Page 58 of Second Chance Ex
“Prue?” I press, stepping closer, closing the distance between us. I reach for her other hand, holding them both between mine, staring down at her, waiting for her to work through whatever is going on in that beautifully chaotic mind of hers.
Slowly, she lifts her chin, tilting her head back enough to meet my eyes. And when she does, I notice the glassy hint of unshed tears welling in them.
“Come back to me, baby… what?—”
“No!” Prue yanks away from me then, pointing a finger at me. “You can’t call me that, Joey. I’m not yourbabyanymore.”
Like hell you’re not.
She spins around and begins pacing the room, fingers raking through her hair as she stares contemplatively at the floor. “I don’t know what happened last night, or this morning for that matter, but you… I don’t know… you put me under someJoeyTannerspell, and, yeah, the sex wasamazingand I’m probably going to be thinking about it for a long time–”
I bite back a cocky, shit-eating grin.
“But it’s stupid to think we can just wake up this morning as if the last two years never happened.” She looks at me then, and I see the residual pain flash in her eyes. “Itdidhappen. And things will never be the same…Iwill never be the same. And it’s only going to hurt more if we try and pretend like we can go back to how things were, because we can’t.Ican’t.”
My shoulders fall under the weight of what she’s saying, and I swallow the ball of emotion that sits painfully at the back of my throat. But I can’t do this again. I can’t stand back and let her get inside that pretty little head of hers. I won’t.
I reach for Prue hands again, holding them firmly in mine, ducking down so my eyes are less than a few inches from hers. And I look at her. I really look at her. And deep in that chocolate gaze, I see it all; the fear, the pain, the hurt, the sadness, the sorrow, the loss, the guilt, the finality and the acceptance. It’s all there, and I fucking hate it.
“We need to talk, Prue,” I say.
She shakes her head. “I need to get to work, I?—”
“No. Not right now,” I interject. “I have to fly out to New York tomorrow for some PR stuff, but I’ll be back on Sunday. Maybe we can catch up then?” My gaze implores hers. “Please?”
Her determination slips just enough to allow me a glimpse of the sliver of chance. Finally, she sighs, nodding once. “Okay.”
I release the breath I’ve been holding, and then Iallow my forehead to rest against hers tentatively, needing just the briefest of closeness.
“I know things can never go back to what they were, Prue,” I whisper. “But you can’t deny that there’s still something between us. We can’t be what we once were. What we had is gone. But maybe, if you can find it inside yourself to give this a chance, maybe we could be even better a second time around.”
Prue closes her eyes, a stammered breath slipping from her lips. And despite knowing I shouldn’t push it, I can’t stop myself before pressing a chaste kiss to her mouth because I need her to see that I’m not going to let this go, not this time. I let her go once before, and I’ll be damned if I make that stupid mistake again. She’s mine. Always has been, always will be.
I’m so thankful that my father turned to gardening after he retired, because my parents’ backyard provides a stunning backdrop for Madison’s bridal shower, which I’ve had to throw together with minimal notice and a basically non-existent budget. Who knew my best friend was going to be springing a wedding on us with less than ten weeks’ notice? Not me, that’s for damn sure. But, with the help of my parents, Pinterest, Costco, and a class full of eager third-graders I was able to exploit and pass off asartsand craft hour, I’ve somehow managed to pull off the impossible.
This morning, I woke to a picture-perfect, if not slightly chilly Saturday morning. I loaded the last of the boxes of party goods into my car and drove over to my folks’ house to find my father hard at it, dressed in his snug coveralls andgardenNew Balances, carefully trimming the already immaculatelymanicured hedges. Mom was in the kitchen, polishing the glassware that I highly doubt needed polishing, but it at least afforded me time to work without her getting in my way.
I hired tables and chairs from a rental company; a long table covered with white linen, and twenty champagne colored Chiavari chairs, ten lined either side. Instead of real flowers as centerpieces—because they’re expensive as hell and, again, I’m on a teacher’s salary—I had my class make flowers out of tissue paper, colored construction paper, off-cuts of old lace and material, and pipe cleaners, which they loved doing. And I must admit, they’re adorable. All shapes and sizes, and all the colors of the rainbow; hand-made blooms displayed in the simple glass vases I picked up at Target.
Mom’s friend and spicy-romance-novel enthusiast, Marianne, moonlights as a boudoir photographer; she takes photos of middle-aged women dressed in sexy lingerie to help get their husbands motors running.Seriously. I was lucky enough to borrow Marianne’s antique-looking wrought iron loveseat she uses in her studio. Once I’d thoroughly sanitized it, I spruced it up with some fake flowers and ivy, some white tulle, and beautiful champagne silk throw cushions, framing it with a balloon arch; an idea I stole from Madison and Ryan’s engagement party, because if anyone loves a balloon or two, it’s my best friend.
I stand back and admire my hard work. It looks good. And, I must admit, the chaos of planning my best friend’s bridal shower has at least given my mind some reprieve from the constant thoughts of Joey. Joey and his magnificent dick.
This week has been absolute torture; I’ve beenthinking non-stop about the multiple orgasms Joey gave me last weekend, and how good it felt to be held in his arms again, whilst simultaneously dreading the impending talk that he’s so hell-bent on having with me. I know we need to talk, but I’m still worried we’re on different wavelengths and I’m scared I’m not going to be able to stand my ground with him.Because if I have a weakness, it’s six-foot-five and rhymes with Shmoey.
Speaking of—Joey is still in New York, and he's been texting me every day, and it’s so sweet, I’m not denying that. But it’s also scary. And I am so sick and tired of being scared. Maybe he’s right; maybe if we were to give this another chance, maybe we could be even better than we were. The sex is definitely better; if that’s even possible because in Joey’s defense, the sex was always great. Not that I have anyone to compare him to. But this is about so much more than just sex.
Of course, I miss Joey. I’ve missed him like hell all this time. But the minute I get a chance to really consider being back in a relationship with him, my chest starts to hurt, I find it hard to breathe, and I get a painful twisting feeling deep in my stomach. I’m no psychologist, but I don’t think that’s a normal reaction to have when considering the possibility of a romantic relationship with someone.
My phone vibrates from the pocket of my leggings and I pull it out to see Joey’s name on the screen. I swear, it’s like he knows the second my mind wanders to him.
Joey: How do I look?
His message comes through with a mirror selfie, and holy fucking shit-balls, I almost drop my phone. No, it’s not a dick pic. It’s almost better, in my opinion. Joey Tanner stood in all his broad-shouldered glory, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit with a black shirt underneath– no tie, of course—his hair immaculately styled, his short beard manicured to perfection. I find myself staring at the photo longer than is probably necessary, but goddamn the man can wear a suit like nobodies’ business.
Me: You look very handsome.
Joey: Just missing my girl in a pretty dress by my side.
