Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
His relentless energy and daring attitude were a huge turn-on.
Trouble was, he was only out at work. He turned out to be closeted to his family.
He didn’t invite me to join him for Thanksgiving. Or Christmas. When he finally asked me to a Fourth of July event, he said I could come but I’d need to be just a friend. So I said, how about you become just an ex?
The zinger alone was nearly worth the heartbreak, but I had liked him.
Legit liked him.
I was falling in love with him, so it hurt like hell to walk away.
Even when guys turn out to be wrong for you, the ending still stings.
But so can a bad relationship. I saw that in my parents, in the way they snipped and sniped at each other at the dinner table, and in the way their petty arguments spilled over into family time. Pass the salt was code for I’m still pissed at you. Like, they couldn’t have waited till Grace and I were at school to poke at each other’s sore spots. They had to do it in front of us, with underhanded jabs they thought we wouldn’t notice. There’s a time and place for hard conversations, and that time is in private.
Not in front of your kids.
I don’t want that kind of relationship.
I want something real.
Something that could last.
Something meaningful.
I haven’t dated anyone since Ezra. Maybe I’ve been hoping for the right moment with River.
Maybe I shouldn’t deflect anymore.
After eight years, and plenty of other boyfriends that didn’t pan out, perhaps I need to start leaning into his flirting more. Even if it is terrifying.
As we pull away from Petaluma and onto the highway again, I vow to hunt for the right moment to let my best friend know how I feel. But I add another vow. A brand-new one—one designed to protect me. If I tell him and it doesn’t work out, I’ll move on. Right away. I’ll get back on the apps before Christmas.
I’ll start dating again.
It’s time.
“Yes, it’s just you and me,” I say, my voice strong, masking the nerves underneath.
“Just the way I like it,” River says, then he taps the dash. “Your turn. You play some music. I want to be wowed by the deejay in the passenger seat.”
I want to wow him.
Because this chemistry isn’t only terrifying.
It’s thrilling.
5
RIVER
I am the worst.
I tell myself I won’t flirt, but what do I do?
The opposite.
And all this banter and sweet talk isn’t curbing my craving for Owen. It’s fanning the fire. Hell, the flames are climbing sky-high. Talking to him is easier than mixing drinks, than deciding to go on a hike, than goofing off with Delilah.
Hell, I made the guy happy by finding a perfect podcast for him—by knowing his tastes. And that feels so good.
Too good.
The last hour with Owen has my brain spinning forward, picturing future days. I need to pop this tingly, shivery bubble of my own making.
Stat.
When the first tune to fill the car is an Arctic Monkeys cover of a poppy love song, I seize my opportunity. “Wasn’t this Ezra’s favorite band?”
Owen scrunches his brow. “No. I’m the one who likes them. Not him.”
Oops. My bad. Sometimes the memory chip goes faulty. “But he liked them too,” I add, since the topic of exes is definitely non-flirting territory and I need to walk all over it. It’s perfect for a reset to FriendshipLandia.
“Because I did. Why are you asking whether he liked them?”
“Just thinking about Ezra,” I say, and mayday, fucking mayday. What is wrong with my brain?
Owen laughs like I’ve gone mad. “And why are you thinking about my ex?”
“I didn’t like him. He wasn’t any . . . fun,” I say, since that’s true, and a safe enough topic.
“Ezra wasn’t fun enough? That was your issue with him?” Owen sounds incredulous.
“He never liked to hang out with the whole group. He wanted you all to himself,” I say, and once those words fall from my lips, they don’t sound much better than he wasn’t any fun.
“Let me get this straight. You didn’t care for him because he wanted to spend time with me alone, not because he was a possessive jackass who dumped me publicly in Las Vegas at a poker game?”
And I’m a dick. Quickly, I try to recover. “That’s what I meant. Shit. Sorry, Owen. He was a jackass. I hate him for how he treated you at the end.”
“I didn’t like how he treated me either,” he says, slumping back in his seat.
That’s interesting. Owen didn’t say at the end. “Do you mean how he broke it off, or just in general?”
Owen scrubs a hand across his jaw, staring off into the distance, maybe lost in thought. “Both?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?” I ask gently.
“Well, you said you didn’t like him. Did you dislike him all along?” he asks in a tone stripped free of the usual sarcasm that drips between us. “Because I sure thought I liked him, but maybe I liked the intensity of him.”