Page 45 of Fake As Puck
We start slow, just swaying together in his living room with only the glow from the streetlights coming through the windows. But then the beat picks up, and I start spinning under his arm, laughing as my dress twirls around me.
“I feel so free here,” I blurt out.
He chuckles as he watches me. “Free from what?” he asks.
I shrug. “Expectations. Worry. The constant voice in my head telling me I’m not good enough for this life.”
“What life?”
“This life. Your life. Houses with granite countertops and friends who toast with craft beer and weddings where people cry happy tears.”
I spin away from him, arms out, head back, letting the music carry me.
“Liv.”
“What?”
“You are good enough for this life.”
I stop spinning and look at him. Did I say that out loud? He’s standing in the middle of his living room, hair messed up from dancing, shirt untucked, looking at me like I’m something he wants to keep.
“Don’t,” I say.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it makes me want to believe you.”
“Maybe you should believe me.”
The song changes to something slower, more intimate, and suddenly the air between us feels charged.
“West,” I say quietly.
“Yeah?”
“I need to tell you something.”
“Okay.”
I open my mouth to tell him that this doesn’t feel fake anymore, that somewhere between the airport and right now old feelings started rushing back to me, that the scariest part about leaving tomorrow is that I don’t want to.
But then I catch myself.
Because this is exactly the kind of moment that ruins everything. The kind of moment where someone says something they can’t take back and everything gets complicated and messy.
“Never mind,” I say instead.
“Liv.”
“It’s nothing. Just... wedding emotions.”
“You sure?” he asks as I nod.
I force a smile. “I’m sure.”
