“Cards on the table, I don’t regret anything we did today.” His throat bobs. “If you’d rather go back to no sex, that’s fine. You won’t hear about it from me until I hear about it from you.”
“I… I don’t know if we’ll do that again,” I fumble. “Is thatokay?” My vagina is calling me the worst names. The confidence in his smile—it slips along my skin, cool like a razor blade the moment before you know whether it’s cut you.
“Whatever you need. We’ll do it however you want.”
It’s not fair to let him think he’s got me back. “We still have a long way to go, Tobe. The book, counseling, all of that. I’m trying to…” I grope for words. “I’m trying to change my life. Changemyself. And I think it’s working. But it feels like I shouldn’t promise too much when the pitch competition’s hanging over our heads. You know?”
He sighs. “I wish you could see yourself the way I see you. Nothing about you needs changing, as far as I’m concerned.”
He gives me a look so hot, for a second I swear I smell smoke. But it’s just the barbecue.
I can’t let him hypnotize me with smolder, or I’ll forget everything I’m trying to do, and spend all my days and nights in his bed.
“That’s nice of you to say. But I need to do this for me.”
“Okay. Then I’ll go on a date with the new you. You pick the time and place.”
“Okay,” I whisper. I shouldn’t legally be allowed to watch his bare forearms while I make decisions. “You could, um. Come to my improv showcase. It’s the same night as the pitch competition, so maybe you’d rather not. But you could. If you wanted to.”
He looks delighted by the prospect of watching me flail around onstage with several of the area’s least professional comedians. “Yes! I didn’t think I was getting an invite—I mean, I’d love to. Really. I would love to see that. I know it means a lot to you.”
I nod, imagining an audience that’s silent except for Tobin going wild. It’s tense, so McHuge would call it funny.
“And,” he says, going back to his tomato, “now that we’re dating, I want you to meet my parents. So to speak.”
This can only mean one thing. One terrible, horrible thing.
“Your dad’s coming to town?”
He nods, eyes on the salad. He’s playing it so light, maybe only I could see something moving underneath the surface.
“When?” I ask, not liking how ungenerous I sound.
“First week of June. Mom says he’s got a special surprise.” He’s going to amputate a finger if he doesn’t stop talking about his parents while operating a sharp object.
An emotional land mine of a reunion dinner. Right next door, where we can’t get away from it. We’ll have to pretend our marriage is fine. I give it a 50 percent chance of ending in flames. Like, actual fire. I want to do very few things less than I want to do this.
But I’m in, or I’m out. No half moves.
“All right. I’ll come.”
I know I’ve done the right thing when he sets down his knife and draws me back into his embrace. Breathing him in should be illegal.Heshould be illegal, with his warm chest and strong arms and sexy smell that is literally the smell of sex. I’m high in one second flat. I want to climb him. I want him to wear me underneath his clothes.
This is why I can’t let my guard down around him.
“Thank you,” he says into my hair. His clean breath tickles the sensitive spot behind my ear. My vagina asks to approach the bench. Denied.
“It’ll be fine,” he says, lifting me onto the counter to lean into the hug in a disappointingly nonsexual way.
“Yes. Totally fine,” I agree. If the truth is funny, then that’s the least funny thing I’ve said in a while.
Chapter Seventeen
Snappy banter is fun, but not necessary. The point of interacting is to discover therelationshipsbetween characters. In your scenarios, everything you say should serve the relationships you’re creating.
—The Second Chances Handbook
Morning in the mountains is shadowy and cold. The sun’s struggling over the ridge when Béa’s car pulls up next to mine.
