Page 80 of Hooked on Trouble

But he doesn’t behave as expected.

The next morning I wake to two messages. Sasha’s reply is more than I could have hoped for. She contacted a friend, whose artist pulled out of a show, and he needs a replacement. In two weeks. The night of the wedding. I choke on my toast, unsure fourteen days is long enough to pull this together, but I’ll take what I can get. It’s a small gallery in the Gaslight District, and the show will only run for a few weeks, but it will be my work and my story and, hopefully, my chance to prove my love to Nico.

The second message is from him. I haven’t seen his name light up my phone in six weeks. My belly dips. It plummets. Instead of reading what he wrote, I pace. My plan is too perfect for him to shut me down now. To realize how wrong I was and not have a chance to make things up to him would be the worst kind of evil. The devil’s sense of humor.

I drink a cup of coffee and debate another, but nothing will change whatever he sent. A deep breath later, I pull up his message.

Can we get together to talk?

Yes.

Yes.

Yes, yes, yes.

I erase the words I write, my fingers working faster than my head. We can’t talk yet. Not like this. Not until I’ve mounted my show and offered him my best apology. His message might be nothing. It might be him needing closure, not him opening a door. Still, I have to try.

I’m busy with work and the wedding. Can it wait until after? I reread my words and add, But I’d really like to talk. Then I hit Send.

I chew my nail until he responds.

Sure.

His curt reply is hard to swallow, but I try not to focus on the one, lonely, joy-sucking syllable. The big guy messaged me. That has to mean something. Either way I have two weeks to take Josh’s photos and print my film and frame my shots. Not to mention making sure everything is organized for Lily’s big night. But I can do this. Putting on this show could have the power to make a difference. People who see it might stop and acknowledge the people they pass on the street, even buy them a warm meal or drop off a blanket. Offer them some humanity. If I can get a few school groups through, it could be more effective; often it’s kids who teach their parents how to see.

Whatever happens with Nico, I’ll still have this, and I’ll have Shay and Lily. But pretending I’m not hanging a whole lot of hope on that man is foolishness. This is me, laying my heart on a silver platter, his to accept or toss.

Twenty-six

Nico

I’ve never been so nervous for a wedding, and it’s not even mine. My runs and workouts have done nothing to settle the tension in my bones, and I can’t sit still. It’s too early to head to the ceremony, but I’d rather drive around in my truck than look at the couch I took Raven on or the tub she slipped into or the sheets we slid against. This is how it’s been since the bachelor party. Two weeks of seeing her presence everywhere.

Waking up the next morning taught me two things. Drinking that much whiskey is worse than downing lighter fluid. I didn’t puke, but my room spun and my gut ached and I passed out cold. The other lesson, the harder one, is that my revelation about Raven was spot on: I pushed her away because my high standards were the only thing keeping me afloat while my family nearly drowned. Fear is what it was. Pure and simple. Raven was wrong to ask me to lie, but I was wrong to believe one false step had meant she’d failed, or one more would mean Josh had failed. Nikki had failed. Tim had failed. I had failed.

I’m finally ready to talk it out with her, no longer worried my temper will flare. Only problem is, she won’t see me.

Too busy with work and the wedding, she put me off the past two weeks. An excuse? A way to create distance? She might have texted that she wanted to talk, but that could have been to seek closure, move on. Put an end to whatever is still between us. And maybe this is the end. Maybe too much has happened. But if we don’t hash things out, we’ll never know.

I tuck my handkerchief into my suit pocket, knowing it matches Raven’s dress—midnight blue, according to Lily. Lily dropped the handkerchief off and told me I’d be walking Raven down the aisle, both of us standing up for our friends as they say their vows. The news sent my heart slamming into my ribs, where it’s been lodged ever since. To see her and touch her and walk next to her might be more than I can take.

Blowing out a breath, I check the mirror one last time. My palms are sweaty, my tux stifling. My shoes feel too tight. I grab my keys and head for the door, and my phone buzzes. My phone displaying Raven’s name. When I remember how to inhale, I open her message:

I need a favor. I left my purse at a gallery. I’m with the girls and didn’t know who else to call. Can you get it for me on your way?

I deflate at her businesslike tone. She doesn’t mention the talk we’re supposed to have, or the fact that we’ve had no contact in two months and we’ll be walking down the aisle together. No inkling she’s as torn up over this as I am. Sawyer said she’s been struggling, but he was wasted and I was three sheets to the wind, and the flatness in her text proves otherwise.

Sure, I type. One word. My standard reply. Not much else to say these days.

She sends me the address and a simple Thanks.

I roll down the window as I drive, the December air like a cold beer on a hot day. I drink it in. Christmas is ten days away, and Raven’s present is still burning a hole in my dresser. Knowing how she’d love to skydive, I bought her a pass and haven’t been able to ask for a refund. Like I couldn’t ask her to return my apartment key. As though, somehow, even before I cleared the mess crowding my head, I knew I didn’t want our relationship to end.

It takes a few passes before I find a parking spot a couple blocks away from the gallery. Walking in the Gaslight District in a tux isn’t my idea of fun; I’m more conspicuous than in my uniform blues. People stare, two women taking an eyeful. I’d smile back if I had the energy. The gallery is small, the sign outside written in old school lettering. I duck inside, nod to a man at a back desk, and walk toward him with blinders on, barely noting the dark lighting or what’s on the walls. Not caring much.

Get her purse. Get to the party. Force Raven to talk things out.

The man at the desk stands as I approach. He has a hipster vibe with his tight pants and checkered shirt, his red hair parted to the side. His eyes—bluer than mine—dance over my suit. “You must be Nico.”