Page 36 of The Accidental Honeymoon

We make our way to the bed. She lies down first, her body stretching out like a cat. I can’t help butadmire the way she moves, the easy grace of her. I lie down beside her, propping myself up on one elbow, and trace a finger along her collarbone.

She meets my gaze. Her lips twist and for a second, I swear she’s about to ask me if I want to fuck again. The answer on my lips isabsolutely, yes.

“This doesn’t have to change anything,” Calla says quietly. “You know?” I can hear the doubt in her voice. She’s trying to protect herself. To protect us both.

“Calla,” I say. I want to say the right thing, but I don’t know what that is. I settle on, “I know.”

But do I really? Can we go back to the way things were? Have we crossed a line that can never be uncrossed?

thirteen

CALLA

Canyou start a new batch of eclairs? I text Erica, the young woman I left in charge of my bakery.I’ll be in late tonight to bake and frost cupcakes for tomorrow.

Less than a minute later, Erica sends a thumbs up. She’s not the most communicative texter, but I put that down to her age. She only just graduated from Greater High. Content that my bakery will make it another day, I put my phone away.

Jay is driving the car this morning. I am in the passenger seat, trying my hardest to seem like last night was no big deal. Like, yes! I have incredible, life-changingly good sex almost every day! What of it?

He hasn’t brought the topic up either. Instead, he keeps nervously promising me that today is going to beamazing. Honestly, after last night, my standards for things that areamazingmight have changed. Maybe I’ll like whatever he’s got planned.

The drive from the Wagon Wheel Inn to our next stop on our road trip takes less than twenty minutes. As weapproach the town limits, a giant, peeling billboard proclaims, "Welcome to Claxon: Home of the World's Most Fun Leftover Fruitcake Festival!" My jaw drops as I read it.

“Most fun?? It’s got to be the only one in the world!” I exclaim.

Jay slows the car. I can practically hear him grinning. "Welcome to the town where fruit goes to retire!"

"More like where dignity comes to die," I mutter.

There are a lot of people here. People who apparently think that fun and fruitcake can comfortably be used in the same sentence. Those people are wrong, just so we are on the record.

Jay pulls onto Main Street. I cast a skeptical eye over the kitschy decorations lining the street. Every lamppost is adorned with tinsel and little brown and green blobs; I can only assume that they’re fruitcake ornaments. It's like a bad Christmas movie set; except it's the beginning of February. We missed the Christmas mark by six weeks.

Jay parks the car and I take a moment to smooth my skirt and adjust my hair in the visor mirror. Have to look good for all the Claxon locals, I guess. We step out into the chill of the winter day. Almost immediately, I regret my choice of attire. A-line skirts and sleek tops are my uniform, but today I wish I'd opted for two more sweaters under my heavy coat. At least my Converse are comfortable.

We make our way toward the town square, where a makeshift stage has been erected. A banner flaps lazily in the icy breeze, announcing the "25th Annual Fruitcake Toss." The crowd is a mix of locals and curious tourists, all huddling close to the heat lamps that dot the street. I spot a woman wearing a fruitcake-themed bikini top.

My soul cringes in sympathy. She really must be freezing her titsoff.

"Is this for real?" I ask Jay.

When I look at him, he’s scanning the crowd with the enthusiasm of a Labrador at a dog park. "It's tradition," he says, as if that explains anything. "Small towns have a way of making the ridiculous seem charming."

"Charming," I repeat, dubious. “We live in a small town. This? This is just bonkers.”

"You must be Jay and Blake!” A man in a gaudy, fruit-laden hat approaches us. He’s beaming. "You’re here to film yourselves participating in the fruitcake toss, right?”

Jay scowls, his hand slipping around my waist. “Jay and Calla.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, there must have been a mix up in our public relations department. No matter. Welcome to Claxon! I'm Mayor Abernathy.”

I open my mouth to say something. I'm not sure what.

“Nice to meet you.” Jay cuts in with a broad smile. "We're here to observe this time. Maybe we'll participate next year."

Next year? I shoot him a questioning look. We're not supposed to be making long-term plans for fruitcake festivals.

The mayor's smile doesn't falter, though his hat wobbles precariously. "Well, make sure to try some of the fruitcake punch. It's a local favorite." He hands Jay a flyer. Before I can say anything, he’s turned to greet another hapless couple.

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