighs.
Static, static, static.
Guilt always follows shortly.
“I don’t trust your taste in movies,” I say. “You only like the Marvel Comics ones.”
“Because they’re awesome.”
“Because they’re juvenile.”
He grins. “Juvenile is awesome, but these days they’re pretty dark and gritty. Also awesome.”
I lick some sauce from my fingers and glance over to catch him watching me. His gaze lingers on my lips. Without warning he reaches over and brushes his thumb across the corner of my mouth, those beautiful brown eyes turning midnight.
His lips part. My pulse rockets.
Then he blinks and pulls his hand back, and that slick of guilt returns, my belly a roiling mess.
“Just a crumb,” he says to the window in front of him and picks up his wrap.
I should look away, but I can’t. I love how his eyelids slant down at the sides, giving him a lazy look.
Relaxed. Laid back. Outside, pedestrians battle the wind, hunched forward as they hurry by.
Sawyer eats quietly, and I try to do the same, but his knee is touching mine, his elbow brushing mine, his space invading mine, sending tingles to my toes.
Static, static, static.
He wipes his mouth, tosses his crumpled napkin on his plate, then he stares at my half-eaten wrap. “I told you not to get that one.”
“It was good. I just wasn’t hungry.”
He checks his watch. “I should go. I have some things to do before my flight.”
He studies me for a beat, his gaze roaming my face, then he leans in to kiss my cheek.
So, so slowly. So, so softly.
His warm breath and closeness overheat my brain to the point of meltdown, and he lingers. A platonic friend wouldn’t linger, would they? A platonic friend wouldn’t inhale my scent.
Or maybe I’m overanalyzing everything he does.
A moment later, he pulls back. “You watching one of those stupid singing shows tonight?”
Still tingly and mesmerized by the small scar on his neck, I shake my head. “Kevin and I have plans.”
His jaw tics, a slight frown following. Like he’s maybe jealous? Then he grins, big, bright, and carefree. Maybe his jaw didn’t tic. Maybe the frown was nothing.
“Send the revised purse sketch when it’s done,” he says. “And I used one of the last drafting boards this morning. You should order more and check our supplies.” He puts on his coat and winks at me. “See you at the Christmas party next week.”