Page 46 of Take 2
The only home I’ve ever had outside of the one with my parents was with Ryan. I thought living together would be the same as me always spending the night with him in Madison, but I was wrong. Living together was different. It was harder.It was so freaking hard.I’ve done everything I’ve ever wanted to do despite how hard it was. But I failed at marriage. Ryan was probably right. It wasn’t what I was willing to work hard at.
I wash the thought down with vodka.
In a group text with my parents and closest friends, I send the best picture and a ‘Happy Oscars’note. For those who would wonder and judge without reaching out to me, I post it to Instagram. Should I feel guilty that Anna will see that? Maybe. She’d be glad I’m not in terrible shape, but this is probably too far a swing of the pendulum. Hopefully, she’ll see it for the charade it is. Not that I want her to know how heartbroken I am.
“And you still won’t let me see a picture of ex-hubby?” James asks.
“Nope.” Back to airplane mode. I’ve done the thing. People can stop worrying. I don’t want to talk about it.
“Don’t want me judging you for your poor taste in men?”
Don’t want you drooling over my gorgeous ex is more like it.
“Didn’t you say there was a ‘no crying at the Oscars’ rule?”
A wipe of my cheeks dampens my fingers. Didn’t even realize it this time, but I’m not surprised. “The rules have changed this year. Usually, the rules are: no betting, no crying, always champagne, and always sex.”
“So, did you pick the onesie because, fuck it, I can’t get laid anyways, might as well cover the lady bits? Or to prevent having sex? Because you’re adorable and all, but it’s not gonna happen with me.”
Real laughter feels like an old friend I haven’t seen in a while. “Maybe both. But not to prevent sex with you.” If I wanted to, I’m sure I could maintain the tradition of Oscar night sex with Ryan. But I do not want to. I mean, I want to, but that would be a terrible idea.
We already did the goodbye sex. How I still have tears to cry, I don’t know.
My stuff was packed. We were in that horrible silence, unsure how to say goodbye. I didn’t really know why, since it was fairly easy to decide we had to. I knew he had been miserable, and I hated being the reason he put himself in that situation, but when I suggested we split, I thought he’d fight me on that idea. Instead, he agreed without much hesitation.
“I wish we had met when we were older,” I said.
“Like in our seventies? Eighties?”
I couldn’t smile, even if I was amused. “Like our thirties.” We were too young. People say that kind of thing, but when we were in it, we didn’t believe it. We didn’t care. We were going to be the exception to the crap-chance-of-success rule. We were too young and so stupid.
“Ah, but then we would have missed out on the glories of teenage and early-twenties sex.”
He was trying to lighten the mood, but my mouth went dry. “Actually, I think a woman’s libido peaks in her thirties.”Why the fuck did I say that?
I met his gaze, and his jaw twitched. “Well, lucky for the guy who meets you in your thirties.”
My eyes stung. Words tried to make it to my lips but turned to ash. Ryan wouldn’t be there for my thirties. He didn’t even make it to my twenty-third birthday. Our story would one day be considered our adolescent romance.
Not like I planned on being celibate for the rest of my life, but voicing that I would be with someone else someday broke me just a little bit more than I already was. I didn’t want to be with anyone else. I wanted the man in front of me whom I couldn’t manage to live with anymore without us both being unhappy.
Without me, he wouldn’t have to stay here. He wouldn’t be tied to my dreams that suck so much time and energy from both of us.
The moment moved at glacial speed. It was agony, and there was only one way I could conceive to lessen the pain. “I like to think I’ve been pretty decent for the past four and a half years.”
His eyes closed slowly, and he took a breath before opening them. “You’ve been more than decent.” He examined me a moment, no doubt looking to see if his desire was mirrored in me.
Apparently, it was.
He closed the distance between us in three long strides. I threw my purse on the floor. His hands scooped under my ass, and I wrapped my legs around his waist. The wall pressed against my back, and Ryan was everywhere. One hand in my hair. The other stripping off my clothes. His chest crushing my breasts was the sweetest ache, and the throb of him between my legs erased everything else.
When I dug my fingers into his back and he squeezed my hips, there were no rings on either of our hands.
Another sip of chilled vodka goes down, so I can blame my tearing up on that.
“Sorry if I missed it, but will you no longer be Miranda Rights Sheridan soon?” James asked.
“No. I hadn’t changed my name yet.” A crazed cackle scrapes out of me. “I wasn’t even married long enough to change my last name.”
