Page 66 of Happy After All

“I’m more than willing to play the part of doting boyfriend to piss off Fucking Fuck, because it sounds to me like that guy deserves to die mad.”

He does. Nathan really has no idea.

“I don’t know that he’s going to care that I’m dating someone three years later, when he’s engaged to be married, but I just don’twant him thinking that I’m angling to get him back. Because I’m not. I don’t care if he’s jealous or if he even really makes note of it, honestly, I just don’t want it to look like I creepily orchestrated some weird small-town fantasy. Can you imagine? This man, the king of Christmas movies, shows up to my small town, and there I am, in my little Christmas tree grove, like I plan on trapping him in Hallmark Hell. No thank you.”

“Okay, that’s fair. I get where you’re coming from.”

“What I want is to keep my pride, and this will help me do that. While you help raise money for the town. Is it petty of me to want to have you raise more money for the fund than he does?”

He shakes his head. “Well. Yes. But there’s really nothing wrong with being petty, especially if you’re raising money for the town either way.”

“Right!” I say. “That’s also what I thought.”

I want to ask him why he’s not coming back. It must have something to do with whatever he needed to write here. Which he clearly doesn’t want to go into.

I tap my finger against the ketchup bottle.

“So ... somewhere in all this,” I say, “we’ll continue to have sex.”

He looks at me across the table, and right then, the waitress returns and sets two plates down in front of us. He looks up at her, then back at me.

“Thank you,” I say.

I continue to stare at him as the waitress walks away.

“Yeah,” he says. “That was the subtext.”

“Let’s not do subtext,” I say. “I feel like subtext is for long-term relationships and not for sex between relative strangers. Clarity. That would be good.”

I can respect his boundaries. The ones he throws up every time I get too close. But I need him to be up-front. This isn’t a book, and I can’tread his thoughts. I wish I could. I wish I could get a nice monologue about what exactly he’s thinking.

I can’t even imagine what I’d write for him right now. Mostly because I’m afraid it would hurt my feelings.

She was looking at him with hope, the kind that made him pity her like she was a small, tragic creature. The sex had been fine, but he was longing to escape ...

Yeah, no, she wasn’t going to continue on with that.

“Yeah,” he says. “I can do clear.”

“Can you?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “I can.”

“Great. So this is like a holiday fling.”

“Yes. Big fan of flings.”

For some reason the way he says that is hilarious to me. Mainly because I can tell ... This man has never done a casual thing in his life. I don’t know why I’m so certain of this. I think it’s the intensity. He’s just way too intense for anything light, airy, or flippant.

Except I think he’s maybe trying to do that with me, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

“So does that mean you’re going to involve yourself in the activities around the motel?”

“Doubtful. I have something to finish. It’s ... kind of personal. I ... I’m actually not trying to be insufferable.”

“It just comes honestly,” I say.

“Yes,” he says. “I am a naturally insufferable asshole. It is like breathing for me.”

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