I haven’t slept all night.
And that’s sort of a problem because I become jittery and a bit neurotic when I don’t sleep.
Insomnia and I aren’t strangers, especially since I didn’t manage to completely desensitize myself to that word. It might be written in a red Sharpie because it’s one of the words I struggle with the most.
Along with death.
I think I also need to add moving on to the red list because I can’t do that. I’m supposed to, I have to, but my mind is stuck in a different type of loop that I can’t escape.
So I spent the night in the closet. I wanted to stay with Dad, but Nate said in that stern voice of his to “go home and get some sleep” because tomorrow—today—is a big day. He didn’t voice the last part, but I figured it out on my own.
However, I couldn’t just get some sleep. Not even after I blasted Twenty One Pilots on my headphones and exhausted myself by dancing. Not even when I swallowed like three sleeping pills. Or maybe it was five. I lost count somewhere.
My mind was definitely not shutting down. Usually, Dad makes me some herbal tea—with vanilla flavor—and reads me a story as if I’m a little girl. He puts on some soothing music and stays by my side until I fall asleep.
But he wasn’t there in the ghostly house that, with the lack of his presence, felt like the set of a horror movie. And maybe that’s why I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d do if something happened to him while I was under. What if I couldn’t get to him in time?
What if death strikes him like it did Grandpa?
So I hurried here first thing this morning. I had to see him for myself and make sure the stupid machines are beeping. That he’s alive and didn’t leave me.
They moved him out of the ICU because he can breathe on his own and the swelling has nearly disappeared. However, they need to keep a close eye on him, so he’s now in a private wing of the hospital, where he has a special nurse, a special room, and everything. But nothing is special enough to heal the bruises on his face or breathe life back into his unmoving body.
I fall to my knees beside the bed and hold his hand. It’s scraped and appears lifeless like the rest of him.
When I try to speak, a crushing wave of emotions clog my throat, making the words strangled, closed off. “Dad…you always say to tell you everything because you’re my best friend, right? You’re the only friend I trust enough to pour my heart out to without worrying that I’ll be used down the line. The only friend who won’t judge me, even if I’m a little weird and have a strange phobia of words and people and I can be empty sometimes. I feel that way again, Dad. Empty. And unlike the other times, I can’t find a silver lining. It’s just off and wrong and many other negative words. I thought about it last night like you tell me to whenever I’m stuck. You said I should take a deep breath and think about the root of the issue, because once that’s solved, everything else will be as well.
“I think I found it, Dad. The source. It’s agreeing to marry Nate. I’m not supposed to do that, right? Even if it means protecting your legacy and what you left me. I’m not supposed to latch onto him like a pest. I don’t want to be a burden, Dad. I don’t want Nate to baby me or treat me like a delicate flower just because I’m your daughter.”
I lick my lips, tasting the saltiness that seeps into my mouth. “So please wake up. If you do, I won’t have to feel shitty because I’m using him. I won’t have to force his hand and make him do something he dislikes. I did that before and he reacted badly to it. I don’t think you noticed it, but he was avoiding me, plastering me to the background as if I never existed. And that hurts, but it’s okay because I’m over him now. I think. So please open your eyes and come back. Please don’t let me be a burden, Dad.”
I drop my head to his hand as if that will make him move or acknowledge me. As if that will hasten the process of bringing him back.
Because what I said? Yeah, I’ve been thinking about it for five days, letting it fester inside me until it’s killed all the good words and left only negative ones. Like the red list that I have trouble with.
I’m torn between a sense of duty and common sense—that includes not being a pain in the ass.
“Who said you’re a burden?”
My head whips up fast. So fast that I’m a bit disoriented and a sudden sound slips from my lips. It’s small, but it’s there, like a squeal.
It’s him.
My dad’s best friend and my future husband.
The man I had a hopeless crush on for years before I destroyed it all on my birthday and then got over him because my pride is a thing.
I’m definitely over him.
And yet, I can’t help noticing the way his muscular chest stretches the jacket of his suit or how his eyes darken with each second he watches me. I can’t stop myself from looking at that damn stubborn jaw of his and the way it’s currently tightening until a muscle tics. Or the way his long legs eat up the distance between us in no time, injecting some sort of a thrilling potion into my bloodstream with each powerful stride.
When he stops beside me, I have to crane my neck to stare up at him because he’s so big. Big and strong and a god.
And I don’t want to miss a second of witnessing it firsthand. That’s why religion exists, right? Because a god is so dazzling, he automatically gains followers and prayers and sacrifices.
Lots of sacrifices.
“Get up.”
I want to close my eyes and memorize that voice, the deep tenor of it, the slight humming in it. All of it. But something stops me—the continuous ticking in his jaw. He’s mad about something.
Or maybe it’s some things. Plural. Because he’s glaring at me with those darkened eyes that almost look black right now.
“I said, get up from the floor, Gwyneth.” This time, he doesn’t wait for me to comply and grabs me by the elbow, hauling me to my feet.
I let out a small sound again, a gasp mixed with that stupid juvenile squeal. But that’s not important right now. His skin on mine is. His hot skin and his large, veiny hand that’s fit for a god.
The place where he’s touching me burns and then tingles in rapid succession, and no amount of deep breathing drives it away. Maybe touching should be on the negative list, too, because I totally need to desensitize myself to it.
Or maybe just limit it to touching Nate.
He tilts his head to the side, watching me in that harsh, critical way that befits a criminal. Am I one now because I chose the wrong god?
“Did you hear what I said?”
“About what?” I totally wasn’t listening, because he’s still touching me. He still has his warm hand on my elbow. Nate doesn’t do that, you know. He doesn’t touch me. Ever. I’m the one who tries it and fails miserably every time.
But he’s doing it right now.
And it’s hard to focus when I’m floating in the clouds.
“About how you’re not a burden.”
My heart jolts and I can’t control the tremor that shoots through my limbs. It’s a knee-jerk reaction that gives away my emotions and I hate it. Especially in front of him. The man who’s the reason behind it every damn time.
“I am.” I lower my head, staring at my white sneakers, and that automatically makes me look at his prim leather shoes. And the difference between his and mine is so striking that it helps to anchor me in the moment, even if temporarily. “I know you’re marrying me because you want to protect Dad’s assets and that’s okay, but it still makes me a burden. Because I’m not old enough to take care of things myself and I didn’t even graduate or pass the bar yet, so I can’t practice law or stand against Susan in court and—”
“Look at me.”
I shake my head, swallowing after all the rambling I’ve done. What if he sees the shame on my face—or worse, the things I’m trying to hide? That would be a disaster no one needs.
“Gwyneth.”
I flinch, my heart hammering in my chest, but it’s not because I’m scared. Not even close. It’s due to how he just spoke.
How can someone pack so much command in one single word? In the simple way he says my name? And is it creepy that I want him to keep talking to me in that tone?
For that reason alone, I contemplate disobeying him just to hear it again. But at the same time, I can’t ignore the warning, the severity of it.
So I slowly meet his gaze, and I wish I hadn’t, because he releases my elbow and I feel like I’m drowning in nonexistent water.
“Do you honestly believe that I chose to do this just to be there for you or because I’m a knight in shining armor? I’m not, Gwyneth. Far from it.”
“Then what are you?”
“Whatever knights in shining armor fight. And that means there’s not one noble, sacrificing bone in my body. The reason I’m marrying you isn’t because I want to protect you or King’s legacy. I’m protecting my firm. My own legacy. So the fact that you feel like a burden is needless and unnecessary. We’re using each other. Do you understand?”
My chest deflates and a strong whoosh of air escapes me. It’s not relief, though. It’s due to being so focused on the way he spoke that I kind of forgot to breathe.
Happens all the time.
But before now, I barely saw him—like once a month or something—and he hardly spoke to me. Now that I’ve seen him every day since Dad’s accident, spoken to him, been close to him, I think I’m having some sort of an overdose. A deadly one at that.
I’ll get used to it, right? If I see him constantly, I’ll totally be desensitized to his presence.
“Answer my question. Do you understand?” he repeats in that stiff tone, the strictness in it touching places within me that should remain untouched.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t let your mind wander to places it shouldn’t. The next time you have a doubt or a thought, you come to me and say it. You don’t hide, and you sure as fuck don’t turn off your phone.”
I flinch again, and it’s crazy, but this time I think I do it because hearing him curse is as rare as seeing a flying unicorn. And it’s hot—him cursing. It’s masculine and fits his authoritativeness so well.
“My battery died,” I offer lamely, because yeah, it did, but I also let it run down on purpose.
“Make sure it never does again. The next time I call, you pick up.”
“You’re not my keeper, Nate.” I need to put that out there somehow so that I don’t still feel like a burden.
He pauses, watches me intently with that savage gaze of his—that I now know why people are afraid to make eye contact with. By using a mere look, he can make a person doubt their life. It would be safer to avoid those dark eyes and the twisted promise in them, but I don’t.
I never liked safe, anyway.
“Then what am I?”
“Huh?” I’m so completely taken aback that no other words come out.
“If I’m not your keeper, what am I?”
My dad’s best friend. But I don’t want to say that, because I hate it. I hate that it’s all he’ll ever be.
“A friend?” I try.
“I don’t do friends.”
“But you have Aspen.”
“Aspen and I work together and we’re close in age. Do you fall into that category?”
I twist my lips, wiping my clammy palm against my denim shorts.
“Do you, Gwyneth?”
Damn it and him and Aspen. And what’s with his need to have an answer to every question he poses? The dictator.
“No, I don’t. But age is only a number, you know. Just because I’m younger doesn’t mean I can’t work or be friends with you. Those things can be changed.”
“No, they can’t.”
“Yes, they can.” I plant my feet wide apart.
“Let’s say they can. That won’t be happening in the near future. So what does it make me now?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, just you. I don’t need a category to stuff you into. You’re just Nate.”
“That’s not true, though, is it?” He motions at my smartwatch and I stare at it, thinking maybe it melted by being in his presence, because that’s how it feels sometimes. Like I’m the helpless star in the sun’s orbit and my only destiny is to burn.
“What time is it?”
“Eleven, why?”
“Where were you supposed to be an hour ago, Gwyneth?”
“Oh.”
“Oh isn’t a place. Where were you supposed to be?”
“At City Hall.”
“Why?”
“To get married.”
“And were you there?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“I need you to say it. Were you there?”
“No, but that’s because I came here and forgot about the time…”
“Stop.”
My insides jolt and I swear something is being rearranged near my gut, because that single word holds so much authority that it strikes me to my bones.
“Don’t do that again,” he says.
“Do what?”
“Blurt out words without thinking. Excuses are for the weak, especially if they’re not backed up by evidence or valid reasons.”
“I did have a valid reason.”
“I’m listening.”
“I told you earlier. I didn’t want to be a burden.”
“And I told you that’s not the case. So that’s all cleared up.”
“I guess.”
“I guess is neither a yes nor a no.”
“The world isn’t only yes or no. There are “I guess” moments—maybes, the unsure. Nuances and all of that.”
“And all of that, huh?” he repeats with a slight twitch in his lips. It’s the unicorn half-smile. The one he never offered me after I stupidly thought I could kiss him and get away with it.
“Uh-huh, and I have a lot of them.”
“A lot of what?”
“Nuances and all of that.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He tips his chin toward the door. “Now, let’s go. We’re late.”
The wedding ceremony.
Ours. Mine and Nate’s.
My cheeks burn so hot, I’m surprised I don’t go up in flames or explode or something equally embarrassing. Because, holy shit, this is actually happening.
How does someone react to being married to their one-time crush, who they kind of got over—but not really—and who also happens to be their dad’s best friend?
Because I think I need a manual or something. One that doesn’t make me act like the age he so obviously disregards.
“Yeah, okay. Sure.”
“Those are three words for the same thing.”
“So?” My voice sounds a little bit squeaky and kind of breathy.
He pauses, that line returning to his forehead. “Are you nervous?”
“No! I can handle this.”
“Are you sure? Because if you’re not feeling well, we can—”
“I’m not a child, Nate. I stopped being that a long time ago, and do you know what that means? It means I can make my own decisions and function under stress. It means I know this marriage is important, not only to protect Dad’s assets, but also those of everyone at W&S and their clients. So I can do this, okay?”
“Okay.”
He says it calmly, casually, like he believes my words wholeheartedly, even more than I do.
“Okay,” I repeat, releasing a puff of air. “Let’s go.”
“You still didn’t answer my question.”
“What question?”
“What am I to you?”
It comes to me then, the answer he’s been fishing for since he asked the question. Or maybe it’s my own twisted brain that comes up with it and refuses to let it go. Because once the thought was planted there, it’s been impossible to get rid of it.
So I say the one thing that makes sense. “After today? My husband.”
The husband I’m not allowed to touch.
