Don't Kiss the Bride

He shoves his hand through his hair. It’s gotten longer since we first met and I can’t deny I love the way it looks. “A Christmas tree. I thought maybe it’d be nice for us to have one.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised by his use of the word us.

He flashes me a grin as I wander into the kitchen then goes back to stirring something on the stove. “I actually ordered it a few weeks ago and it came today… so if you’re not into it, I’ll throw it in the basement.”

Ah. So he bought it before. When we were experimenting with being perfect together.

The ache stirs in my heart again. We could’ve had a romantic Christmas together. He was doing so good being a boyfriend. Sweet. Fun. Caring. Sensual.

And then he quit.

Just. Like. That.

Trust is such a fragile gift. I’m not sure I’ll ever give it again.

“You can do whatever you want with it,” I say, and I can tell by the way his jaw tenses that my words come out a lot harsher than I meant them to.

Oh, well.

“Aunt Suzy sent me home with her homemade chicken, veggie, and rice soup, do you want some?”

“I had a smoothie and a pretzel at the mall.”

“Pretzel is twisted bread.”

“And?”

“And you’re supposed to eat more than bread.”

“I don’t put meat in my mouth, remember?” I say, wondering if my aversion to blowjobs contributed to him not wanting to be together.

He turns to look at me, his lips set in a hard line. “Then just pick the chicken out.”

“I can’t eat something that meat’s been bathing in.”

“Okay… I’m only trying to help you eat new things.”

“I know, but you don’t have to worry about me.”

I watch as he pours the soup into a bowl. “I’m not worried about you; I care about you.”

Instinctively, I cross my arms over my chest, as if it can somehow protect my heart from getting hurt anymore. Him continuing to be nice to me does hurt. Not that I want him to be an asshole, but him outright saying he cares about me makes me want to smack him.

“Can we talk?” he asks, setting his bowl on the island and settling down on a stool.

Those three words make my heart jolt like it just got zapped with electric shock. My brain has already thrown up conversation possibilities.

Is he going to ask me to move out?

Is he sorry, and wants to try again?

Is he involved with someone else?

“Sure,” I say.

“It’s about Christmas. I told Aunt Suzy we’d be coming together. And then…” He stares down at his soup. “Well, you know,” he says. “I still want you to come but I really don’t want them to know what’s going on between us. They’ll just worry.”

“There’s nothing going on between us,” I reply.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess I do. Do you really think I should go with you, after you know?”

What’s wrong with us that we can’t even say that we were a couple for a little while, and now we’re not?

“I think we’re mature enough to spend a holiday together as friends. I mean, we are still friends.” His eyes search mine, and I wonder what he’s looking for. Forgiveness? A shadow of longing for him?

I look away, because what I see in his is that same glint of desire I’ve always seen. That same need, that same possessiveness. That same intense adoration that makes my heart flutter.

Does he even realize his own eyes betray him?

“We’re still friends,” I agree, resisting the urge to throw in his face that I’m also mature enough to be in a relationship. I don’t want to be a bitter bitch, though.

He looks boyish and cute eating soup out of a big bowl, wearing a soft black sweater, with his hair hanging over his shoulders. He looks cozy and I miss having his strong arms around me, my hand in his. I yearn to nuzzle into his neck and breathe his cologne and hear his laugh.

“Do you want to watch a movie with me?” I ask softly. Just sitting next to him on the couch will soothe the torment in my heart and make things feel normal again.

“I can’t, Skylar.” He clears his throat and pushes his bowl away. “I have plans.”

Nodding, I smile weakly. “Okay.”

An hour later, I hear his footsteps in the hall, then the front door opening and closing. I jump up and watch him get in his truck from my window, trying to decipher if he’s dressed for a date. He’s wearing his usual jeans, boots, and black shirt, which tells me nothing. Jude’s not really a date-dresser.

Where is he going?

The only times I’ve ever seen Jude go out at night is to do a job estimate, or to do something with me.

He didn’t knock on my door to say good-bye.