Page 37 of Worthy

“You’re okay,” I whisper, my hand rubbing soothing circles between her shoulder blades. “I’m right here, Nell. I’ll always be right here.”

“I don’t understand wh-what I d-did wrong,” she cries, words muffled and barely understandable.

“You did nothing wrong; you hear me?”

“If I was a better wife, he wouldn’t get so mad.” She hiccups, the tears steadily falling, soaking my shirt. “He always says I’m selfish and difficult. Maybe I really am. Instead of having kids with him, I insisted on pursuing my art and furthering my career.”

I pull back, steadying my hands on her shoulders as her glossy, bloodshot eyes peer at me. “Knock that shit off, Penelope. You’re not selfish and you’re not fucking difficult. You are one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. You wear your heart on your sleeve, and you will help anybody in need. He’s a fucking asshole, who doesn’t know what’s right in front of his face. His issue ishim. He’s the problem, not you.”

Her bottom lip quivers as she watches me with sad, dejected eyes. There’s nothing more that I want than to make her feel better, make her see her worth. She’s let this asshole tear her down for years now. She’s a broken-down shell of the woman I know. Tears fall hot down her face as she sniffles, something passing through her eyes I can’t quite make out. At least not until she raises to her tip-toes, cups my face with her soft, warm palms, and seals her lips to mine.

The scent of her peppermint chapstick fills my senses. The feeling of her being this close engulfs me, my mind only needing a second before it catches up, hands going to her hips, tongue pushing into her mouth. The softest moan reaches my ears as I taste her, needing so much more. Our mouths move together in perfect synchrony, like they were made for each other, and fuck, right about now, I believe that.

Nelly’s hands leave my face, arms wrapping around my neck as she brings her body flush with mine. Her boobs press against mine, a perfect, perky handful, the feeling making my nipples stiffen behind my top. She licks into my mouth, as I do hers, and as much as I want to continue this and take it so much farther, and as much as it pains me to put a stop to this, I do.

“Nelly,” I breathe against her lips, chest heaving. “We cannot do this.”

She peers up at me, eyes dazed. “What? Why not?”

“Because,” I start, pushing the stray strands of hair out of my eyes and putting some much-needed distance between us. “You decided to leave your husband a couple days ago, Nell. You went through something incredibly traumatic, and I feel like if we did this… if we took this further, I think you’d regret it.”

It guts me to speak those words out loud. To admit the concern that’s been plaguing my mind since I woke up this morning.

Nelly looks at me like she wants to argue, but instead, she huffs out a sigh, nodding her head. “Yeah. Okay. I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking attacking you like that. And last night… Oh, my gosh.” Her hands cover her face as she plops down on the bed.

“Nelly, no. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“No, I do,” she insists, emotion thick around her words. “I’m a fucking mess, and I throw myself at my best friend, take advantage of—”

“Stop!” I cut her off, kneeling in front of her. My hands hold on to her knees. “Penelope, look at me right now.” Her hands fall to her lap as she does what I say, looking into my eyes. “You didn’t take advantage of me. I want this just as much as you do. Maybe even more. But it would bemetaking advantage ofyouif we did this tonight. You’re upset, not thinking clearly. You have a lot on your mind, and you’re hurt. Trust me, I want everything you were trying to give, but it wouldn’t be right to take it from you. Not like this.”

I hate how flustered and broken she looks, like she could possibly think I genuinely don’t want her. That couldn’t be further from the truth.

A small whimper sounds from her as she nods.

“How about we get under the covers and watch a movie?” I suggest.

Wiping the moisture off her face, she says, “That would be nice.”

Chapter Eight

Penelope Boswell

It’s a dreary day today. It mirrors how I feel on the inside. Tonight, we’ll make it to San Diego finally, after fourlongdays of driving and three nights in hotel rooms that each led to their own version of embarrassing stories. What comes after this once we arrive? I have no fucking clue. I’ve never felt more like a fucking dumpster fire than I do right now.

Anthony called my fucking dad, telling him all about me leaving, conveniently leaving outwhyI left. I knew my parents would be upset when I told them, and they probably wouldn’t understand, but I didn’t expect what they gave me at all. Telling me I was a disappointment. Saying I’m letting my husband down and should be ashamed of myself. And of course, having kids—ornothaving kids—was brought up like it always is.

To Admiral Monroe and his wife, family is everything. And by family, they mean the husband and the kids and the house with the neat yard. Anything different from that iswrong and less than, and surely, nobody can be happy with less than their version of ideal.

The fact that I’m thirty-three with no kids, and now on the verge of divorce, means I’m basically a failure in their eyes. I love my parents, I really do. They have always been around, provided me with a beautiful life, never made me want for a thing, but they have this distorted view of how the world should look and work, and they won’t budge even a little on that, no matter how warped it may be.

It’s fucking exhausting, and for years, it wasn’t so bad because I was living the life they wanted—and doing it across the country, where I didn’t have to see them frequently. But then my late twenties came, and then my thirties, with no sight of pregnancy anywhere, and the harping began again.

If I’m being honest with myself—for the first time in ten years—I can admit that I married Anthony for my parents. Getting married was never in my five-year plan right out of college, but I knew it would make them happy. What is it with kids doing things for the sole purpose of pleasing their parents, when it does nothing but make themselves miserable in the process?

I’m pulled from the downward spiral of thoughts rummaging around in my mind when Wren puts her hand on my knee, squeezing gently. It grounds me, the touch. My gaze drags to her, but she isn’t looking at me. She’s paying attention to the road as she drives. Flashbacks of last night run through my head—and the night before that—and I can feel my cheeks heat. Partially from arousal, but mostly from embarrassment. Despite everything she said last night, I still feel like I jumped her.

Wren dropped her entire life in the middle of the night to fly across the country for me. She did it without question or hesitation, and I pay her back by violating twenty years of friendship and humping her leg. I’m such a shit human being right now, it’s not even funny. My sanity and my composure are slipping through my fingers, and I don’t know how to get them back, and I hate that it’s now affecting her.

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