Don't Kiss the Bride

“I will. I promise,” I say solemnly. I could never, ever wreck any of this. Not his trust or his pretty house.

“Right next door would be your bedroom. Sorry it’s not attached.”

Like that matters. There are a few feet between the doors, but it’s totally clean, a safe-to-walk-through, unobstructed walking area. This is like heaven for me.

He opens the door to reveal a room that’s very obviously a girl’s room with its pink walls. It’s devoid of any decor other than two white dressers, two night stands, and a full-size bed with a light-gray comforter.

“Um… did you paint this for me?” A shiver of unease slithers up my spine. Did he just assume I’d be moving in and paint it ultra-girly pink?

“No. God, no. I’d never willingly paint a room this color.” He rubs his hand across his face. “This was my younger sister’s room. I got rid of all her stuff and the old carpet, but she loved the color. I just couldn’t paint over it. Everything is brand new—the bed, the sheets and comforter, the dressers. I hate empty rooms. I furnished it long before I met you.”

I let out a quick breath of relief. “It’s pretty,” I say, not missing how his eyes shifted downward when he mentioned his sister. There’s definitely something he’s not saying. But that’s okay. I’m not here to pry into this guy’s personal life.

“You can repaint it if you want.”

“No,” I say, touching his arm. “I like it. It’s a happy color. I could definitely use that.”

The room is much bigger than mine at home, and the closet is bigger, too. The windows overlook the trees and flower gardens in the backyard. Soon the leaves will be vibrant reds, yellows, and oranges—the perfect New England view.

I walk around the room, lightly touching the furniture, then turn to him. He’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. His hair is still damp from his shower, some of it hanging over his eyes. The material of his black shirt is stretched over his arms and chest, which look pumped from working out earlier.

It’s hard to ignore all the ink, muscles, and how masculine he is. It’s a little intimidating. The only man I’ve ever lived with is my father, and he didn’t have such a large, captivating presence. But I’m going to have to get used to it if I want to live here.

And I do want to live here, very much. I want to move in right now.

“Skylar?”

“Huh?”

Oops. I’ve been standing here staring at him like an idiot. I hope I wasn’t making a dumb, dreamy face.

But his grin tells me yes, I was definitely making a face. “I asked if you want to go downstairs and talk about all this?”

My cheeks are suddenly warm, and my heart is fluttering with embarrassment. “Sounds good.” Shoving my hands into the front pocket of my sweatshirt, I smile and duck past him through the doorway.

When we settle in his kitchen, I’m worried I’m being rude by saying no to his offer of something cold to drink. People don’t realize how often they offer food and drink to each other and how hard it is for people like me to have to decline and fear insulting them. Food and drinks are social behaviors. Hopefully, with the doctor’s help, I can learn to get normal with all this sort of thing.

“Can I interest you in some bread, at least?” he half-jokes. “I have wheat bread.”

I shoot him a glance. “Jude. I’m fine. Please just sit down. You have to let go of the food stuff. I promise I’ll go to the doctor, and I’ll do my best to try to overcome my food and drink aversions. But you can’t force me.”

“I’m not trying to force you. I just feel bad.”

“I know, and it’s sweet and I appreciate it. But for the sake of both our sanities, let’s not play the ‘what can I get Skylar to eat or drink game.’ You can eat and drink in front of me, it doesn’t bother me.”

“It bothers me. It feels rude.”

“It’s not,” I assure him. “I can’t live here if I feel like I’m under a microscope. I’m not used to it, and it’ll freak me out.”

He leans back in the wooden chair and nods. “You’re right. We need less stress if we’re gonna live together, not more. Especially you. I’ll be cool.”

Oh my God. Am I really going to do this?

How can I not? If I stay at home, the house will get grosser. I can’t afford the medications and the doctor visits, so I’ll get sicker. I’m afraid of getting worse, and I don’t know how bad it can get. What will happen to me? What if I get so sick that I can’t work? I could wither away and die, locked away in my bedroom. It’ll take months for my mom to realize I’m dead. Gus will die, too.