Page 38 of The Road Sometimes Taken

“Well don’t just stand there, take this dress off!” she cries, turning around and showing the culprit. The zipper is stuck halfway through her back. It got hooked on some fabric, making it impossible to move.

“Alright, alright,” I reply and when I get close to her, I bring my hands to her shoulders. Leaning down, I add, “Don’t move.”

Cara tenses under my touch and at the sound of my husky voice; I both love and hate how affected and responsive she is to me. The way her body reacts to my change in tone, to my subtle touches, and to my cologne. I’ve noticed it even when she tries to hide it. Whoever said forced proximity brings out feelings that are not usually there was right. Not for me, of course since I’ve been gone for this girl for over a decade but surely for her.

I bring one hand to hold the top of the dress while the other one yanks the zipper down in one quick and hard pull. Her breath hitches at the same time the zipper makes it to her tailbone, right above her perfect round ass.

Now that the dress is open, her whole smooth back is on display, showing a trail of tiny almost imperceptible freckles that lead to her neck. I get the sudden urge to trace them, and before I can stop myself, I do. I trace them softly with my knuckles and her velvety skin prickles under my touch. The air is thick around us and Cara’s skin is so perfect all I want to do is run my hands all over her. My tongue all over her. I bring my gaze up to the mirror in front of us and I catch Cara’s eyes on mine.

It’s getting harder every day to ignore the way I feel about her. Hell, the way I’ve always felt. And maybe, just maybe, I should act on this—maybe get it out of my system. But I don’t know how I could taste her, touch her, once and not want more. I don’t drop my gaze and neither does she, her cheeks warm by the seconds the same way that my hands itch with the need to touch her. It’s not a want anymore but a need.

“Everything okay over there?!” someone shouts from outside, breaking the spell we were both in.

“Yes. Just a moment,” I call loudly before lowering my voice and telling Cara, “You’re unstuck.” My breath blows gently on her back and I can see her tense immediately backing up.

“Thanks,” she murmurs as her eyes finally leave mine and she pulls the dress up to cover both her breasts.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” I add, stepping out of her dressing room and back to the front to wait for her and do our next runway strut.

We repeat the same process a couple more rounds until we’re both happy with what we got. We leave the store wearing our derby clothes, leaving the clothes we brought in behind.We promise to come get them tomorrow but the ladies are more excited about our fun date than anything else. They said that romance isn’t dead if a young couple of newlyweds could have this much fun. And damn what I wouldn’t give for that statement to be true.

“Are you ready for this party?” Cara asks, looking out the taxicab window before turning to me and returning my smile. I’m not the only one. Everyone who meets her ends up smiling too. Her energy helps everyone be in a better mood.

“I am. Did you figure out who you want to be?”

“No, who do you want to be? I can adapt,” she offers.

“No; thank you for entertaining me with this whole outfit experience but now, you pick, and I will adapt,” I insist, and I can see her physically shrink. Seeing her shoulders sag or her brows frown when she has to make any decisions is bizarre, especially for this girl, who oozes enough self-confidence to affect others. I can’t put my finger on why it bothers her, but I will figure it out. Maybe that’s what should go on my bucket list for this trip—lift Cara up the same way she does for others.

“Manny, I don’t know! You’re the one who wants to play this game. You pick,” she pleads.

I don’t have time to say anything before the taxi pulls over in front of a venue filled with people and music so loud that we can hear it even from inside the car. I don’t know why she wants to pretend something different—I can pretend to be hers forever.

“Thank you, sir,” I say, handing him cash to pay and tip. “No need for change.” I open my door, stepping out of the car and extending Cara my hand to help her step out of the car. When she does, I lower my head and whisper in her ear, “If I’m picking, then you’ll be Mrs. Zabana tonight, just like the rest of the day. Would you be okay with that? With me calling you my wife tonight?”

Cara catches a breath at that, her body tensing under my touch. I look at her and see her swallow hard before she whispers, “Sure thing, Mr. Zabana.” Her voice comes out shaky and she clears her throat before saying, “Now let’s go party like newlyweds.”

18

SHATTERED

SPIN YOU AROUND, MORGAN WALLEN

Cara

The music is loud and although I was expecting a lot of people, nothing could have prepared me for this. The middle of the room is crowded with people dancing shoulder to shoulder on the dance floor. Everyone is dressed in fancy clothes with perky hats and holding drinks while they dance to some upbeat song I don’t recognize. Around them are high top tables, decorated with pastel tablecloths and three-tiered centerpieces holding bite-sized tea party cakes.

Manny’s hand drops to my lower back as he guides me through the garden toward the bar. The bar is near the river and with the sunset’s warm hues behind it. It’s picture perfect. I grab my phone from the clutch Manny picked to match my outfit and snap a quick pic before placing it back in the purse.

Manny, the forever gentleman. Manny, the “Would you be okay with me calling you my wife tonight?” guy. Manny, the stupid hot little brother of my best friend, has my headspinning with his damn gestures, damn manners, and his damn games. After the tipsy galore at the bourbon trail, I needed time to sober back up so I know it’s not the alcohol. I know there’s more to it but I’m going to need a drink soon if I’ll make it out tonight without trying to do something about my feelings,again.

“What can I get you guys?” the bartender asks.

“My wife first,” Manny says, setting his forearm on the table and turning his body to face me. It should be illegal to look as good as he does and to have perfectly curled hair in this weather. And calling mehis wifeon top of that? A crime. When he suggested this whole ‘let’s pretend we’re married rouse,’ I didn’t think he meant it but he has spent the rest of the day acting like I’m his wife. I’m not going to lie, I don’t hate hearing those words come out of his mouth but playing pretend could be dangerous in this situation. I can get carried away and start believing it.

“You know what I’m going to order,” I coo to Manny, tracing his shirt with my finger. “A Dirty Shirley, please,” I tell the bartender and Manny puts in his order too—Vodka tonic with lime.

“I never want to assume what you’re in the mood for, wife.” If I had a drink I would’ve choked on this because the innuendo behind his words is palpable and I’m literally just a girl.

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