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The constriction of claustrophobia wraps itself around me as I feel myself spiraling stupidly into panic and irrationality. Grey isn’t who I should be afraid of. I know the fear is coming from someone else with Grey being nothing but a conduit, but right now, I can’t fully explain it, but I need this pain to stop. I need to be alone. “I know. I’m just… The timing isn’t right. I need to sort myself out.”
“I can help.”
“No. You can’t.”
“Indie.”
“Look, I have to go.” I open the door, hearing Carrie pottering about a few feet away. “Thank you.”
He bows his head. “Bye.”
* * *
Two weeks later, amidst a flurry of anonymous calls and strange messages, I change my phone number once again, not responding to Grey’s last text, nor sending him the new number before I close down the old one.
I need it all to stop.
12
Indigo
Cumberland Island
Early July
“What do you want?” asks Rami, standing over our table as Frannie slides into the bench opposite me, plonking her purse down onto the long black and slightly torn cushion of the booth we’re in.
“Half lager, half lemonade, please,” I respond as Rami rolls her eyes. “I have to cycle home,” I protest at her unimpressed look. “I came here by bike, remember?”
“You can get a fucking cab home. Pick the bike up tomorrow. No one will steal that rusty old relic of a bike anyway.”
“Hey!” I swat at her arm with the coaster on the pock-marked table as she grins at me like an asshole.
She does have a point. The squeaky thing with the shitty brakes came with the house we’re renting and at this point, the lock is probably worth more than the bike.
“What are you having?” I ask.
She blinks at me flatly. “What do you think?”
“Mezcal, extra lime?” I ask, knowing her penchant for Tequila’s smoky cousin.
She grins. “You know me too well, Tornada.”
I ponder my drink…
Technically, we’re not supposed to drink on this yoga retreat we’re attending while I’m not on wedding duty, but by this point, I think all three of us have decided that the vow of chastity the yoga master running the retreat asked us to adhere to is deprivation enough.
Yoga isn’t really Rami’s cup of tea to put it mildly, but Fran and I talked her into it, after first talking her into this trip to the island off the coast of Georgia for Carrie and Tom’s nuptials.
I wouldn’t ordinarily have asked them to join me, but A, neither of them has left the DC area in almost a year, and B, I really need some moral support, especially now I know from Carrie that Greyson Everitt will definitely be attending.
Apparently, he’s already on the island, a fact that is making me jittery as hell and the reason I’m drinking alcohol when I should be sipping on wheatgrass juice and generally treating my body like a temple during this inner goddess worshipping retreat we’re supposed to be on, and already failing spectacularly at.
At least this vow of chastity is something to keep me focused when I see him at the wedding.
Well, chastity when it comes to men. Women can pleasure themselves if they want apparently—a fact that made me burst out laughing when the retreat leader told the group.
But dick is off the menu.
