Don't Kiss the Bride

And what I said is true—I like having Skylar around. She’s fun and she makes me laugh.

But maybe it wasn’t the best idea, given how upset it’s made her. I wasn’t thinking about her not being a “real” part of my life and family. I was just going with the flow and enjoying the day.

Uncle Al’s words echo in my head. You’re playing with fire.

“Of course,” I assure her, shoving the warning aside. “We’re friends. That’s not gonna end, right?”

“You mean when we get divorced and I move out?”

The word divorce makes my stomach burn. I’d rather think of us as parting ways someday.

“Yeah,” I say. “Don’t you think we’ll still be friends after? It shouldn’t change that.” I don’t know what’s going through her mind, but I assumed we’d stay friends.

Her mouth opens and she falters for a moment. “You’re right. I guess I didn’t know if you’d still want to be.”

“And not get to see your funky outfits all the time?” I joke, hoping to make her smile. “How could I give that up?”

“True.” There’s the smile I needed to see. “And I’ll have to keep you up-to-date on all the slang so you’re not out in the world confused and unsupervised.”

“Also true.” I grin, relieved I put the fire out. “Can we watch the show now?”

She nods excitedly and swipes the remote from the cushion between us to hit play. We spend the next half hour laughing more than I thought I would.

“Good choice,” I say, standing. “I’ll be right back and we can watch one or two more.”

When I return from the kitchen with four Tylenol in my hand, she eyes me suspiciously as I carefully lower myself onto the couch.

“Is your back still hurting?” she asks.

I toss the pills into my mouth and chase them with a gulp of soda. “Yup.”

“Can you do anything for it?”

“Just Tylenol. I can’t take prescription pain killers or muscle relaxers.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll eat them like candy and prowl the streets for more.”

“Oh!” The light bulb goes off in her head. “Right.”

“Not worth it to tempt the demons, ya know? I’d rather be in pain.”

Nodding, she turns to the television, then back to me, her lips pursed together.

“I could massage it for you. Your back.”

My insides jolt with a massive battle of rights and wrongs.

“Nah, I’m okay,” I grumble. “It’ll pass.”

“Jude,” she says with slight impatience. “Would it be so bad to let me do something for you? You’re always doing things for me.”

“You helped me yesterday,” I argue.

“I vacuumed water. You put in a new sump pump, moved furniture, moved the washer and dryer, crawled around with towels, mopped the floor with bleach. You even made me toast. And today you fixed a washing machine and crawled around your aunt’s kitchen floor looking for a diamond. After working your ass off all week.”

“It’s life. I’m fine.”

“Maybe I want to do something for you.”

“Did Aunt Suzy put you up to this?”

“No.” The vagueness in her voice is sketchy.

“Watch the show,” I deflect, lifting my chin toward the screen.

She blows out a frustrated breath. “It’s just a back rub, what are you scared of?”

So much.

So. Damn. Much.

“I’m not scared of shit,” comes out of my mouth.

“People pay for massages. It’s totally platonic. It’s not like I’m asking you to Netflix and chill,” she says with amusement.

I’m stuck. If I keep resisting, she’s going to think there’s something wrong with her. Or me. If I tell her she shouldn’t be touching me, she’s going to know there’s a reason I don’t want her to. Like it’s inappropriate. Or that I’m attracted to her.

Which I am.

And I'm not sure how I feel about it.

“Okay,” I finally say, ignoring the stare Cassie gives me from her plaid doggy bed in the corner. I know if the dog could talk, she’d be telling me I’m a dumbass.

Within seconds, Skylar’s scooting across the couch and wedging herself behind me.

“Just relax and watch the show,” she says, putting her hands on my shoulders. “I hardly ever see you just resting for more than an hour.”

I take my feet off the table and lean forward, resting my elbows on my thighs. “I don’t like to sit still. There’s always something I should be doing.”

“Yeah, but you should also rest. It’s nice you’re not a lazy bum, but it’s okay to chillax. You’re like my grandfather. He was always doing something. When he wasn’t at work, he was working on the house, or on a car. Literally nonstop. I think that’s why he had a heart attack. Too much stress.”

I cringe. “Are you comparing me to your grandfather?”

“No, silly. I’m just worried about you.”

“I’m not gonna have a heart attack. I promise.”

“I just don’t want anything to happen to you.” Her fingers slowly move to the back of my neck, rolling in slow, careful circles, loosening the tension.