Don't Kiss the Bride

“You sure?” She asks it like sitting on the couch with me has been off-limits, and I’ve granted her VIP access.

“Yeah.” I nod my chin toward the other end of the couch. “That spot is yours.”

She crosses the room and plops down, wiggling her butt into the cushion with a big smile on her face.

I hold the bowl out to her. “Want to try some popcorn? It’s still warm.”

Her nose lifts up a bit. “I can’t. I got a piece stuck in my throat when I was little.”

Most of her food fears are confusing as hell to me, but I don’t push her about it. All that matters is that she’s doing better.

I don’t remember the last time I’ve hung out and watched movies with someone. Especially a woman. But since Skylar moved in, we’ve done it a lot. I didn’t realize how much I missed having another person around. Or having someone to talk to other than my dog.

I’m struggling with the fact that I like having Skylar around. Way more than I should. When she’s laughing like she is now, my mind drifts back to the kiss.

Yeah—the kiss that never should’ve happened.

And the second kiss that never should’ve happened.

And, if I’m not careful, the third kiss that should never happen.

I can’t, though. She’s only eighteen. Not on the menu for me. She’s wearing footie pants, for fuck’s sake. Too young, too innocent to get involved with someone like me. Women love me, until they hate me. I’m a dating wanderer. I stay for a while, then I move on. I’ve always been a “fun for the moment” type of guy. The problem is, I’m nice to them. I treat women well—I’m not a dick. I’m upfront with where we stand. I just don’t want to stay. Somehow, that makes it worse. It’s like they’d rather I was a total douche than be honest and nice.

Leaning back, I stretch my arms up over my head, and pain shoots from my neck down to the base of my spine. I groan and twist, grimacing from the discomfort

“Oh no… did you hurt your back?”

“I’ve got some messed-up discs in my back and neck. Sometimes they act up.”

“Sucks getting old, huh?” she jabs playfully, but there’s a flash of worry in her eyes.

“You have no idea.”

I scavenge through the popcorn, trying to find an extra-buttery piece and one catches my eye that doesn’t have any butter on it.

“Look at this.” I hold it up. “It looks just like Cassie.”

“Are you nuts?” She laughs. “It’s a piece of popcorn.”

“No really, look. These look like little floppy ears, and those are eyes, and a nose.”

I hand it to her and she examines it until a big smile spreads across her lips. “Oh my God. It does. How funny is that?”

“You should eat it. Make it your first new popcorn trial.”

“Hmm…”

“That piece doesn’t even have any butter on it, so it’s not soggy or weird.”

“Okay. I’m going to try it,” she says triumphantly, popping it into her mouth.

A few seconds later she coughs, covering her mouth with her hand, and anxiously gripping the arm of the couch with the other.

“You okay?” I ask.

She shakes her head rapidly back and forth and turns to me with a look of terror in her eyes.

“It’s stuck in my throat.” She gags. “A piece of it.”

Fuck. I put the bowl down and move closer to her. “It’ll go down.”

Her chest heaves up and down as she gulps air. “I can’t breathe… I’m going to choke.”

She’s spiraling into a panic right in front of me, on the verge of hyperventilating.

“You’re talking, so you can breathe. You’re not choking. It’s just tickling your throat.” I grab my soda and hold it out to her. “Take a sip of this.”

Her eyes grow even wider as she coughs and clutches at her throat. “I can’t.”

I forgot—she won’t drink soda. It’s on her bad list.

Helplessly, I watch her throat bob up and down as she swallows, trembling with fear as she gasps for breath.

She’s not choking, I’m sure of it. The little piece stuck in her throat—probably one of those fucking kernel skin things—has launched her into a massive panic attack.

“Skylar, try to breathe slow,” I say evenly. “You’re not choking.”

“I can’t swallow it…” she cries, her cheeks reddening. “It’s stuck.”

“Lemme go get you some water.”

I run to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, but when I come back to the living room, she’s gone.

“Skylar?”

Gagging sounds from the bathroom down the hall turn me in that direction. The door is ajar, so I cautiously poke my head in. My heart sinks when I find her sitting on the floor, leaning against the bathtub. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, her body shaking uncontrollably as she wretches.

Kneeling in front of her, I twist the top off the water bottle.