Page 70 of All In

Driving home to Harlow is my favorite part of the day. I’ve even gotten pretty good at ignoring the ticking time bomb that is our marriage. Thinking about it does nothing but cause me anxiety and stress.

Our friendship will survive. I have no doubt about that. What I’m not so sold on is being able to package up all my feelings and pretend they don’t exist. It’s only been a month since our wedding, and already I’ve grown used to ending each day with him.

On nights like tonight, when he’s home first, he’s usually waiting just inside for me, pouncing on me the second I step inside. He’ll tangle his fingers in my hair and kiss me wildly, rambling about how much he missed me.

Does that stop when we get divorced? How am I going to survive if it does? I don’t want it to end. I don’t.

But it has to. It will. And then what? Harlow is an incredible human. It won’t be long until he finds someone else. They’ll fall in love with him—he’s impossible not to fall in love with, I swear—and they’ll ride off into the sunset.

And I’ll still be here, loving him too, wanting him too, my heart shattering into a million tiny pieces knowing that someone else gets to feel about him the way I do, only they get to keep him.

Sometimes… I’d almost swear he has feelings for me too. But then I worry that maybe I’m just projecting my feelings onto him. That I want it so badly I’m making it up in my head so I don’t have to admit that he doesn’t. That he never will.

By the time I get home, my mood is pretty low, and when I pull into the driveway, I take a couple of seconds to get my head on right before I go inside.

Harlow, impatient as ever, bounds outside and rushes to my car, pulling open my door and leaning down so he can look at me. “Whatcha doing?”

God, he’s so fucking gorgeous—all big blue eyes and wild, untamed hair. “Just decompressing from work.”

He frowns. “You usually do that with me.”

And that’s true. I do. There’s nothing like it. “I know.”

With a sigh, I shut the car off and unbuckle my seatbelt, climbing out. Harlow steps back, and as soon as I shut the door behind me, he grabs my hand, leading me up the walkway toward our front door.

“My mom isn’t allowed to hang out with yours anymore. They still won’t let this idea go.”

I understand why our parents want to have a reception for us, but damn… I don’t really see the point. To be fair to them, it’s not like they know we’re lying. I mean… we’re not lying; we are married. But about being in love. It’s not a real marriage. Not in the way their marriages are real.

“I know. Mom called me about it again two days ago.”

Harlow laughs and tugs me inside. “I think we might have to do it.”

My heart thumps. “A reception?”

“Yeah.” He waves a hand through the air. “I feel like it makes it more suspicious that we’re so against it.”

Of course. That makes sense.

Before I have a chance to spiral, Harlow puckers his lips. “No kiss for me, husband?”

He’s been doing that a lot lately. Calling me his husband, and I know that’s what we are to each other. But Harlow… He says it like it’s a term of endearment. Instead of baby or babe or love, I’m husband. It fills me with equal parts dread and happiness. “What are you gonna call me after our divorce?” I ask, quirking a brow at him.

Some of the light leaves his eyes, and I want to suck the words back in. “I don’t know, really. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I try not to think about it at all.”

That’s not the first time he’s said that, either. “Do you wanna call your mom and tell her to get something planned?” I ask instead of acknowledging his words.

“I guess.” He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him do the nervous gesture that it makes my heart ache.

“Hey,” I whisper, tugging his lip free before planting a soft kiss on it. I try to keep it short and chaste, but Harlow uses the opportunity to sink his fingers into my hair and tug me closer.

Truth be told, I want to soak up every kiss and touch that I can, so I wrap an arm around his waist and kiss him back, cupping his face.

I caress his cheek with my thumb, lingering on some of his more prominent freckles. I know their placement by heart. I can’t keep my eyes—or my fingers, for that matter—off them.

Harlow sighs against my mouth, opening for me. Unable to resist, I slip my tongue past his lips, sweeping it into his mouth and tasting him. My heart thumps and my stomach flips.

I want to do this forever. I always want to savor it, commit it to memory, but somehow I never can. I’m far too lost in it—in him.