Elodie gulps, looking forlorn. I imagine her granny’s hairy legs, and I shudder and die a little on the inside. Her granny, Cinnamon, is aptly named because she’s about as spicy as they come. And no, she never shaves her legs or pits. I know it’s a choice, and I do support it, but still. Just. Shudders. I’ve seen some nightmarish things where Cinnamon Jacoby is concerned. Until now, I still think it’s kind of funny how she named her daughter Ginger. Personally, I think Nutmeg or Allspice might have been a better fit. Or maybe even Sugar because Cinnamon and Sugar…never mind. This is too far.
“Maybe she was just kidding.”
“She wasn’t kidding!” Elodie says exasperatedly.
Jeffers whines from the backseat.
“Don’t worry, Ell. It’s going to work out. No one is going to be mad at you for long, and if they are, they’ll have to get over it. This isn’t the eighteen hundreds. It’s perfectly acceptable for you to not want to marry a guy you don’t love, even if divorce is a thing.”
Elodie grunts. She literally grunts at me, which is surprising because Elodie never grunts. She turns around to the backseat. “Can you grab my bag while I get Jeffers’ leash? He looks like he needs to pee. But first, I have to get out of this damn dress. It’s terrible.”
“It is pretty bad.”
“Not as bad as my parents trying to marry me off to Henry Whatever His Name Jr and then saying you can’t be in the groom’s party because you aren’t his friend, even though you’re mine.”
“It would have been more spectacular to run off with you that way.”
“You wouldn’t have been able to steal the cake then.”
“We could have stopped for it.”
“Or you could have shoved Henry aside and taken his place.” Elodie’s face cracks into a big grin, and she laughs first. I join her because, of course, I would never do that.
Marry Elodie.
The idea is totally outrageous.
Totally. Outrageous.
CHAPTER 3
Elodie
“Home sweet home,” Taylen says, but then his voice falters. “Oh shit.”
Oh shit is pretty much a good summation. When we pull open the decrepit motel’s door to room number four twelve, which doesn’t make a lot of sense because the whole motel is on the ground level, extending out in an L-shape like a wriggly worm along the ground as it circles a rectangular pool with questionable water and an ancient metal slide like a concrete snake, that’s when Taylen makes his proclamation.
Oh. Shit.
“I’ll fix this.” He whirls away from the door, his thick chocolate hair ruffling in the breeze, gray eyes snapping, and his cheeks just a little pinker than I’ve seen them in a long time, even pinker than when he was reading through the group text earlier.
I grasp Jeffers’ leash a little too tight in my clammy fist as he drops down to his belly right near my flip-flop-clad feet and lets out a grunt. I absently bend to pat his head. I’m still staring into the room, which isn’t as bad as I thought it would be. It’s clean, though I doubted it would be when I saw the outside of the crumbling white and blue motel. The air conditioner is humming merrily along from its place by the sidewall, the carpet is short and blue with tiny brown flecks, and there’s an ancient wooden entertainment unit and a brick of a TV in it. Aside from that, there’s also a particle board desk, two end tables, and two golden lamps with pleated blue shades.
And. One. King. Sized. Bed.
I thought we were supposed to have two rooms. Or one room with two beds. I was okay with either. But looking at the one big bed makes my stomach feel all funny, like I just ate an extra serving of beans and might have a shart incident soon. Okay, maybe that’s not the right kind of funny, but I do feel strange.
And tingly.
In the belly area.
Taylen and I have literally had thousands of sleepovers. We’ve been friends since we started going to the same private school together when we were five years old, which makes twenty-eight years I’ve had to put up with his bullshit. Or rather, shartshit. Haha, I’m kidding. I swear, I am. During those two and a half decades, we’ve had tons of sleepovers. We slept in the same bed for most of them until we were around twelve. Then we used the guest rooms at each other’s houses. But even that ended, oh, I don’t know, around college or so.
God, I’m thirty-three.
I know that’s young. Most people wait for things like families and marriage now. Thirty-three is prime living time, but I guess I just haven’t felt kind of old and tired until this very moment.
Taylen’s heavy steps scrape across the concrete behind me, and I turn. The wind ruffles his hair again, and I find my palms getting sticky and my mouth getting dry, which I solidly blame on the glaring sun that is casting a halo behind Taylen’s head. His strong features, from his high cheekbones to his rigid jawline and fuller lips, are all bathed in a bright shade of gold.