Page 101 of Connectio
Chapter Sixteen
Idon’t see him for a couple of weeks, and it’s as if a part of me died. I miss him, like a kick-to-the-stomach miss him. Painful, lonely, almost debilitating. I miss his eyes and his lips, and the way his beard tickles my neck when we cuddle in front of the TV. I miss Molly and Casper, Princess Fiona, Shrek, and the fish. I even miss Romeo and Juliet, although I miss them the least. I miss the way he consumes all the space in a room but never lets you feel crowded, and how he tastes when we kiss goodnight. But most of all, I miss the sound of his voice and how his hand feels holding mine.
He’s my Prince Charming, and I want my fairy tale back.
“So how many fucklets are going to be at this birthday party?” Carly asks as Derek pulls his truck into Albert Park.
It’s Lucy’s son, Alexander’s, first birthday party, and Bryce has thrown a big shindig for his nephew. Massive marquee, jumping castles, ball pits, and slides. Anyone who is anyone is going to be there, except for Will.
When Carly begged me to attend with her, she mentioned Will had a family thing on, thinking him being there might deter me in saying yes. Unbeknown to her, it wouldn’t have, because I want to see him. I need to see him.
His absence has made me realise I’m ready to show him the real me, consequences be dammed. He’s either going to embrace it, which terrifies me, or run for the hills, which will shatter my heart. Either way, he deserves to know what truly being with me entails.
“You can’t call children fucklets,” I say as I unlatch my seatbelt.
“I can. And they are.” She does the same, and we all get out of the car.
The sun instantly scalds my freckled, sun-hating skin, so I hurry along, grateful the marquee is enclosed and air-conditioned. I’m wearing navy linen shorts, a white cami, and sandals, and my hair has grown so much I can now fit all of it into a decent ponytail.
As we step inside the marquee, a man dressed as a train conductor hands us a lollypop. I hold my hand up and decline, as does Derek, but Carly snatches all three. I roll my eyes and shake my head at her. She’s either going to be the best or worst mother one day, and I honestly can’t wait.
Glancing around the makeshift play centre and the never-ending stream of parents and kids, my heart squeezes a little. The giggling, the squealing, the innocence—it’s all music to my ears.
“I stuck,” a little girl cries out as she tries to pedal her trike between two gym mats.
“Hang on a second, sweetie.” I rush over, squat down, and set her free, smiling when she says, “Fank you” before pedalling off.
“I would’ve left her there,” Carly mumbles.
She helps me up but then laughs because she’s joking. At least I think she’s joking.
“You would not—”
“Yo.”
I startle at the sound of Will’s voice, heat crawling over my skin like a colony of fire ants as he steps up beside us, beer in hand, a lazy grin on his face. He’s wearing a black polo shirt—collar up—grey shorts, and sunglasses on his head. He looks neat but delectably rugged all at once, and I have to bite my lip to prevent myself from biting him.
“And if it isn’t my favourite redheaded walking vagina.” Mischief crinkles his eyes as he lifts my hand and kisses the back of it, and I don’t know what to do or say, because I’ve missed his lips and what he does with them.
Desperate to caress his cheek, I swallow, my fingers stiff. But when he winks and lets my hand go, his eyes tell me our ruse is still in full swing, that’s he’s giving me the time I asked for, even though I don’t want it anymore.
Blinking, I switch on my inner actress and scrunch my nose before wiping the back of my hand down the front of his top. One last performance, then it’s out with the truth.
“Carly, a word. Now!”
She practically shrivels on the spot, and so she should. She lied, on purpose. And now I have to pretend to be mad.
I pivot and head for an empty table in one of the corners of the marquee, Carly following behind. And when we’re out of everyone’s earshot, I blast her with my icy damnation.
“You little liar! You said he wasn’t coming. This is a new low, even for you.”
“Don’t get your labia in a knot.” She sticks her tongue out and clamps it between her teeth.
I point to my face. “I’m not laughing. Is my face laughing?”
“No, but then again, it doesn’t laugh often. You need to laugh more, starting with now. Laugh, this really is quite funny,” she goads.
I agree; it is funny, but not for the reasons she thinks.
