Page 190 of Cloudy With a Chance of Bad Decisions
I’d slept in.
A lot.
Apparently George had not.
Even after staying up as late as we had last night, George didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who spent lazy days in bed. Knowing him, he’d probably been up for hours—in the kitchen helping his mom—or, if he wastrulyunlucky, getting dragged into more of June’s wedding veil drama.
Which reminded me that I needed to talk to her.
I was still hoping she wouldn’t mind me leaving early so that I could take George out, even though…that plan had been forced to change based on how late I’d slept in.
The end of June’s wedding extravaganza was creeping up on us—as was the actual ceremony itself. I had a lot of mixed feelings about that. I was stoked—because my sister was about to marry the love of her life, obviously! But…I was unsettled too.
The end of George and my arrangement was swiftly approaching.
And as enlightening as it’d been to learn about his “real life” last night, it was also a glaringly obvious reminder that he would be leaving in a few short days. He’d return to his take-out-filled Mondays and creepy ex-boyfriend-supervisor.
And I…didn’t like that.
Didn’t like it at all.
I didn’t want him to go.
I didn’t want to be apart from him.
Was it selfish that I wanted him to stay here with me?
Itwas…it had to be.
He’d only seen me on my “good days”. Our current compatibility didn’t guarantee to extend over a longer period of time. I’d given myself a safety blanket for a reason.
I’d wanted—fuck.
I’d wanted to…just for once…experience the kind of relationship I’d always dreamed of.
And the only way to have that, was to be certain George wouldn’t see past what I allowed. Only…I’d already told him more than I’d told anyone else. Last night. I’d opened up in a way I never had—not even with June.
I wasn’t the best at maintaining my own boundaries, obviously.
The point remained, though.
I could be a perfect boyfriend for a week. But any longer than that? Yeah fucking right. George would get sick of me. Everyone always got sick of me. I would so much rather remember this…in a prettier light. Let myself believe he was the love of my life—the one that got away—then have every wonderful interaction tainted by seeing the…lookon his face.
The same look everyone eventually got around me if they stayed long enough.
Still though…I couldn’t help but fantasize.
Fantasize about keeping him.
I’d make it my goddamn mission to take care of him. I’d spoil him rotten. We’d try anything and everything he ever wanted. I’d maybe even learn to cook, so I could feed him. I’d build him that library I’d promised. Buy him a fucking cat-tree-paradise for Mr. Pickles. Take him to stores to purchase books for his collection of gay mongooses. Hell, I’d buy him the whole fucking store if that was what he wanted.
We’d spend Sundays split between his parents’ and my dad’s. Barbecues in the summer. We’d make my place a home—he’d populate it with George-oriented things. Little items. Like his razor in the shower, or his shampoo, that I really fucking loved.
I’d see echoes of him everywhere. Every time I got home.
His dishes in the sink—actually, fuck, more accurately the dish washer.
His shoes by the door.
