No shit. How awkward would that be? Boyfriend sends me dick pic and I show his ex. I’m pretty sure his dick is one of a kind and she would spot it straight away. I need to stop saying dick…it’s making me miss him.
“Boo…” she giggles. “Logan would soooo kill me anyway.”
“You guys are great together. You just mesh well. Like, he just gets you, and you get him. And when you argue, you make up and no one loses.”
Emerson lifts the jug, her hand unsteady as she pours some into her glass—spilling a little bit on the white tablecloth.
“That’s why I love the guy. When I was with Wesley, it was so toxic. He was toxic. Seriously, what a waste of time.”
My stomach caves, either the sangria or Emerson’s opinion of Wesley is making me want to throw up. I take a deep breath, swallowing then finishing the rest of my drink which momentarily takes all the pain away.
“You guys must have had good times. He’s kinda hot,” I admit, rather foolishly.
Emerson raises her brow at me; my cheeks reddening from my brazen comment. I drink harder, forcing myself to forget I had even said anything.
But I was desperate.
I wanted to talk to someone.
Tell them that I was falling for him and didn’t want to admit it.
That it had been such a short time and impossible to feel this about someone but I did. And I hated it. I hated the anxiety of being in love with someone that didn’t feel the same way about me.
“Wesley is Wesley. When things were good between us, they were good. When they were bad, his true colors showed.” Emerson relaxes her shoulders, smiling softly. “I always worry about him, despite him being a dickhead half the time. I don’t know…he has a troubled past and I wish he could just move on, you know?”
I knew. I wanted the exact same thing.
“From what I’ve heard, it’s just a giant mess. What about that Farrah girl?”
Emerson shakes her head, rolling her eyes with disgust. “Ignore her. She thrives off attention. If you ever meet her, you’ll know what I mean. She will make a move on any man…she’s even tried to hit on Logan.”
“What about these claims that Wesley got her pregnant?”
“I don’t know…he told me it wasn’t his. I kinda believe him. Wesley’s not a kid person. I don’t see him wanting a family. He didn’t take to mine and he hated being around small kids.”
I smile, widely and with a bout of happiness. Those words, simple yet comforted me in ways I didn’t expect to feel at this moment. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe, all along, I was focusing on what I expected he would want rather than what he actually wanted.
I grab my cell, open up a text and send without any hesitation.
I love you.
I probably should have regretted it. But I didn’t. I bask in this euphoric state, allowing myself to live—if only for this moment—and follow what my heart and head were so desperately in sync with.
And moments later, in the middle of Emerson’s drunken cha cha with some old lady, my cell lights up on the table and his name is there, in bold.
About time. I love you too, baby.
Hell has found a place inside my pounding head.
I could curse the sangria that lured me in with its delicious sweetness. Red wine and me did not mix. It wasn’t just my head throbbing, my stomach didn’t take well to it either. Waves of nausea taunt me as I lay here regretting my decision to unwind, drink—and be merry.
With a sudden rush, I race to the bathroom, stubbing my toe on the side of the bed,
hobbling through the pain until I’ve made it just in time to dry heave into the toilet.
I’m dying.
Plain and simple.