Page 17

CHAPTER 16

SAVED BY THE ICK

CASS

W hen the chorus of “Please, Please, Please” hits, Jessa and I belt it from the top of our lungs.

I’m sitting cross-legged in front of Cricket’s new bookshelf, arranging all the books and doohickies I got for her while Jessa dances in front of the dresser, singing into a tube of fancy scented drawer liner. We’re close to being finished, which is a good thing, because we’ve been here all day setting everything up. She’ll be here in a few days, but I probably won’t come back until the night she gets here.

No point in seeing Wilder any more than I have to, right? I only chose Saturday to do this because Wilder’s at work where he can’t get his man all over me. Not because I don’t want it all over me. Actually, exactly because I want it all over me.

At the funeral, things were so sad, I couldn’t find it in me to be mad at him. So I’ve spent the last few days amping myself up to get pissed in an effort to get ready for cohabitation. I figured I could use it as a shield whenever things get a little too familiar. Actually, I thought I was doing a great job of it. I had no sexy feelings for him at all. Dry as the Sahara down there.

And then I walked into the house this morning.

When we walked into her room, I felt all kinds of ways. Because he put all the furniture together for us. To make matters worse, he left a little note that read, Hope it’s okay that I put this stuff together, thought I’d save you some time. -W

Even his handwriting is solid and strong and honest. It’s not even fair.

I’m starting to think the universe does not want me to find myself unless myself is hiding somewhere in Wilder’s pants. Either that, or it’s a plan is to teach me what is likely a cataclysmically painful lesson. Frankly, both options feel mean, but at this point, the bed is made. And in a couple of days, I’m going to have to lay in it.

With Wilder.

The chill that wiggles down my spine ends in a pool of heat low in my belly.

The way he was with Cricket?

Hot.

The way he helped me into the truck and put my seatbelt on?

Hot.

Putting Cricket’s furniture together just to make my life easier?

Hot. Slutty. Triple-X, sexually explicit, pornographic behavior.

Thank God I wasn’t here when he put all this stuff together. I don’t know if I’d survive watching him use power tools.

And don’t even get me started on the pictures he hung in the hallway. There have to be at least twenty, with photos spanning from middle school until that last summer before we left for college. There’s even one of us from the Vegas trip that put me in this position—Wilder and I on the strip the morning after we got married. In fact, at that point, we hadn’t signed the papers. As far as I knew, we were about to be divorced—this was it, the last moments of being his wife. You can see the war of bliss and devastation raging behind my eyes at the knowledge we were about to be separated forever.

Shows what I knew.

That photo is right next to our eighth grade Valentine’s dance picture. I’m in a little red velvet off-the-shoulder thing that clashed with my hair and shoes I had no business wearing, and Wilder wore slacks and a button-down that was two sizes too big. At the time, we were the same height. With my business casual pumps on, I was actually taller than him. By the end of freshman year, I had to stretch up on my tiptoes to kiss him.

Things were so simple back then.

If the little girl in that picture could talk, the first thing out of her mouth would have been, Did we marry him? I don’t think she would have been able to comprehend my answer.

Honestly? Same, girl.

He’s making it really hard to be angry when everything is so sickeningly perfect. Like at the funeral when he was also sickeningly perfect, in almost the same outfit he wore to the eighth grade dance, except now I’m pretty sure his suit pants were designer, and he filled out the whole situation to goddamn fucking perfection. He smelled good too.

It makes me so mad, the way my heart flutters again even at the thought . God, it pisses me off that my cheeks flush when he looks at me like he’ll devour me and make it feel like worship. I could spit fire at how good it feels to have his arm around me, to be nestled into his side like I was carved out of the great mass of him.

See? Mad. Furious. Completely ready to share a bed with him.

“Whatever did those books do to you?” Jessa asks.

“Hmm?”

“You’ve slammed at least a dozen books on top of each other in succession, so I wondered if it was something they said or if you were just angry.”

“I was thinking about Wilder.”

“Ah. Anything in particular?”

“Well, it started with him assembling all the furniture, then went into the photos in the hall.”

“And where did it end?”

“Book slamming.”

She chuckles into the drawer as she lines up a rectangle of liner.

“It’s just not fair.”

“What, exactly?”

“Any of it. All of it.” I grab another book from the box and slap it on top of the stack. “Everything’s just so perfect. Like, how does he always know the right thing to say? To do? I mean after fucking up.”

Jessa clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “Terrible that he’s so capable. The worst.”

I give her a flat look. “Do you have any idea how much easier this would be if he would just act like an asshole? I’d rather be mad at him than the alternative.”

“What’s the alternative?”

My lips pinch, and I slap another Magic Tree House book on the others. “ Not hating him.”

“So, being friends?”

She’s acting all innocent over there with her pretty blonde ponytail, but I know better.

“I’ll be sharing a bed with him. Friends is the least of my concern. I was minutes away from banging him when he told me we were married. Mad or not, my body is ready. The rest of me is decidedly not. So when he prances around being Mr. Perfect McThoughtful Hotness, Esquire, he makes it real hard to ignore the splash zone, you know?”

With a laugh, she finishes cutting the last piece of lining paper. “Yes, I know. I didn’t want anything to do with Remy, but my body did the first time I saw him, and everything he did somehow made it worse. Like when I got in the Scout for the first time and the stick shift was stacked with hair ties. Really, he’s the master of making things somehow thoughtful and slutty. It’s a real talent.”

“Well, that doesn’t bode well for me, since you ended up one: sleeping with him, two: falling in love, and subsequently three: moving in with him. I am currently trying to avoid one and two. I already fucked up on three.”

“Alright, then let’s do a little problem solving, shall we?”

“If we must.” With more force than necessary, I pick up the stack of books and put them on the shelf. I’ll organize them when I’m through sulking. Instead, I decide to finish unpacking the last boxes of things for Cricket’s room.

Jessa’s tongue sticks out a little in concentration as she lays the paper in and smooths it out. “There. How lovely.”

Once she’s through admiring her handiwork, she joins me on the floor with the boxes.

“First of all,” she begins, “being angry for his competence cannot last long.”

“How about for his hotness?”

“Also not a winning strategy. You’ll cave the moment he walks in.”

I sigh, setting all the bathroom stuff together.

“Really, the only way to possibly survive is acceptance. You’ve made your choice, for better or for worse. At the very least, the two of you should be friends, despite being attracted to him. Think of him like you do Tate.”

I make a face.

“Hmm, Greyson?”

My brows rise and I bobble my head in a solid maybe.

“I’ll take it. Just put him in the friend category. Accept that he’s going to be a part of your life every day now. It’s not as if you don’t already know how hard it will be. But I imagine if you embrace it, it’ll be easier to manage.”

I consider this as I toss the towels in a pile to wash. Embracing the whole thing wasn’t on my radar, but I feel better even just thinking about it.

“That might work,” I admit. “But what do I do when he does something really slutty? Like iron or clean the toilet.”

She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re mental, do you know that?” Her box is full of supplies for the desk, and her hands are busy organizing them in one of the drawers. “Let’s talk solutions. But first, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“I sleep with him. Fall in love with him. I hurt him because I’m not ready. I jeopardize Cricket’s wellbeing or Wilder’s custody because I freak out or bolt, or…I don’t know. Do the wrong thing because really I’m not ready for anything and have no idea how to learn to be independent and discover myself when he’s over here cleaning toilets like a hoe and I have to sleep in bed with him.”

Jessa’s looking at me like I’m crazy. Because I’m crazy. “That’s a start. I think we need to place some obstacles in the way so you at least trip before you cross a line. It’ll give you a moment to consider. Like a wall of pillows between you.”

I brighten up. “Oh! Okay, this is good. I have a mouth guard, that should help.”

“Yes! Maybe dress like a troll when you’re home. Like baggy, ratty clothes, hair a mess. No traipsing around in yoga pants and a sports bra, you know?”

“I could make him sleep in a tee and pajama pants. I feel like that would help a lot . Probably too cruel though. It’d drive him crazy, and not in a good way.”

“Well, you don’t want to make him angry, do you?”

“A little.”

She gives me a look.

“Okay, no. What else? Don’t sit next to him unless I have to?”

“Now you’ve got it. But, I know from experience that there will be times when there’s no obstacle to throw at the problem. So you’ll have to manage yourself.”

I imagine myself in Wilder’s pants again and frown. “I’m doubtful.”

“No, think of it like…you know how boys will recite baseball players when they have a boner? Or think of their grandmother? Or like, when you’re speaking in public and people say to picture the audience in their knickers?” I’m laughing, and she takes it as an affirmative. “Well, you need a boner killer. Like…picture him with a soul patch.”

This time, I full on cackle. “Or wearing a fedora.”

“Yes! Or him wearing those Birkenstock sandals. Maybe he’s really into crypto. Oh my God—imagine he owns a Cybertruck.”

The cackle turns into a howl.

She giggles. “Or things that give you the ick. Like, once, Henry and I were in his vintage convertible and his earlobes were flapping just a bit in the wind.”

A snort finally interrupts enough that I suck in a breath that sounds like a donkey. My abs burn, so I lay flat on my back and laugh at the ceiling.

“Once,” I start, breaking into occasional giggles, “Davis and I were in Bora Bora, and we went scuba diving. He was treading water, and when I looked underwater, his little feet were paddling around in circles and I can’t?—”

Jessa’s laughing so hard she’s crying. After a minute, she squeaks out, “In college, during a beer pong game, I once saw Henry chase a ping pong ball across the room. But he was crouched down with his hands out and kept missing it.” She’s barely making noise by the end. When she gets up to demonstrate, we lose it.

“That. I’m imagining that,” I say when we catch our breath. She’s lying next to me panting, her hands on her stomach. “Thank you.”

Her head lolls to look at me as she reaches for my hand. “Always, darling. It’s going to be alright. What is it they say? It all comes out in the wash. All you have to do is your best.”

Our fingers are threaded together. “That makes me feel a lot better,” I admit, blinking back tears. “That, and the image of Wilder chasing a ping pong ball.”

I’m so much lighter when we laugh again, thankful for Jessa. Thankful for a plan.

Praying that it works.