Chapter Twenty
The Manscaping Debate
Ingrid
There’s a coffee shop around the corner from our hotel in Flagstaff. It’s a short walk. And since Wilder is in the shower and Cash is still sleeping, it’s the perfect time to sneak out.
Just for a few quiet moments to myself.
Because everything is still raw and tender and fragile from yesterday.
Any minute, I’m afraid Wilder’s going to drop another truth bomb. And I’m still trying to clean up the mess from the first two.
I just don’t understand how we got here. The last year was so great. We fell in love. Fell deeper. Had fun. Some part of me even thinks we’ve grown up a little.
If that’s possible for Wilder.
For the most part, things have been easy. Other than Cash, and trying to find a few quiet minutes together, it’s been smooth sailing. No hiccups. No bumps. No truth bombs.
I naively believed that things with Wilder would always be easy. That’s not real life, though.
Jill Winthrop—my favorite walking paradox—believes life is like the seasons. Spring blooms. Summer burns bright. Fall lets go. Winter strips everything bare.
She may explain it a little differently with her rose-colored view of the world, but I’m starting to think she has a point.
Life is full of seasons.
Wilder and I might be in the middle of summer, but we’re going through winter.
“What can I get you?” the barista asks, her tone far too chipper for this early in the morning.
“Just a black coffee,” I answer as I fish my wallet out of my purse.
“Would you like room for creamer?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Nope. Just plain, black coffee.”
“Sweetener?”
“No.”
“Iced or hot?”
“Hot.”
“Whipped cream?”
I let out an exaggerated groan. “I just want you to grab a cup, pour the already-made coffee you have back there in the carafe into said cup, and hand it over.”
I’m being awful. I know I’m being awful.
But if one more person asks me one more question, I might combust.
“I—”
“I’m sorry. I just need coffee before one more question breaks me,” I say as I hand her over a five-dollar bill. “Keep the change. Just give me the coffee, for the love of all things—”
“Ma’am.” The barista holds up her hand. “I’m going to have to ask you to stop raising your voice.”
I blink. Raising my voice? She and Isla would get along great.
“Just give me coffee!” I snap.
She narrows her eyes at me before turning to grab a cup. Then, she fills it with coffee, puts a lid on it, and hands it over.
“Thank you,” I say to her. “Have a great day.”
I don’t stick around to hear her response.
Just as I step outside, my phone rings.
It’s Wilder. I have this sixth sense when it comes to him.
Sure enough, his name is on the screen.
“Hello?” I say as I take a sip of coffee and nearly burn my tongue.
“Where are you?” Wilder asks, his voice teetering on the edge of a full-blown hysteria. “I got out of the shower, and you weren’t here.”
“I just walked down to the coffee shop,” I tell him. “The world’s grumpiest barista works there.”
“You can’t just leave without telling anyone where you’re going, Ingrid,” he chastises me.
I stop walking. “Pretty sure I’m a grown-ass woman, Wilder Andrea Cox.”
He lets out a strangled groan. “You know it’s Andrew.”
“I am my own,” I remind him, completely ignoring the correct spelling of his middle name. “I come and go as I please.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “But not when we’re in a new town.”
My head whips back involuntarily. “You don’t get to tell me—”
“I need you to tell me if you leave the room,” he says quietly. “After yesterday, I need you to tell me.”
Oh.
Did he think I left? Like permanently?
“I didn’t realize…” I trail off.
“I’ll see you when you get back,” he says.
“Okay.”
Then, I hear a click.
Taking a deep breath, I finish the walk back to the hotel feeling drained. I didn’t think a short walk would make him wonder if I was done with us.
I know he didn’t say that—not in so many words—but it felt that way. He’s never worried about where I am or freaked out that I left to go get a coffee.
Maybe I should have told him. Especially after yesterday.
Cash never cared if I left. Then again, he knew I would always come back. I was predictable to him. He knew I’d do anything for him.
So, why doesn’t Wilder feel the same way?
Why is he suddenly so afraid I’ll abandon ship?
The boys are waiting by my car when I reach the hotel.
“Cash wants to stay here another night,” Wilder says. “It’s about an hour and a half drive to the Grand Canyon from here. We can spend the day there, then come back here.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” I tell him.
“I’ll drive,” Cash says and quickly gets into the car.
Wilder hangs back.
“Can we talk for a minute?” he asks me.
I take a sip of my coffee before answering. “Yeah, sure.”
He leans against the trunk of my car and crosses his arms over his chest. I know we’re in this awkward place right now, but my eyes involuntarily drift to his tanned biceps.
“My eyes are up here,” he jokingly says.
Thankful he’s back to his normal self, I let out a small sigh of relief.
“Can’t help it. My boyfriend is hot.”
He shakes his head. “I’m sorry about the phone call.”
“It’s okay,” I say, swallowing hard.
“It’s not,” he counters. “I trust you, Ingrid. I just… you scared me. I thought you…”
“Left you?” I finish for him.
He shifts uncomfortably in front of me. “Yeah.”
I knew it. I knew he was terrified I left him here alone with Cash.
But I’d never do that.
I’m not his dad.
“Until we reach California,” I start to say, “can we just pretend that yesterday didn’t happen?”
Wilder furrows his brow. “Why?”
So many reasons. I want Wilder to have fun with Cash. I want Wilder to chase his dreams. I want to stop being the reason he can’t.
“I just want to enjoy the next few days with you,” I say. “We can figure things out on the way home.” Wilder scrunches his nose. “Or when we get home,” I add.
“I don’t want to ignore it.” He exhales. “My not being honest with you is a big deal.”
“That part sucks,” I say. “You not telling me about these two huge parts of your life, but maybe if I were in your shoes, I would have done the same thing.”
“Stop letting me off the hook so easy,” Wilder warns. “I don’t want you to treat me like I’m Cash.”
The implication stings. My face must show it because he tries to recover.
“I didn’t mean that.”
“Whatever, Wilder,” I snap. “If you want to spend our day at the Grand Canyon fighting, then enjoy the backseat.”
I ignore him and walk over to the front passenger door. Without meaning to, I fling it open a little too hard and drop inside.
“Uh oh,” Cash says as he buckles his seatbelt. “Trouble in paradise?”
My eye twitches. I can’t believe I wasted four years trying to win his approval.
“Last time I checked,” I quip as I slip on a pair of sunglasses, “you were single and alone. So, don’t say shit like that to me. Not today, Cash.”
He turns on the ignition and blows out a long breath.
Finally, Wilder gets in the car.
I don’t bother looking anywhere other than out the window.
It doesn’t matter if Wilder didn’t mean what he said. He still said it. And he knows better than anyone that once you say something, you can’t ever take it back.
I mean, is it the worst thing in the world to be understanding and forgiving?
Or is he right? Do I let the boys I love off the hook too easily?
There’s a resounding yes that echoes in my head.
It would be easy to blame Cash. He spent too many years conditioning me to never question him. To feel honored that he chose me.
But Wilder’s not like that. I never have to earn his love. It’s just there.
So, can I be angry with him and still believe that our relationship will work past this?
“Random question, Wild,” Cash pipes up, ruining the awkward silence.
“Hit me,” Wilder says as he leans forward and rests his elbow on the back of my seat.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cash eye me nervously, then look back at the road.
Good. He should be scared of me.
“What do you think about… manscaping?”
My eyes roll so hard I’m afraid I might sprain something.
“Manscaping?” Wilder repeats.
“Yeah,” Cash answers.
Wilder’s hand runs down the length of my arm, and I resist the urge to lean into his touch.
I don’t want to fight with him. I want things to go back to the way they were.
“Blondie’s the one who works at Loretta’s,” Wilder reminds him. “She’s the person to ask about manscaping.”
“I would rather not be included in this conversation,” I say as I keep my eyes focused out the window at the long stretch of two-lane road ahead of us.
Wilder’s fingers continue to stroke my arm as I lay my head back on the headrest, needing to be closer to him, but grateful for the space.
“Back to me,” Cash says. “I haven’t really done much down there since Ingrid broke up with me.”
“You broke up with me,” I clarify, keeping my gaze out the window.
Cash and Wilder ignore me.
“You got a full-blown bush going on?” Wilder deduces.
Why are they having this conversation with me present? Why?!
“Yep.”
“Did you manscape for Ingrid?” Wilder asks.
Kill. Me. Now.
I say, “No,” at the same time Cash says, “Yes.”
Wilder chuckles. “Yes or no?”
“Sometimes I did,” Cash says. “But with Britta… What are women expecting in that department?”
Wilder takes a deep breath. “I think it’s up to you. If you feel comfortable shaving it all off or just trimming it, or even letting it grow out, you do you.”
I cannot believe this is the stuff boys talk about.
“I don’t want to make a fool out of myself in front of Britta,” Cash continues.
And it suddenly hits me.
Cash never worried like this with me.
Not about condoms. Not about being good enough. Not about making a fool of himself.
I just…
How could I let someone treat me like that? And for so long?
“What would you do?” Cash asks Wilder.
There’s a long pause before he finally answers.
“I wouldn’t assume my cross-country pen pal is down for sex until I met her in person,” he answers.
“And the bush?” Cash presses.
“I’d trim it,” Wilder counsels. “Don’t shave it all off. But, you know, maintain appearances.”
“What am I trying to maintain?” Cash pushes.
“Just shave it off,” I snap at Cash. “If it’s such a big deal, shave it all off.”
Cash clears his throat. “Is that what men typically have done at Loretta’s?”
“Some do,” I answer. Then, just to be cruel, I add, “And most of them get their buttholes waxed, too. You should definitely shave that. Wouldn’t want Britta to think you don’t take care of yourself.”
“Someone is feisty today,” Cash mumbles under his breath.
I should say something back. Something mean and hurtful.
But Wilder’s fingers find my shoulder and squeezes lightly. As he does, a message pops up on my phone from him.
He’s just nervous. Don’t take it personally.
Don’t take it personally that he never cared if his bush was whacked for me? Yeah, okay.
Don’t take it personally that he chose backpacking through Europe instead of telling me the truth? That his mom got my dad fired. That we almost lost everything.
Anger flares in my chest.
But right now, I can’t tell if it’s from Wilder’s remark that I let him off the hook too easy—or if it’s from Cash treating me like shit most of our relationship.
I type back a reply.
I wasn’t letting you off the hook because I’m a pushover. I was trying not to ruin this trip because I don’t know how much longer we’ll last like this.
He reads the message, and I hear a sharp inhale from the backseat.
But I don’t look over my shoulder.
If Wilder wants my wrath, he’s going to get it.