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Chapter 18
Drew
This isn’t how I envisioned our wedding, but I’m a realist.
And realistically, it was going to be a long shot that I could pull this off without Harry and Monica learning about our plans.
If anyone can do it, though, it’s me.
In the life we were supposed to have, our wedding would have been a society affair, me in dress uniform, a thousand or more politically-connected guests present at The Grove in an extravaganza the media would cover.
In the life we were supposed to have, my parents wouldn’t be dead – likely killed by Nolan Corning’s machine, it turns out, for reasons Mark and I are still trying to discover – and my sister, brother-in-law, and toddler nephew would be there, cheering us on.
In the life we were supposed to have, Lindsay wouldn’t be recovering from a gunshot wound as we drive to Vegas to escape her self-centered, oppressive parents.
But we don’t get to choose what life does to us.
Only how we react to it.
As we drive across the desert, through the long stretch to Las Vegas, Lindsay stares out the window, sunlight playing on the shadow of scars that mark her cheekbone. I can’t remove those. Can’t even cover them up. All I can do is use them as a reminder of a time when I had no power.
A time now long in the past. I will never be in the same position again.
And neither will Lindsay.
I know she thinks I asked her to marry me for all the wrong reasons.
What she doesn’t understand is that four years ago, I had this ring in my pocket. It was in my coat, outside in my car that night of the party. I’d planned to propose then.
All I did today was to right a wrong.
The final wrong.
And now it’s all right. Everything’s right.
Everything is perfect.
She spins the diamond around and around on her finger, the wind pushing through the open windows, her body as relaxed as it can be with her arm in a sling.
Lindsay turns to me and gives me a pensive look. “There’s one thing you should know before we get married, Drew.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t want to sleep with you.”
“Ever?” I feel like someone just threw a brick at my balls.
“No. No, no, no – not ever! No. I mean, someday. Of course I do. Maybe want is the wrong word. How about can’t? Or...not yet? I just...” She blinks hard. Her throat tightens, then moves with effort. Whatever’s going on inside her over this, she’s trying to communicate – and it’s hard for her. I can’t do anything that makes her trust me less.
But this is not your typical road trip conversation when you’re on your way to get married, is it?
“Hey. Hey. It’s okay, Lindsay. I’ll wait. You’re worth it. We’re worth it.” That’s the best I can come up with on the fly.
It seems to calm her down.
“I guess I’m trying to manage expectations. I’m overanalyzing, aren’t I? I do that a lot these days.” She raises the window and re-positions the air conditioning vents. I raise my window and the sound difference is enormous. We’re suddenly in a cocoon. It feels intimate.
It is intimate.
