I’ve never moved as fast in my life. I lunged forward, my arms outstretched, my eyes on the prize.
Snag! And hallelujah! The ring was back in my hands and the only evidence left behind was a brown ring of coffee on the table. I shoved the proof of my stupidity into my pocket and slipped out of my chair just in time for Hillary to slip into it and shove her hand in Lane’s face.
“Oh my God, Laney! Look!” Then lots more girlie squealing, so much that Lane had to join in. "Look at it! Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Oh my God, Carson?”
No, please no. Don’t bring me into this. “Yeah, babe?” Oh, fuck. Hadn’t I just said my luck was turning? Yep, it just did a 360, or maybe two 360s. Crap.
“Check out Hillary’s engagement ring!”
Hillary held out her hand toward me to show off a ring with a diamond so small I had to squint to see it. But the girls were freaking out as if it were the most beautiful thing ever. Was that all it took to make them happy? I’m not a snob, but it looked like something a kid would get after turning in their tickets at an arcade or slipping a quarter into a slot and turning the knob. I’d been in enough jewelry stores in the last month to know that guys in New York didn’t bother with stones that small.
“Nice rock, Hillary.” I was pretty sure that was an adequate response. I am a man, after all.
“Nice rock?” she said.
Lane looked at me disappointedly.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t adequate. But I wasn’t going to lie and say it was the most beautiful ring I’d ever seen, especially not while I had a way better one in my pocket at exactly that moment. So I went with the all-occasion, girls-eat-that-shit-up response of, “Almost as pretty as you are.”
The cheesy comment seemed to appease both of them, since they went back to their intense discussion about how Eric had proposed. Small rock or not, it sounded a lot better than slipping the ring under a coffee cup. Damn it.
“Hey, Carson,” Eric—the motherfucking traitor—said from a few feet behind me. His arms were resting casually at his sides, but he wasn’t even trying to hide the shit-eating grin on his face. What the fuck was he so happy about? He’d just ruined my entire day. Maybe my entire life.
Granted, Eric and Hillary had been together for a couple of years so it wasn’t a total surprise. But when you’re surrounded by engagement rings, wedding preparations, and prenuptial joy, and you’re the only guy who hasn’t slipped a ring on his lady’s finger, you automatically earn the title of World’s Shittiest Boyfriend.
“Seriously, man. You trying to make me look like an asshole?” Hell yeah, that was whiney. So what? I was stressed out as fuck.
“Yeah,” Eric grumbled. “I asked Hillary to spend the rest of her life with me just because I wanted to make you look bad. Working great so far, right?”
“Sorry.” I blew out a breath and stuck out the hand that wasn’t holding Lane’s lukewarm coffee. “Congrats. You guys were meant to be, so…um…yeah, congrats.” I didn’t know what else to say. Was there some kind of official man protocol in situations like this? If I ever figured it out, I’d give classes—no man should have to go through this unprepared.
Lane was saying something unintelligible to the male ear, so I only got bits. And glares. How could two small women throw that many glares? Pointy ones too, like Samurai stars.
“I need a drink.” I said it without thought, but it was a great idea. “Champagne!” I looked at Lane and Hillary for confirmation. “This kind of news deserves to be celebrated with something stronger than coffee, doesn’t it?”
Hillary squinted and looked up to the left. Nope, definitely ceiling there, no answer.
But I got her hesitation. She was probably thinking about their finances and how expensive weddings were. “Our treat.”
“Then hell yes!” Hillary squealed. No judgment behind using the word to describe almost everything she says—she’s just easily excited. Whenever I see her, at least. And I don’t think it has anything to do with her and my unfortunate past. That no one was ever going to mention again.
“It’s a little early for Champagne, isn’t it?” Eric asked.
“True.” It was probably the first time Hillary’s smile had fallen all day. “And I was so excited, I didn’t even eat lunch.”
“I guess we should get some dinner to go along with the Champagne.” Then I added, “Also our treat.”
“Double yes!” Hillary jumped out of the chair, went to Eric, and whispered something into his ear.
At the same time, Lane mouthed, “Our treat?” to me.
I shrugged. “Think of it like our engagement gift to you.”
Hillary’s carefree, “Our first engagement gift!” completely covered Eric’s shy, “Thanks, Carson.”
Lane’s gaze didn’t move—it intensified. She knew me too damn well. But she didn’t call me on it in front of her friends. Our friends, I guess.
One of the most bizarre parts of being in a relationship was everything and everyone had become ours. Friends, apartments, family. Although why anyone would want to claim partial ownership of my family, I’d never understand. For the most part, I didn’t mind it. Occasionally I liked it. Especially when referring to our bed, our bathtub, or our favorite position.
Lane just didn’t like to think of my money as ours. She didn’t want to feel like a gold digger or something equally stupid. What I tried to explain to her, and what she never understood, was that I was the one getting the gold. I didn’t care about money. I cared about the feisty little pot of gold I went to sleep with every night and woke up next to every morning.
I shrugged and went to go dump Lane’s cup in the trash, wondering what I would’ve done if she’d picked it up like I’d expected her to.
Would she have squealed when she saw the ring I’d spent weeks searching for? Just to make sure it deserved to be worn by my amazing woman.
Would she have said yes?
3
Laney
I watched Carson tip back another glass of expensive Champagne out of the corner of my eye, wondering what was wrong with him and when I should bring it up. During the last-minute engagement celebration for Hillary and Eric probably wasn’t the best time. Luckily, Carson and I were roomies, which gave me lots of time to wonder what had been distracting him so much.
I’d been noticing it more and more lately. At the café earlier, he’d been somewhere else mentally, which was really unlike him. One of the things I loved most about him was his ability to ignore everything but the present. Actually, make that one of the things I both loved and hated about him.
But complaining about my next-to-perfect life seemed a bit too narcissistic. Everything had been amazing with Carson and I since the very beginning and, after a few rough patches that had mostly centered around his inexperience in living with someone he actually liked—i.e. someone he wasn’t related to—I couldn’t be happier.
Okay, that was a lie. I could be happier, but I didn’t know how. Some small part of me felt like something was missing. I just couldn’t figure out what it was. Maybe what bothered Carson was that he knew something was bothering me? Great, neither of us knew what the hell was going on. Time for some serious relationship evaluation. Internally, of course, because relationship evaluation was the one thing Carson completely sucked at. Thankfully, he was good at all the other parts, so it didn’t matter. You don’t need to assess a situation that’s really great, right?
He loved me. I loved him. We never fought and—
Maybe that was it. Other than my parents, couples fought. It was totally normal, healthy even. What wasn’t normal was for two people to be around each other so much and never fight. Maybe that’s what Carson and I needed.
As stupid as the idea was, it also made sense considering who our parental role models were. I’d never learned how to fight, and Carson had never learned how to fight without things getting violent. Stick us together and you had a non-confrontational powder keg ready to blow up any second.
Pick your battles suddenly meant something different. Maybe I needed to commit, pick something small so we could practice fighting. Then, once we figured it out, I would choose a larger conflict. This was potentially the worst idea I’d ever had, but how else could we learn? And we had to learn—that I was sure of.
Hillary and Eric fought all the time, and they were engaged. Carson’s brother and his fiancée argued occasionally, I was sure, and they were getting married in a few days. Even my parents fought—not loudly and never when they thought I could hear, but I always knew when it was coming. My mom would clench her jaw and find something to busy herself with, and my dad would send me to bed. The first time I realized that was code for you need to leave so we can argue was when he’d told me it was bedtime at four o’clock in the afternoon.
And the most damning, if that’s the right way to look at it, was that I’d never fought with any of my ex-boyfriends. And those relationships were doomed. So, yeah, damning was the right way to look at it. I couldn’t let Carson’s and my relationship go that route. Being able to fight properly, and make up properly, were two things healthy couples did. Especially because I knew eventually we’d have something big to fight about and, if we weren’t ready, we’d lose everything we’d worked so hard for.
Ever since we finally realized we wanted to be together, the only stuff we fought about were things that could be fixed with a joke or a kiss. Taking the last of the coffee or leaving the toilet seat up weren’t exactly declarations of war.
Carson caught me staring and leaned closer, setting his glass down so he could brush my hair behind my ear. I don’t care how many times he touched me, that rush of adrenaline would never go away.
He kissed my cheek and whispered, “You want another drink, gorgeous?”
I didn’t answer right away because I knew as soon as I did, he’d go get it for me. And I wanted to enjoy the warmth of his breath a little longer.
“Another round?” Eric asked loudly.
Hillary answered immediately. “Hell, yeah, my almost-husband.”
“Can’t see that getting old anytime soon,” I teased. Over the last half hour, she’d been calling him a different variation of it every time she spoke. Almost-husband, it’s-about-time-you-asked-man, soon-to-be-groom, or future Mr. Miller—which he balked at. Evidently, he wouldn’t be taking her name after they got married.
I laughed and felt Carson pull away. Something was definitely wrong. Maybe I wouldn’t have to pick a fight, after all. Maybe it would happen organically. Damn, I hoped we were ready for it.
* * *
I dumped my bag on the table I’d designed for our apartment. Our apartment. I would never get used to that. Aside from the fact I’d never be able to afford this place on my own—not that he let me pay for any of it, of course—it just felt weird to think of something that had been his for so long as partially mine. I adored living here, though.
The whole place was a reclaimed-wood showcase for my designs now. To the point where I’d started refusing to sell him anything else because my shins and hip bones were already bruised from walking into tables, stools, and desks all the time. Plus, I was trying to build a name for myself as an artist, which meant people actually had to see the art to be able to buy it. Thankfully, I’d been able to get a larger warehouse space, one with a back room Carson wasn’t allowed in, where I could hide any new pieces I’d finished working on.
My suitcases were packed and ready for our trip to Tahiti for Carson's brother Hayden's marriage to his incredible fiancée Andi. Since I’d never actually been to an island, I may have overdone it. I wasn’t sure what was appropriate attire, but you couldn’t go wrong with layers, right? Lots and lots of layers. And lingerie because Carson loved it. And way too many shoes. We were only going to be there for seven days—two before the wedding and five after, so we could explore by ourselves and pretend we were shipwrecked. Maybe I wouldn’t need all those layers, after all. Or any, actually.
If I knew Carson, he’d make me close my eyes and imagine our ship going down in a huge storm. As the waves got bigger and tossed our poor little vessel around, he’d shake me for authenticity. Then he’d start tearing my clothes off—because, obviously, that would happen in a storm—until I was in my underwear. We’d spend the next five days living off coconuts and mangos. Oh, man, now I’d screwed myself. If he didn’t do that, I’d be so disappointed. I’d probably spend the entire trip pouting and horny. Speaking of…
I turned around when he was right behind me and slid my hands over his shoulders. “Are you still in the mood to celebrate?”
He didn’t move, like, not even to grope me. “What’s there to celebrate?” he snapped. Then he moved—to create empty space between us. For the first time ever.
“What’s going on?”
“I just want to go to bed.” He brushed by me and headed toward the bedroom.
“That’s what I was hinting at,” I mumbled, knowing our motivations were completely different. Totally clueless as to why, though. “Carson, what’s wrong?”
He turned in the doorway, resting an arm on one side of the jamb, rubbing his lips together but not looking at me. “Do you ever wonder if you’d be better off with someone like Eric? Someone…with a little insight into what he wants out of life?”
Oh, shit. Everything had been going so well. Too well. For a second, I felt like I’d just stepped out of my body and was watching the two of us stand there, fifteen feet away from each other, not understanding a goddamn thing. And for another second, I wondered if I was witnessing the beginning of the end. When two people stopped being able to understand each other or express what was going on.
When two people started falling apart.
4
Laney
Not us. Never us. I snapped back into my body and stomped toward him, pumping my arms as if the room were the length of a football field. “No. No, Carson, no. Just no.”
“No what, Lane? No, I’m not allowed to ask? Or no, I’m not allowed to feel?”
“No, you’re not supposed to feel that. And no, you shouldn’t need to ask.” I stopped a foot away from him, my hands gripping my pants. “Where is this coming from? I thought we were having fun. I thought we were okay.”
“Okay?” he asked skeptically. “Is that all you want? An okay life with an okay guy in an okay apartment?”
“First off, no one would ever describe this apartment as ‘okay.’” The joke fell flat so I tried again. “I love you. And I love our life together. Don’t you?
“You know the answer to that question,” he said. “It’s never going to change.”
“Then what’s going on?”
“What’s going on? Well, my brother is getting hitched…again. This time to someone he actually loves. He has a great house, his business is doing really well, and as soon as they get back from their wedding, he and Andi will probably start popping out mini Handi’s.”
Normally, I loved hearing his shortcut expression to describe his brother and fiancée. Almost as much as I loved that he thought of us as “Carney.” Did it mean he’d call our kids Carnies? Wasn’t a big fan of that possibility. Just like I wasn’t a big fan of the intensity of this entire conversation.
“Eric and Hillary are engaged,” he continued, “and are already looking for a house together. Everyone around us is planning out their future, Lane. But we’ve never even talked about it. I don’t even know if you want kids, or if you want to stay in San Francisco, or if you even want to get married.” He took a breath. “Why don’t you ever talk about our future, babe? Women talk about that shit all the time. Even when they don’t have a guy. But you don’t. You never have. Why not?”
I scratched my head, maybe to get my brain working again. Because I didn’t know. He was right—we didn’t talk about that stuff. We talked about everything…except where our relationship was headed. He made the occasional joke about it—kids, making an honest woman out of me, those kinds of things—but we’d
never talked about it seriously. I had a five-year plan for my career, but not for us. I guess I’d just been so worried about our relationship changing I’d never really considered that change isn’t always a bad thing. And it was inevitable anyway.
While I knew Carson was so much better than all the frogs I’d been with, I still couldn’t forget how hurt I’d been when my future plans had proven to be so far from reality. Expectations and happy endings were still dirty words, scary phrases. Just like What’s that crawling on your shoulder? or politician.
“Do you not think I’m going to be part of it?” he asked softly. “Is that why?”
I inhaled only halfway, my body refusing to function, just like my mouth. All I could force out was a long, pathetic-sounding, “No.” I stuttered, tried to formulate thought, but nothing happened. It was one of those moments, those horrible moments in a movie when you yell at the screen and scream, “Say something!” to the character.
A couple of words. That’s all it would take. And everything might be able to go back to normal.
But this was so unexpected, I didn’t know how to respond. No words appeared in my head. No useful ones, anyway.
I wiped my hand over my face. “I don’t know what to say other than no, that’s not why.”
“Do you want to be with me?”
I nodded so fast I had to step backwards to catch myself before I fell over.
He sighed. “You’re drunk.”
I grabbed his arm as he turned away. “I’m not drunk. I’m just…I didn’t expect to have this conversation, so I’m at a loss for what to tell you. But you’re wrong. About everything. I want to be with you. I don’t know why we don’t talk about it. But we can.”
I couldn’t tell if he believed me. The look on his face showed me nothing other than that he was hurting. And somehow, some way, it was my fault. All the things I didn’t say or hadn’t said for reasons I didn’t know. Oh, shit. I was seriously blowing this.