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“The mail?” I wheeze, suddenly winded.
Rory’s been persistent like this since she arrived.
“You know I want to, but…”
She sighs. “Yeah. I know, thebut.”
Her disappointment isn’t because of the butbutrather at my refusal to be persuaded.
“Please,” she whines. “I need your stellar design advice and who else is going to help me style the event, hmmm?”
She and I both know she’s only trying to butter me up. Has been since she stepped off the tarmac and it’s starting to work…somewhat.
I wave my phone as a reminder. “Again, we can call or video chat.”
Rory gives me a hard look, not liking my answer, same as all the others. “It’s not the same and you know it.”
I do.
I gulp.
She taps at her chin as we continue on our walk. “Do you think jeans are acceptable attire for a wedding?” Her eyes go big at the possibility. “I mean, picture it. I could show up in a dark pair of denim, leave the holes out because this is a wedding after all, and then my top could be—”
My hand slams down over her mouth. Outraged. “You cannot show up to your own wedding in a pair of ratty old jeans!”
She mumbles something, but I don’t understand it because my hand is still pressed to her mouth.
I inch closer, not understanding a word. Nothing but a jumbled mess of syllables as she repeats herself.
Sighing, the heat of her breath warms my palm before she takes it upon herself to lick it.
My arm slams back in repulsion, cursing. “You’re disgusting.”
“And you need to liven up,” she derides, sticking out her tongue. Both mocking meandthreatening to do it again.
“I am…I mean…I can still be fun.” I all but choke out my sentence and I’m thankful Rory doesn’t acknowledge the difference in my pitch.
Instead, she plops down right where we are and takes a seat in the sand. Fine by me, I could stay out here all day.
We’re back at my mom’s anyway. The deck on the back of her house only a few yards from us.
The sand softens, conforming to my skin in that familiar way as I follow her lead. Only while I fold my knees to my chest, Rory stretches hers out in front.
“You know, you’re going to have to tell him eventually.”
The truth, like her words, springs from nothing.
She side-eyes me. “He has a right to know why you left.”
My eyes squeeze closed.
The sound of the waves no longer outweighs the thrumming of the pulse inside my ears. They burn red hot.
“…I know.”
“This is the perfect opportunity,” she encourages softly. Her words somehow shove past the whooshing inside.
I wish my hand was covering her mouth again. Stop more of her truth bombs from spilling. I know this is hurting her too. I more than begged. I made her swear on everything that she wouldn’t tell him the truth. The real reason.
