Chapter 8
“Why in the hell do you have a Sunrise Away bag?”
Reed and I sit at opposite ends of the bench in the back seat of an Uber, dressed in our yellow sweatshirts, clutching lavender Babe & Willem goody bags, en route to his hotel.
The bubbly outlaw vibe has all but evaporated.
My social battery instantaneously depleted upon learning that this man lives three thousand miles away.
I’ve tripped headfirst into a Rikki-curse spiral.
Of course he doesn’t live here. Stupid curse.
Stupid fucking name. Stupid giant-ass country. I should have asked about this earlier.
I have no right to be angry. But here we are. “That was supposed to be my signature bag!”
Reed’s mouth has been stuck in a subtle side smirk for the past fifteen minutes. “You do know the company made more than one Sunrise Away bag . . .”
“It’s limited edition,” I snap.
“Not that limited.”
I cross my legs and uncross them again ten seconds later. “Limited apparently means nothing anymore,” I grumble.
“Are you gonna be okay?” Reed asks, bemused.
Am I? I blow out a long breath, glaring at the back of the passenger seat in front of me. “Yes. It’s just been a really long day.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever gone to a wedding this elaborate,” Reed says, cheerfully changing the subject. “Sweatshirts and a goody bag. They went all out.”
I huff out a muffled laugh. “Babe’s been thinking about this her entire life, so I’m not surprised. Her personality’s very ‘go big or go home.’”
Reed lifts his bag with a wry grin. “Should we do an unboxing?”
We dump our bags onto the seat between us. A load of cute little souvenirs pour out.
A QR code to a Babe & Willem Wedding Playlist.
A Babe & Willem chocolate cigar.
A deck of Babe & Willem playing cards.
Babe & Willem matches.
A bag of kettle corn. A bottle of water. Electrolytes. Two Advil.
And an old-timey brown leather journal with a white garter around it—a replica of the one currently outfitting my thigh.
Wow. Expensive gifts.
No journal fell out of Reed’s bag. I pick mine up, running my finger down the spine. It’s real leather. The binding feels worn, soft, old.
“Wow.” Reed whistles through his teeth, watching me admire it. “That’s nice. I wonder if that’s like an every-fifth-bag-gets-one gift.” He points at the back. “Your name is on it!”
“What?” I smile, turning it over in my hand.
My name is on it. Rikki Romona is carved into the leather along the back cover in small cursive font.
I gape at it. “Wow. Yeah, this is quality.” It almost feels warm.
Cozy. Like laundry fresh from the dryer.
I slide the garter off and onto my wrist. There’s a snap closure underneath it.
“I love a good journal. It’s been a while since I used a notebook for anything other than work. ”
Reed grins. “It’s a sign. The universe reminding you to write for fun.”
I sneak a glance up at the car ceiling. “The universe and I have such a will they, won’t they? relationship.”
Reed laughs. “Do you believe in the universe?”
I tilt my head. “Do you?”
We peer at each other for an extensive, static moment, in our damp oversize sweatshirts and underwear.
The reverberating sense of seen-ness I’ve felt echoing through my bones since our promenade thrums in the silence.
The sex goblin that hijacked my ability to rationally exist while we were intertwined in the lake rouses in my gut.
“The universe is made of stories,” Reed says finally. “Not atoms. And I sure as fuck believe in those.”
“What?” I squint at him. “Did you just quote . . . Muriel Rukeyser?”
He drags a hand down his face, a blush climbing his pale neck. “Why do you know that?”
“I took a feminist poetry class in college. Why do you?”
Reed purses away a smile, staring down at his palms. “I’m a poetry enthusiast. The ‘Speed of Darkness’ is wild!”
“Why do you keep quoting poetry to me?”
“Because it’s in my brain, and it seemed appropriate in the moment!”
“So do you?” I prompt.
“Do I what?”
“Believe in the universe!”
He mashes his lips together, hesitating for a beat. “If you asked me this any other day, I’d say no.”
I wait for Reed in the car while he runs up to get my suitcase from his hotel room.
I couldn’t go up with him. I like him too much. And I don’t know him well enough. And I don’t trust the sex goblin.
He returns five minutes later, loads my bag into the trunk, and slides back into the car.
Five more minutes pass before the Uber pulls up to my apartment building.
I make Reed wait in the car while I go up, drop off my goody bag, and grab his suitcase.
I sneak another look at the luggage tag in the elevator. R. Tyler.
Reed Tyler.
When the doors ding open, he’s there. Waiting for me in the lobby. The war-hero look is back. All hard angles. But his mouth is tipped up just slightly at the edges. A small, sad smile. I mirror the expression as we stare at each other for another beat, clutching each other’s luggage.
“Time for the hostage exchange?” he quips.
We swap suitcases.
I meet his cyber-blue eyes one more time. “Well. Thanks for being my date. Have a safe trip home.”
He smiles. “Yeah. Thanks for the adventure, Rikki.”
We hug. As I pull back, he plants a soft kiss on my jaw. It throws me completely off-kilter. A tingling heat spreads from the spot on my face, racing down and across my collarbone.
I need to get out of this lobby.
I will not invite him upstairs. I can’t form a doomed romantic attachment with Reed Tyler. Absolutely not. I grab my luggage and spin toward the elevator.
Reed snags my gaze as I throw one last confused glance over my shoulder. “Night, Rikki Romona.”
“Goodbye, R. Tyler.”
He drops a curt nod, pushes open the front door, and disappears into the darkness.