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THIRTY-THREE
Cari
Just shower here.
As soon as I type it and hit send, I drop my phone onto my chest and close my eyes. I’m stretched out on one of the guest room beds, trying to take a much-needed nap. Unfortunately, the five glasses of champagne I drank at Anton’s during my dress-fitting has different ideas. The room is a slow-moving merry-go-round, and I plant a foot on the ground to stop the bed from spinning with it.
Hoping that the soft, fizzy champagne buzz would lull me to sleep, I closed my eyes. It took me all of ten seconds to realize it’s not going to work.
All I could do was think about Patrick.
I struggled for about an hour before I gave in and texted him. When he said he’s going to be late and why I felt a sudden flash of irritation that quickly morphed into a strange sort of longing. I texted back.
You don’t need to shower.
Just come home.
I love you.
Thankfully I’m not drunk enough to send any of those texts. But I am drunk enough to tell him to just shower here. I hit send and rest my phone on my chest, my heart knocking against it through my ribcage.
Was this a date?
I don’t know, Cari. You tell me.
I’m not exactly professing my undying love, but it’s a start.
I’m enough.
I’m enough.
I’m enough.
When he doesn’t answer, longing slides into irritation again.
Me: I know you have clothes here.
I saw them in one of the guest rooms.
I shift on the bed, lifting something off the nightstand. The key.
His key.
I don’t know, Cari. You tell me.
Irritation fades again, this time into understanding. Patrick tore his heart out in front of me once. He won’t do it again. Whatever happens next, it’ll happen because I made it happen. Not by traipsing around half-naked or because I hung a mirror across from my open bedroom door. It’ll happen because I was honest. Because I believed him when he said he loved me.
Because I know we’re enough.
I’m enough.
I raise my phone to text him again.
Me: It was a date. This is a date.
I want you to come home. I want
you to stay.