I wake up to the sound of rustling and movements from outside of the bedroom. My head spins when I reach out to hold onto Wren like we have done all night, but she isn’t there. My eyes open fully and search the empty bedroom. She’s gone. The only thing that lingers is her perfume. I hear a louder clatter outside and sit up. As I check my phone on the nightstand, I realise that it’s only just past ten. Although I’m not hungover, it feels like it. Sex drunk.
We spent most of last night doing anything but sleeping and I don’t think we got to sleep until after four in the morning. I force myself to climb out of bed and see what the noise is.
I walk into the kitchen, the bright lights peeking through the window. Wrens’ back is to me as she rifles through her suitcase that she brought full of books. As I inch closer, the floorboard creaks and her head spins around.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” she mumbles, tossing her hair over her shoulder.
“What are you doing? It’s ten AM,” I yawn, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Oh extremely,” she says cheerfully. “I’m just going to the beach. I need to- I just need to read for a while to clear my head. I’ll be back before we have to leave.”
Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes when she looks at me. Remains of freckles scatter along her nose and cheeks and I’m instantly reminded of where my hands were all night. She seems to have the same thought as she takes a quick sweep of my body while I’m in nothing, but my boxers and her face turns a deep red.
I make my way towards her when she turns her back to me again and I wrap my arms around her waist, kissing on her neck lightly, feeling her warm body mould into mine for a split second. She pulls away from me, kneeling down to look through her mini bookshop. She stands up again to turn to me. Her brown-green eyes don’t meet mine when I try to search hers for something. Anything.
“Is something wrong? Are you okay?” I ask cautiously. She stands up to me on her tiptoes and presses a kiss to my cheek.
“Everythings fine, Milesy. I just need to get out of here for a little bit. I’ll be back.” She offers me a small smile before walking out the door.
When she’s gone, I lie back down on the empty bed, staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours. Long painful hours without anybody to talk to. Anyone to hold.
Did I do something wrong? Maybe we went too overboard last night. And this morning. It’s like every time we tried to go back to sleep, we went back to each other instead. Like it was the first of the last times we would do this. It didn’t feel like I was getting it out of my system. It didn’t feel like scratching an itch. It felt like I was preparing myself for what’s going to be a few weeks of hell. I knew she’d try and block me out after we had sex, but I thought that it would take her longer to freak out than rushing off straight away.
I need to think of some way to make her believe that this was a good idea. That she doesn’t need to run away from me. From us. Whether or not either of us are willing to admit it, I’m still the moth and she’s the flame. We’re tied together in some strange, unshakeable way.
I catch a taxi into town, to a good bar restaurant to let myself think. I knew she’d be close to the hotel, so I didn’t want to stay near her in case she didn’t want me to interrupt her own thinking time. The best thing I can do is to give her space to figure out what she wants. Whatever the fuck that is.
I knew from day one that I wanted her. That I couldn’t think about anything else but her. That she fascinated me and challenged me. A part of me knew that I was hyper-fixating on her because she reminded me of Carter. I know that he would be screaming at me now to not mess this up.
Unsurprisingly, this early in the morning on New Year’s Day, the bar is deserted. In a shady bar like this, I knew my fake ID would be accepted so the bartender doesn’t look twice when I continuously ask for more shots. I shouldn’t be doing this. I’ve worked too hard to fuck it up now.
All the good reasons I had to come to the bar fall out of the window when I hear the same whiny voice from last night.
Emily Fraser.
For a second, I think I can slip away. Maybe if I turn my head, down my drink and walk out she won’t notice me. Or maybe if I approach her first, she might just leave me alone to drink until my flight. None of those things happen. Instead, dressed in blue jeans and a white sweater, she slides into the seat next to me at the bar, somehow looking refreshed as if it isn’t New Year’s Day.
“Hey, Miles. Nice to see you again. Sober. Well, I’m sober this time you’re definitely not…” She searches my eyes, but I try to look away. This is the last thing I need right now.
“Pleasure to see you as always. I don’t want to do this right now,” I groan, swishing around my shot glass before downing it.
“Do what? I’m just saying hi. Your girlfriend was the one who had a problem with it,” she drawls, leaning against the bar. I look at her for a second before turning back to stare in front of me.
“No, it wasn’t just her. I had a problem with it too. You acting like you hate her, isn’t cute. You’re lucky she didn’t say anything else to you last night.”
“Yeah, like what? She looks harmless,” Emily challenges humorously.
“Wren is anything but harmless. Just keep your distance and everything will be cool,” I say, turning to her.
“You’re no fun,” she grumbles, sulking.
“I’m heartbroken,” I whine sarcastically.
She gives me a quick look before sliding off the seat and walking away. I don’t know what’s gotten into her. She was never like this when we were together, but I knew she was a little protective. I didn’t expect her to be jealous too.
I groan at myself when I remember just how protective Wren was last night and everything that happened after. Because fuck me, it was hot when she got angry.
Like the loser I am, I pull out my phone and flick through photos of us over the past few months. My whole camera roll has been consumed by her the same way my brain has. I’ve always been a picture-taking person.
I love to have these kinds of memories on my phone to look through over the years. Whenever I post any pictures of Wren and I, my followers go insane as if we’re the new celebrity couple. Hell, my home screen is a picture of her gorgeous face smirking at me when were at the gala.
One of my first pictures of her is when we went to meet up at the gym one cold morning. I forgot to give her my keys before I told her to go to the car so I could pee quickly. When I walked back out, she was stood at the side of my truck with the most ridiculous look on her face. Her hair was braided into two pigtails, wrapped in a huge puffer jacket, a beanie, and a scarf while she sulked at the camera as I snapped pictures of her. “It’s for the memories,” I said, and she pushed me almost making me topple over in the snow. I catch myself smiling and don’t bother to hide it.
I have tons of candid pictures of her in the library, at the rink, in my room, in her car. And my current favourite picture of us; a candid taken by Kennedy on Christmas Day. In the photo, I’m leaning on the sink drying the dishes while Wren washes them, but the picture is a small moment caught where we both look at each other, smiling as she passes a dish to me. Kennedy sent it to me on Instagram and I didn’t get it until I was in bed that night. To add to the photo album for your kids, the message read.
It’s moments like those, the ones that we don’t always remember but appreciate, are the ones where I can feel myself falling for her even harder. Where being around her makes me feel like all the problems that I thought were huge are able to subside. Even if only for a little while. Being with her this week has stopped this constant orbit that I have been in, trying to get her to pull me into her. To get her to notice. But when that happens, she pushes me back out again and I’m stuck circling around her.
I sit there, scrolling aimlessly through my camera roll, smiling to myself. I’m so caught up in listening to her laugh that could melt in my hands that I don’t realise the tall dark-haired guy who sits next to me. He looks around my age, maybe a little younger but definitely not allowed to be drinking,
“Is that your girlfriend?” he asks, nodding towards my phone. Instinctively, I lock my phone and turn it face down on the table.
“Yep. I think,” I reply but my voice sounds distant. As if it’s not my own. The drinks must be getting to me.
“What do you mean, ‘you think?’ Is she or not?” He looks at me with kind eyes. His features seem boyish and friendly, a lot like Carters.
“Do you want to hear a story?”
