“I don’t know that I deserve anything. Wilder is…he’s…I don’t think he’s one of those people I could do for fun and just forget about after and be okay when it comes time to move on.” There, I said it. I put it out there. And no matter how hard I try, my eyes get misty while my throat thickens. It happens, even though I don’t want it to, but I guess that’s been the story of my life lately.
I keep trying and failing to hold back the tears.
I keep trying and failing to stay single.
I keep trying and failing to get my life together.
I keep trying and failing to be okay.
But Wilder’s different. He’s different from anyone I’ve ever met. No matter how hard I tried to keep myself distant, we eventually ended up clashing together like we were made to clash together. We’re like hot and cold air, and I just hope we can keep from making one heck of a tornado because I don’t need my life torn apart any more than it already is.
Monique grabs my free hand and squeezes it hard, whereas Vera leaps off the cuddle chair and comes to give me a huge hug.
“Everything will work out,” she promises, but I’m not sure I can believe her. Just because she’s never said it before doesn’t really make it true.
“He’s a good guy. We like him,” Monique says again. She doesn’t know Wilder any better than I do, though.
I’m sleeping with the guy, but I have no idea where he even lived before he moved in with me, what he does for a living, if he has siblings, or anything else. I literally shake my head at myself. Ugh, here I am, having a pity party with my friends.
I need to do better than this. If I’m going to do this again—jump in blind and try and make it work again—I have to do better than what I’ve been doing. I have to stop pretending I’m not already starting to fall for Wilder. As it is, I’m already invested. I seriously have to sit down and talk with him. I have to tell him things about me, get to know him, and do the things that get us even more attached to each other, no matter how scary it is. Because it’s worse not to know, it really is. It makes me feel stupid, thinking I was protecting myself by trying to stay away from Wilder and then trying to pretend like I was still staying away.
“You’ll figure it out,” Vera soothes. She’s practically sitting in my lap. Since she set her wine glass down somewhere else before that hug, she plucks mine out of my hand and throws half of it back.
“I have a good feeling about this,” Monique adds. She’s pretty honest, and I think she might be saying that because it’s true, not just because she’s trying to make me feel better.
“You always have us, no matter what happens. Chicks before dicks, remember?” Vera says as she grins at me.
I can only nod through the blur of tears, no matter how crass that saying might be. I love these girls. I really do. They’re my family, and they’re always going to be my family. I know they’ll be here no matter what happens and no matter how many boyfriends come and go. They’ve had their fair share of heartbreaks too, and I’ve been there for both Vera and Monique. Just because we’re older and more experienced now, probably slightly more jaded now, too, doesn’t mean we’ve given up hope on finding our happily—or at least mostly happily—ever afters.
“I’ll try,” I squeak out, brushing my eyes with the backs of my hands. “This week, I’m going to try.”
“Yay!” Monique exclaims as she pats my knee.
Vera, on the other hand, winks at me. “Oh yeah, it’s so on.”
CHAPTER 18
Wilder
There’s something different about Esme. In a good way, I think.
She makes dinner, refusing to let me help, keeping me guessing until she serves the most scrumptious spread of tacos and taco fixings I’ve ever seen. Even after we sit down, she looks like she has something on her mind. While filling a taco, she’s thinking. Chewing her taco, she’s thinking. Swallowing her taco, she’s thinking. When making another taco, she’s thinking.
Before the smell of burning brain smoke and grinding gears fills up the room, I set my delicious taco down—still not more delicious than Esme’s taco, if you know what I mean—and rest my hand on the table near hers. She hasn’t resumed eating and is just staring at me. Our hands don’t touch, but they’re there, close together. Our fingers are inches apart, but even that is somehow comforting.
“What are you churning over?”
“Oh. Nothing.”
“I wasn’t aware that tacos were so disconcerting.”
“They’re not.” Esme blinks, and her eyes track to my face. “Actually, the truth is, I was trying to figure out how to ask you all the questions I’ve been thinking of asking.”