Page 9 of Forbidden Fruit
“Two weeks is perfect,” she says.
“I’m sure it is,” I say. “For you.”
“Then it’s a date,” she says.
I get up and stretch, shaking my head at how easily I gave in. It was supposed to be easy. Just get the papers signed, say goodbye, and leave Kay behind. But it never works that way. I start for the door. I have to get out before I agree to more than I want.
“Where are you going?” she says.
“Home,” I say. “Remember, we live in different places now.”
I let myself out and get in the car. She watches me go, arms folded like she’s conquered a new territory. The smart thing would be to cancel the trip and tell her I’m busy. But for some reason, I don’t.
The last thing I should be thinking of is Becca. Kay was right about that. She’s right about more than I’ll ever admit, even to myself. Becca is why I’m agreeing to the trip. Becca is why I’m going to regret it. Becca is what I want and can’t have.
* * *
I drive back toward the city, but I’m unsure how Kay got me to say yes. Not sure how I let her. I should cancel and tell them I’m too busy, but it’s not going to happen. I know myself too well. I’ll be there, right in the middle of the mess she’s creating.
The smart thing is to back out. Let them have their fun. But I’ve never been known for being smart. Or backing out.
The road stretches out, and I have nothing but time to think. Becca. How she looks when Jack’s saying something stupid, that faraway look in her eyes, makes me want to rescue her. To tell her there’s more to life than the crap Jack’s feeding her. I want to show her she can do better and make sure she knows I’m part of the better.
I’m worse for her, and I know it. I’m almost twenty years older than her. But it’s not stopping me. Nothing will.
The radio plays an old rock song playing that I can’t name. She’s like that, Becca. Something I used to know, something I’m trying to remember. It’s been years since I’ve wanted anything so much.
Kay thinks this trip will fix things with Jack. Maybe it will. Perhaps it’ll make him wake up and propose. Or maybe it’ll make Becca wake up and leave. Either way, I’m there to watch. Either way, I want her. More than I should.
The sky is gray with snow coming, and it’s easy to imagine Mexico. The heat. The ocean. The chance to be near her. That’s why I said yes. To make sure Jack doesn’t take her for granted. He will, but I’ll be there when it happens. She’ll need someone, and maybe that someone will be me.
I laugh, a short, loud sound in the car. It echoes, making me feel less sure of everything and like I’ve already lost.
Becca is out of my reach, but I keep reaching. I keep wanting. It’s going to be the death of me. But if I have to die, she’s not a bad way to go.
For the life of me, I don’t know why she’s stuck with Jack for so long. Becca could have anyone. Jack’s careless with her heart, but it won’t matter. She loves him, and that makes her blind.
An inexplicable sense of panic overwhelms me as I consider all the possibilities. I pull into the garage and take a long breath. I didn’t think Kay would win this round. I didn’t think I’d say yes. But she and I did, and there’s no backing out.
Becca
“There’s no way Jack’snotgoing to propose,” I say, holding up two bikinis to Holly’s critical gaze. “I mean, a romantic getaway to Cozumel? What else could it be?”
Holly sits cross-legged on my bed, surrounded by the explosion of summer clothes I’ve pulled from storage. Her expression is carefully neutral, but I know that look. It’s her “managing Becca’s expectations” face.
“The white one,” she says, pointing to the bikini in my right hand. “And I’m just saying, don’t build it up too much in your head. You know how Jack is.”
I do know how Jack is. After five years together, I’ve become an expert in the fine art of Jack Hanson’s disappointment. But this time feels different.
“His mom confirmed it,” I say, tossing the white bikini into my suitcase. “She called me yesterday to ask about ring preferences. Like, subtly, but not subtly at all.”
Holly raises an eyebrow. “Kay Bishop-Hanson? Subtle?”
“Hanson-Bishop,” I correct automatically. “And okay, she was about as subtle as a sledgehammer. But still!”
I grab my phone and pull up Jack’s photos of Clive’s beachfront villa. The place is stunning—all-white stone and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Caribbean.
“Look at this place,” I say, passing her the phone. “It’s perfect. Like, proposal-on-the-beach perfect.”
