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That’s a lot for her.
My fingers crawl over the desk and pick up the phone.
There’s a picture flashing on screen.
Our picture.
Me and Asia.
I remember her setting it yesterday when we were wrapped in each other’s arms, too content in the moment to get out of bed and face the day.
“I saved one,” she said, thumbing through the pictures on her phone.
My nose nestled into the side of her neck as I played with the ends of her hair. “Saved what?”
“A picture.” She turned. Showed it to me. “Of our wedding day.”
“Send it to me.”
She scrunched her nose, looking adorable and mischievous. “Why?”
“Because,” I kiss her gently, “I want you on my phone.”
“I get the screensaver?”
“You want people to think I’m a wimp?”
She laughs.
I stare at the picture now.
It’s the two of us standing outside the church.
No Elvis.
No half-hooded eyes and ‘I’m so drunk’ faces.
I have my arm around her slim waist and the entire side of her body is pressed into me. She’s looking up. Smiling. Black eyes gleam like two priceless diamonds.
I’m looking down at her, a soft smirk on my lips and a contented this is right expression on my face.
Drunk Me knew what he wanted.
And he got it.
He got her.
But the Past Me is trying so badly to screw that up.
My birth mother’s voice whispers through my head, “You ruin everything you touch. Just like him.”
My fingers slacken on the phone and it goes clattering to the desk.
Damn.
If I tell her, it’s going to ruin everything.
I can’t let that happen.
