Chapter 16
sixteen
“BIG YELLOW TAXI” — COUNTING CROWS
Tavey
I was cursed with the circadian rhythms of a dysregulated toddler on steroids. I wake up with the first ray of sunshine, and there’s no going back to sleep.
Now, normally, I don’t mind. There are worms to get, rows to hoe, and code to write.
But this morning?
This morning, I wish I could slip back into the blissful embrace of my theta brainwaves.
Partly because my head is pounding and my saliva tastes sour.
(How is my mouth both cottony and dry and sour?
I don’t know, but it is.) But also because sleep seems like a better use of my time than trying to piece together my disjointed memories.
I have overindulged in many things in my life. Cheese. Popcorn. LEGOs. Crafting supplies. But rarely alcohol.
Which means all these sensations are grossly unfamiliar. And also, just gross.
My gritty eyes and my memories crave more sleep. My clammy skin and my desecrated internal organs demand I get up.
I pull the covers over my head, but somehow even that minor action makes my stomach flip over in rebellion, propelling me out of bed.
I make it to the bathroom. I don’t puke, but I sit on the cool tile for a moment.
What exactly happened last night? Besides the obvious.
Tequila.
Tequila definitely happened. But what else?
I remember the humiliating parts vividly. Stupid Raquel and Devon’s revelations. I remember being on the dance floor, jumping up and down, screaming I don’t care! along with Icona Pop.
Spoiler alert: I did care.
Very much.
I danced my heart out and screamed with the lyrics because it was so much better than crying.
Dancing is almost always better than crying.
But slowly, the other memories filter through. Miller’s gentle smile as he pushed a glass of water into my hand. His quiet assertion that Raquel is a colleague. His hand at my elbow as I walked back to my room. My bold declaration.
I only bought this dress…
Oh, God.
My stomach flips again, and this time I do throw up, emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet.
There’s a glass of water on the bathroom counter within reach. Almost like someone knew I’d need to rinse my mouth out first thing in the morning. I do, then sit back on the floor, feeling both better and worse.
Clearly, puking was the right move because my stomach has settled. But emotionally?
Sweet baby Jesus.
Did I really say that?
Out loud?
To Miller?
Yes. Yes, I believe all of that is true.
But how did he respond? Why can’t I remember that?
Obviously, he didn’t take my dress off, or he’d still be here. Right?
And why do I remember telling him about Cinnamoroll? Oh dear.
You know what’s even less sexy than a woman who can’t hold her liquor?
A grown woman talking about Hello Kitty and the entire Sanrio universe of characters.
And yet…
Somehow, I don’t remember him being revolted by my drunken behavior.
My memories of everything after that are as elusive as a dream — they slip from my hands every time I try to grab onto them.
Miller’s lips on my skin. Not my mouth. Not a proper kiss. But not… not a kiss either. An almost-kiss. A hint of a kiss. A promise of a kiss.
I shiver. Not from the cold tile, but from the memory of something much more pleasant.
His voice, all gravel and heat, murmuring something.
But what?
Good girl.
Oh.
But surely not. Surely that’s my imagination. My brain filling in the gaps in my memory like Mad Libs.
Because if I was going to whip up a concoction from my deepest sexual fantasies, Miller murmuring good girl would definitely make the top ten. So surely that’s something I dreamed.
But there are other memories, too.
I want more than one night.
Yes, I would have dreamed that up.
Because, of course, that’s what dream-Miller would say. It’s so much of what I want. More than one night. Dozens more. Hundreds.
And then…
Details matter, love.
Oh.
Oh, those words are so Miller. Details do matter to him. And the endearment? Love?
Surely my deepest heart wouldn’t even reach so far.
An endearment like love isn’t something I would have imagined. Certainly not the way I remember it in my head. Not as a casual endearment that sprouted naturally at the end of a devastatingly short sentence.
Details matter, love.
I shiver again, curling onto my side on the bathroom floor. This time I’m not seeking solace in the cool tile. I’m cradling the memory. Clasping it to my chest like it’s a physical thing. Like I can hold it in my heart, even if I can’t hold it in my hands.
But is it real?
I’m still not certain. And I can’t ask him.
Can I?
It’s not like this is a chunk of code he rewrote one night long after I went home and then left for me to find the next morning in our shared GitHub.
I can’t just ping him a question about it on the company messaging system, knowing that he’ll check it and respond as soon as he’s up.
Or can I?
We’re driving back together today. That’s the plan, anyway.
Even if he said no to my offer last night, even if I made him uncomfortable, Miller would never leave me here without a ride.
Even if he had hooked up with Raquel, even if they’d mutually declared their love, eloped to Vegas and already started a family, Miller would still come back to give me a ride home. Because he said he would. And because he’s Miller.
Which actually brings me back to that moment last night when Devon told me I was there as Miller’s wingwoman.
That was the moment that started this whole spiral.
In the cold tile of daylight, everything about that moment seems wrong.
Miller brought me to the wedding. We came here together.
And I don’t believe—-not for one minute—that he would have brought me with him if he’d been hoping to hook up with someone else. That’s just not his style.
And then there’s the fact that it was Devon saying it. Devon, who guzzles office gossip like it’s single-estate champagne. Why on earth did I take his word for it?
Of course I know why. Because the Raquels and Alexas of the world have always made me feel less than. I don’t even know if it’s intentional. God, I probably need to bring this up with my therapist. Or at least with my crochet group.
I easily believed that Miller would want someone like Raquel, because she’s the kind of woman some part of me—some boring, insecure part of me—secretly wishes I could be.
But that doesn’t mean that’s who Miller wants me to be.
Not if he called me love.
I sit up.
Suddenly, memories and wondering are not enough.
If Miller is going to come back this morning to pick me up for the drive home—as bathroom floor logic says he is—then I need to be ready.
That means I need to shower, pack, and for the love of the entire Sanrio universe, I need to brush my teeth.
Twenty minutes later I am up, clean, hydrated, and packed. I’m dressed in the flared skirt and tank top I packed for the ride home. I’ve been mentally rehearsing the perfect witty but deflective opening line every second of those twenty minutes.
I have considered everything from the legally binding (“I’m going to need you to sign this NDA before we proceed”) to the geographically convenient (“Do we have a Denver office? I’ve decided to transfer”).
For better or worse—probably better—I haven’t settled on anything when the knock comes.
It doesn’t matter, anyway. Because I could have written a Shakespearean soliloquy and it would have died on my lips, forgotten completely.
Miller is standing there, looking as devastating as ever in cargo shorts and a black T-shirt. His whiskey-brown eyes are alight with gentle humor, as they often are. His lips quirked in that familiar, faint smile.
But that’s not what stops me in my tracks. Not what kills and buries my wittiest of opening lines.
No, what kills me is the coffee cup he’s holding out.
And the tiny dragon hair clip perched on top.
My dragon hair clip. The one I lost last night.
“Rhaegal!” I gasp, jerking my eyes from the dragon to Miller’s face and back again. “You found him!”
Miller breaks into a full smile. “It was easy once the sun came up.”
I glance behind him, across the lush grass, up the gentle hill to the barn where the reception was held.
The venue sits on acres and acres of land.
While there’s one main path from the venue to the barndominiums that ring it, we definitely didn’t take that path last night.
I remember launching off across the grass.
Veering a bit back and forth as we walked.
I look at Rhaegal again, where he sits on the white lid of the to-go cup.
Last night, I was so worried that my dragons made me more ridiculous. Just another sign that I was too young and too silly for a man like Miller.
But this morning, he found my dragon.
I reach for the coffee automatically. As soon as I’m holding the cup, Miller takes the hair clip from the lid. Every witty line I practiced disappears into the ether as he steps forward and brushes my hair back from my temple with a gentle twist before securing Rhaegal in place.
“There,” he says. “He’s back home safe and sound. Much better.”
My brain is dead. My lungs have stopped functioning. Hormones alone are keeping me alive.
This moment is much like the one last night with Devon.
But that moment made me feel ridiculous. Like a silly girl who needed looking after.
This moment makes me feel everything else.
All the emotions I’ve been trying to wrangle about Miller for all this time come washing over me. Nearly overwhelming me.
It’s there. In the details.
Miller said it best — and I am suddenly, devoutly certain that he did say it — the details matter.
I swallow past my emotions and do some mental CPR to get my heart pumping again before smiling up at him. “I’m ready.”
His gaze drops to my lips for a second before he returns my smile. “Ready to go, I assume?”
I nearly choke, but turn it into a laugh. “Yes. Because I’m pretty sure checkout is in about twenty minutes.”