Drake was perfect. We were perfect.
But somewhere on the downhill slope of my orgasm, my father’s voice chimed in to remind me that there’s something wrong with me. I didn’t know how to face Drake after that. I was afraid he’d want me to reciprocate and I panicked. I figured he’d assume I was just playing the part—anonymous sex, no strings attached, but even I knew that was wishful thinking. I left him kneeling on the floor like the fucking coward I am.
And I don’t blame him for ditching me after that. I would have ditched me too. He chose to get drunk at a bar. I got drunk on the tequila left over from the night before. I avoided my wife, lied about Drake, and got hammered.
I don’t know what draws me to his bed, but I figure I have a choice. I can play poor me and go back to bed alone, sulking and grumpy. Or, I can take a step in the right direction with my tail between my legs.
As I crawl into bed behind Isabel, sandwiching her between us, I briefly wonder how the hell we’re going to go back to normal after this week. This was supposed to be temporary, but the way these two are cuddling right now proves that even they know there’s nothing really temporary about this now. We opened a door and it’s not going to close as easily as we thought.
And frankly, I’m not sure I want it to.
I join them under the covers, and I stare at Drake. His hair is draped over his face, so I gently reach across and brush it aside, softly curling it around his ear. My touch rouses him, and he blinks his eyes open. When he sees me, his expression tenses before he closes them again as if going back to sleep is his way of giving me the cold shoulder.
“Drake,” I whisper. He doesn’t open his eyes, but I know he can hear me. “I’m sorry. I was an asshole and I have no excuse for the way I treated you.”
He waits a few long seconds before responding. “Then, why did you?”
“Because I’m fucked in the head. I just panicked. I’m sorry.”
Finally, he opens his eyes and stares at me. “You never liked the fact that I was with guys.”
He’s cornering me into a conversation I’m not ready for, but ready or not, I have shit to own up to.
“It was never because I was judging you,” I say, not ready to give him more than that yet.
“What now?” he asks, his voice still laced with impatience.
“We start our drive back home tomorrow. I don’t know what will happen when we get back to Briar Point. That’s up to you and Iz.”
“What do you want?”
This whole trip has been about what I want. But if he’s asking, then I’ll tell him. “I don’t want this to end.” I force myself to swallow. This is so fucking uncomfortable to say out loud, but I’m going to royally fuck this up if I don’t try express myself. “And I want a second chance.”
His eyes find mine again as his clenched jaw relaxes. But as soon as the hard look is gone, it comes back. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he whispers.
Everything in me shatters and I feel like that lump of broken flesh on the floor again, just like I was in my dream. Then, Drake stares at me as he tugs Isabel a little closer. “But I agree. I don’t want this to be over either.”
I know he’s talking about Isabel, and maybe I should feel territorial, snatch her back into my arms, and remind him who she belongs to, but I brought this on myself. Plus, I’m holding on to hope that if he still wants her, there’s a chance he still wants me too.
Rule #25: Sometimes you have to take the long way home.
Isabel
There are two thousand miles between Nashville and Briar Point. And so far, every single one is awkward and quiet. After the first day of driving, we stopped for the night in a hotel, but Drake insisted on his own room.
On the second day of our long drive, I sensed a hesitation in our traveling. We made more frequent stops. More detours, and I think Hunter drove slower than he usually does. What should have taken two twelve-hour driving days is quickly turning into three.
No one wants to return to reality. No one wants this fantasy to end, but we’re also too hesitant to talk about it or touch each other.
By the morning of the third day, my period is gone, and I’m starting to feel like a feral cat in heat, and I can’t take another second of this insufferable tension. We stop for gas in northern Arizona, and while I’m waiting by the pump and the guys are inside, I see a road sign ahead that makes me pause.
Los Angeles, 318 miles.
Las Vegas, 107 miles.
I’ve never been to Vegas. The idea plants itself in my head, and I keep brushing it away. We have to go back home at some point. We can’t keep avoiding reality. No matter how many detours we take or stops we make, the impending reality is waiting for us, no matter what we do.