Chapter 37 San Diego
The rain is an onslaught as we close in on our destination almost four hours later.
We hit so much traffic that we missed the ceremony.
Not that Reed had planned for us to go—he said it was going to be mostly family, and we’d probably skip it—but that’s off the table now.
We only have about an hour and a half before the reception.
The clouds have been utterly assaulting the earth.
I’ve never seen rain come down so hard on the West Coast. We spent the majority of the ride crawling down the highway among the horde of other vehicles braving the storm.
I’ve learned a lot.
Reed’s biggest insecurity is being a bad novelist (I gave him a lengthy lecture detailing why he most definitely is not). Mine was not having a stable family life. (Reed went quiet. Leaned over, grabbed my knee, and squeezed it.)
His biggest body insecurity is his mouth—which I think is blasphemous. I told him so. Mine is how I apparently only present as cute and never hot (something Ted said to me once that still lingers in my psyche). Reed literally pulled us over among the virtual gridlock to discuss this.
“Who the fuck told you you’re not hot?”
I shared my brief Ted story. Reed stared me down for thirty seconds (eye-sexed me) before pushing my hair back, leaning in over the shell of my ear and saying, “You present as hot, Rikki. I want to open you up and read all the small print.”
The first line of the sex chapter. I proceeded to have a full-on lust meltdown as he put the car back into drive and pulled us back into traffic.
His most irrational fear is E.T. being real. Mine is a tie between the mere idea of bungee jumping and singing in front of people.
His most embarrassing moment is applying for Survivor for a fifth time and still not being cast, which is not embarrassing and should not count. Mine was, of course, being caught streaking. And just now he revealed that the thing he’s most grateful for is his brother.
My heart.
“That’s so sweet,” I tell him. “He seems really protective of you.”
Reed’s brow scrunches up as we hang a right and our hotel comes into view. He cuts me a bemused look. “Why would you say that?”
“Well he messaged me on Instagram—”
Reed shifts in his seat. “Whoa, what? He messaged you on Instagram?”
“Don’t worry, he didn’t say anything bad. It was after the streaking night. He just asked if I liked you and told me not to hurt you.”
Reed’s body tenses, but he doesn’t respond. He switches on his blinker, pulling us into the hotel roundabout under the protection of their overhang. Reed’s fully frowning as the abrasive sound of the rain abruptly recedes.
I reach out to rest a hand on his forearm. “Sorry, did I get him in trouble? Are you okay?”
He nods, softening as two bellmen pull open the car doors and usher us into the hotel.
Reed booked us a double queen room. Brownie points for not presuming we’d be sleeping in the same bed.
But I do plan on sleeping in the same bed. He aced my questions. We didn’t get to all thirty, but I’m about four times more in crush with him than I was when we started.
He took his time, sharing so much about his personal life.
He went out of his way to be vulnerable.
Thoughtful. Reflective. And he did it so easily.
Answering the questions myself was like pulling my own teeth.
Reed is good. And smart. And caring. And ambitious and driven.
Motivated. Hardworking. He’s everything I’ve been looking for.
If anyone is worth giving long distance a shot, it’s him.
I feel the same way he says he feels. I want to trust that he actually feels it.
Reed steps out of the bathroom in black pants, a tight black T-shirt, and a leather T-Birds jacket. His auburn hair is gelled up and forward to match Danny Zuko’s classic look.
I’m still sitting in front of the full-length mirror, finishing my hair. I meet his eyes in our reflection as he sits down over my shoulder on one of the beds. I smile at him. “You look great.”
He laughs. “I weirdly feel very New Jersey.”
I unravel the final whorl of my hair from the curling iron. “Danny Zuko does give New Jersey.”
Since he’s wearing an end-of-movie look, I broke out Whitney’s tight black Sandy outfit. I’ve done a red lip, and I’ve been fixing my hair into tight curls.
“You gonna hit me with number twenty-two?” He grins. We still have nine questions left.
“R. Tyler, I’ve heard enough.”
He bulges his eyes in the mirror. “What does that mean?”
I unplug the curling iron. “It means . . .” I move to lean against the desk across from his perch on the bed, arms braced nervously on the tabletop. Reed’s eyes drop to my heeled black sandals and ride back up my tight black satin pants and black bodysuit to my face.
“Holy shit.” He clears his throat and grins up at me. “It means?” he prompts.
I laugh. “It means, yes. Let’s do it. Let’s try being something real.”