Page 151 of Merry Me
I bet he was going to be glad when shooting was over and he didn’t have to remind me of that anymore.
Paul was standing near the monitors, waving one arm like a conductor, scowling like this entire production personally offended him.
Around him, the crew moved in fluid, practiced chaos—adjusting lights, refocusing lenses, rolling out cables, mopping up puddles. Efficient. Mechanical.
I barely noticed.
Because I wasn’t here. Not really.
My body was on set. My mouth was delivering lines. My clothes were clinging to me like they were part of the performance.
But my mind?
My mind was a thousand miles away.
In a snowy bed-and-breakfast.
Withher.
It had only been a day since I’d left her. A day since I’d held her in my arms, since she’d whispered goodbye against my collarbone, her voice steady but her hands trembling.
I’ll see you in a week, she’d said.
She’d tried to smile as she pulled back, but her bottom lip had wobbled. I’d tucked a piece of her blonde hair behind her ear and kissed her like I wasn’t about to leave her at all.
It had felt manageable at the time. A week. Just seven days.
A small price to pay for a final reshoot.
But now, standing under artificial rain with scalding lights melting the edges of my focus, that week felt like an eternity.
I missed her.
Not just in the abstract way you miss someone when they’re far away—but in the sharp, aching way that digs under your skin and makes everything else feel wrong.
I missed waking up with her head on my chest, her hairbrushing my collarbone, smelling like morning and her. I missed her laugh during MeMaw’s wildly inappropriate antics. I missed the sound of her voice catching in her throat when she moaned my name—specifically in the family restroom at the mall.
I missed her hand in mine. I missed her breath against my neck.
I missedher.
We’d found something again. At the wedding. Something I thought we’d lost forever.
If I could just prove that I was all in—that I always had been—then maybe, just maybe, we wouldn’t lose this thing a second time.
I’d been texting her all morning.
Little messages, nothing intense—just reminders that she was still running laps in my fucking mind.
Me: Miss you already, Nat. Can’t stop thinking about you.
Me: This rain scene is a mess, but all I can think about is you in that dress.
Me: I miss the taste of your perfect pussy.
No response.
Not even to that last one.
