Everyone, not just us, assesses the weirdness. Aware how strange it is for Lo to be over there. While I’m right here. A large chunk of space between us. We’re not together. Physically.
That rarely happens nowadays.
It would be fine, but everyone knows why I’m separating myself from him. I can feel their judgy thoughts in my own head. I can’t believe she wants to have sex right now.
Ryke’s glare says it enough.
Before Connor switches on the film, the front door opens. I crane my head over the couch to see Daisy strutting in with a can of Fizz Life in hand, head down, texting on her cell.
When she steps into the room, she looks up and freezes. “Um…” She frowns. “Was there a meeting or something?” Her face suddenly falls, thinking she wasn’t invited to our group gathering.
“Or something,” Ryke replies first.
Daisy scans the area. Her eyes ping from Lo to me, noticing how we’re not sitting together. “Did you two…” She motions between us.
Shit. She thinks we spilled our secret.
“I fucked up,” I explain swiftly. “I replied to a reporter without going through the publicist.”
Her green eyes turn into saucers. “Mom has to be pissed.”
“She’s venting,” Rose corrects her. “She just needs to cool off.”
Daisy sets her soda can on the end table and plops down on the other side of me. “What are we watching?”
Connor starts listing off names of movies, and I tune him out. I appreciate that they’re all trying to avoid the Celebrity Crush topic, but it still weighs on me.
The point of having a publicized wedding is to appease my parents. But if I do something small and anger them anyway, how much will the marriage even matter?
My eyes flit to Lo, and I realize that he’s watching me. I want to touch him—not for sex. Just to let him comfort me without needing anything else. How do I know if I’m strong enough for that?
He slowly pulls his gaze away and forces his eyes to the TV screen. My heart tears apart in a million different ways, conflicted beyond terms.
I follow his moves and redirect my attention to the movie. But my head revolves around him, and I find myself trying to watch him through my peripheral vision. Maybe I can catch him looking at me. I notice everything. How rigid he sits. When he squirms or adjusts himself on the chair. How he keeps his hand on his mouth, resting it there and hiding the definition in his jaw. I notice the way he glances at me every few seconds, the same clandestine looks I give him.
And I realize that I won’t ever know if I’m strong enough if I don’t try. The one thought propels me to my feet and cuts the thick, silent tension in one move. Everyone looks to me, but I focus only on Loren Hale.
His chest rises in a strong inhale as I near. Without hesitation, I crawl onto his lap, and his hands instinctively pull me higher and closer, meshing our bodies together. Our limbs entangle until I can’t tell where one begins and the other ends.
I release a staggered breath and rest my head on his chest, his heart beating so fast. His fingers tightly intertwine with mine, and the rhythm of his pulse slows when I close my eyes.
Any craving for sex is drowned out by my conscience, not nearly as bad as I thought it’d be.
He kisses me on my head, and I pray for a temperate sleep, tears creasing my eyes whenever I start thinking about what happened.
People make mistakes every day, some small and some big, but I just wonder when I’ll stop making them. Or is this a lifelong thing? Do we all just wander through life, fucking up and trying to put ourselves back together only to continue on again?
Are we the accumulation of our mistakes?
A part of me regrettably thinks so.
My failures have defined me more than my triumphs.
But I don’t want to live in that hopeless reality. Not anymore. I want to be the accumulation of my failures, my successes, of all the people I’ve ever met, of the man I love, and the life I want. I want to be defined by so many factors that it’s too complicated for any mathematician to piece apart.
That would be the perfect life.
Not good or bad.
Just complex.
{ 19 }
0 years : 06 months February
LILY CALLOWAY
The premiere of Princesses of Philly couldn’t just be a quiet event at the townhouse. I counted over ten cameras swarming the ballroom of a five-star hotel. Servers meander with champagne and snacks, adding to the masses of bodies and general hoopla.
My mom is here.
With my dad.
And all of their socialite friends.
In a few minutes, the big screen televisions along the walls will air all of our antics. And we don’t have any idea what will be shown. “So this is live television from here on out?” I ask Lo, his arm around my shoulder.