Page 42 of Contingently Yours

Lucas

Watching my brothers-in-law stumble into their house after Tyler finished puking next to his mailbox, I realize that going to the bachelor party probably wasn’t the best idea.

Their slurred apologies as I drove them home, about the evident tension in the air between Mark and me, were an unnecessary mark of humiliation that I was trying not to acknowledge even existed.

I thought everything was fine, and that it was just me being paranoid, but apparently, even drunk, the future grooms picked up on the same avoidance from Mark that I did.

The last thing I wanted to do was make Ty and Ricky uncomfortable at their own bachelor party.

If you’d asked me if I’d have ever thought in a million years that Mark’s cousin, Paul, would be there, I’d have answered swiftly in the negative.

All the years we were friends, he couldn’t stand the guy and bitched about him whenever he had to see him.

Watching them bust up like two peas in a pod all night was surreal, to say the least. I made an effort to say hello, but it was apparent I was like an awkward guest someone feels obliged to be cordial to.

After a ‘ friendly ’ nod, the pregnant pause made that clear.

Neither made an effort to speak to me, or even glance my way, for the entire evening.

When the boys were in close proximity, they lit up with jokes and conversation, yet it was as if I were invisible.

I was fine chalking it up to two people I don’t care to associate with and leaving it be at that.

Hearing that the boys picked up on it, however, was a thorn I didn’t need twisted into my side.

I don’t want their pity. I’d have to care about the slight to need it.

It just chaps my ass that if Mark is harboring some resentment toward me, he could have the decency to at least fake our truce for the boys’ sake for one evening.

Julia and Ty have known each other since they were kids.

They should be allowed to be in love without drama between their brothers.

Mark better not have set a precedent for the wedding.

I’ll never hear the end of it from the girls if they’re watching me like a hawk to see if my feelings are hurt. Do they think I’m that fragile?

When I pull into my driveway, I breathe out a sigh of relief and grab my phone off the center console.

The big wraparound porch with its swing looks serene under the bright moonlight.

It’s much too large a house for just me.

I know that, but I take pride in knowing that it’s mine, considering the meager beginnings I came from.

Or at least it will be someday, whenever I get the loan paid off.

I’ve sometimes wondered if Shannon’s cold feet started when I bought it.

It doesn’t matter now, though. I’m stuck with it and decided that being proud is better than feeling stuck with something. Sometimes, pride isn’t a bad thing.

Making my way inside, I head straight for the bedroom, my footsteps echoing across the hardwood floors down the hallway.

Flipping on my bedroom light, I’m grateful for the sight of my mattress, eager to fall onto it after the night’s events.

If only… The temptation is just par for the course tonight.

I have damage control to do, thanks to a frantic call from Jolissa earlier, informing me that the band we hired for the wedding just canceled. I am going to be up, scouring the internet for last-minute replacements I can call when the sun comes up tomorrow.

The toe of my boot bumps into the box of rice baggies I made up for the girls, making me chuckle. Steel-toe is my first thought, seeing the dent I left in the cardboard box and remembering how Andrew looked that day in the Northern Territory.

It’s strange how my time with him on that trip almost feels like a vivid dream rather than a reality I just lived. The last two days since we got home have been non-stop chaos with wedding prep, giving me very little time to process where I stand with him.

He gave me a hug at the airport when we were about to go our separate ways and murmured close to my ear, “Don’t miss me too much.”

I watched him grin and turn away, wondering what it meant, especially after his confusing post-sex behavior that night in Darwin. Why did he ask if I have a plus one for the wedding? Was that his way of telling me not to get attached?

Why did I ask him what we were doing?

I don’t have time to dwell on his vague response of, ‘ Getting along .’

Except I can’t help it. Was that supposed to be a clear message? Is that all it is—getting along? Because…I kind of thought it felt like more. Or hoped so, anyway. By the time I made it home from the airport, I’d let reality sink in enough that I felt like I’d been kicked by a mule.

But then, he texted me yesterday. I half-expected him to go radio silent. The way my stomach leapt into my throat and my breath caught just from seeing his name is probably something I should work on controlling after the wedding is over until I know what in the hell we’re doing.

Everything in my suitcase smells like you , he wrote. Maybe it was more than sex for him if he took the trouble to send that. Except, I started wondering if it was a complaint rather than his new playful teasing.

Then it’s an improvement , I had written back, figuring that was a safe reply.

This morning I had another one from him. It was a picture of a granola bar. The sight of his fingers in the shot should not have had the effect on me that it did. I felt giddy at seeing any part of him. Giddy that he thought of me enough to text me, even if it was a stupid message.

Stole this. #sorry

#hearthealthyhasnoaccountfortaste

Waking up my phone, I tell myself it’s because I need to get a head start on looking up bands or DJs to right the epic fuck-up that is sure to ruin the reception.

It’s true. I do. Seeing several messages from Andrew, though, is an easy distraction.

They have me hopeful that I was wrong. That I wasn’t just a fling.

Andrew: Are you done bachelor-ing yet?

Andrew: Did you forget how good I look naked, or were you scarred for life by my toe injury? I’m telling you, it didn’t fall off. Plus, I can still hit that spot you like without it.

Andrew: What time are you coming over? Are you going to leave me hanging?

As I read the stream of messages, my facial muscles go slack. I think I just got a booty call. Three impatient booty calls, to be exact. Revisiting our hotel conversation, I suddenly feel like a damn fool.

I invited him to lunch to celebrate our closings.

I know he said he had a family lunch thing to go to, but all I’ve ever heard him do is complain about most of his family.

If he refuses to work for them, you’d think he’d have no qualms about missing a lunch he doesn’t want to go to.

I suggested lunch, and what did he do? He suggested I miss the bachelor party to apparently come over to his place and let him fuck me again.

He was already planning it before we left.

Suddenly, everything I was confused about doesn’t seem so confusing anymore. The way he joked about thanking his cousin for the prostate advice and made fun of me for stuffing rice bags. Yeah, I did stuff rice bags, but that’s not the point.

Not in the mood. Wedding problems.

Rattling off the message, I hit send and toss my phone on the dresser to get out of my boots. I no sooner get only one set of laces undone before it buzzes to life again.

Andrew: Dude, they didn’t call it off, did they?

Dude? I went from sweetheart to dude. And why is his first assumption that the girls called off the wedding?

Is that some kind of crack about me and Shannon?

Does he think everyone in my family leaves or gets left at the altar?

Closing my eyes, I take a breath. I’m still spun up from the bachelor party and worrying about how I’m going to save the reception.

Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions and am still programmed for pre-fake boyfriend Andrew.

No, the band canceled at the last minute.

I get my other boot off and just start on my pants when another message comes in. Is it too difficult for him to call me?

Andrew: Have someone stream a playlist. Problem solved. What time will you be here? Or do I need to send an Uber?

I could be drunk for all he knows. I just came from a bachelor party.

Typical old Andrew. Never thinking about anyone but himself and never taking anything seriously.

He once spouted off to me that women want Tiffany’s and shit like that, and yet, streaming a playlist is good enough for my sisters now because he’s horny?

I’m sick of it. All of it. Is there a sign on my forehead that says I’m shit and people can walk all over me?

Mark, his stupid cousin, Andrew, heck, maybe even Shannon, now that I’m on a roll.

Silencing my notifications, I toss my phone on my nightstand and make my way down the hall to my home office.

I have a laptop in there that will be free of communications from the aggravating, selfish man on the other end of my phone that I don’t have time to deal with right now.

As I power it up, I try to push everything from my mind.

The blissful thoughts, the sensual words, his moments of openness, all the things that made me lose my head and think our time together meant something.

The big, fat red warning signs that told me this is what the outcome would be come flooding back to me.

He’s a womanizer. Throwing a man into the mix wasn’t going to change anything.

Andrew doesn’t know how to do anything else.

It was me and who I am that made me think differently.

It was a great physical connection, but just physical.

“You idiot,” I chide myself.

For a brief moment, I thought I saw another layer to him. There are more layers than I suspected, but still only two sides to him, apparently. One in bed and one out of bed.