Page 20 of Winging It with You

Theo

Mio Buenos Aires Hotel

Buenos Aires, Argentina

The sliding doors part in front of me as I leave behind the refreshing bite of the lobby’s air-conditioning and step out onto the patio.

Everyone—contestants and crew—gathered at our hotel bar for a celebratory drink.

I was surprised to see the perpetually displeased Bianca and Jackson joined.

They kept to themselves at the far end of the bar, heads together as they sipped their cocktails.

But even they couldn’t dampen everyone’s good mood.

And while the cameras were definitely not rolling, Asher kept his hand in mine the entire time. Probably just to keep up the act with the others.

An unexpected but welcome anchor in a sea of chaos.

Which, ironically, is starting to feel less confusing and more comforting.

In the midst of the rowdy excitement of it all, I find myself unable—or unwilling—to tear my gaze away from this version of Asher.

His eyes gleam with that same lightness I saw back on the boat.

Even when I left him deep in conversation with Jenn and Arthur about some insect native to Argentina to shower off, I don’t know—there was something different about him.

Something lighter. Whole and real and brighter than anyone else in the damn hotel.

Maybe it’s the threat of elimination or the fact that we almost kissed back on the boat, but I think it may be time to unpack these not-at-all-confusing feelings toward him.

“There you are,” I say when I find him again. I’d only been gone for about ten minutes or so, but when I returned to the lobby, he was nowhere in sight. “Everything okay?” I ask, taking a seat next to him.

“It’s nothing.” Asher’s voice is void of any emotion. He slides me a bottle of local beer.

He’s lying, because whatever he’s thinking about is written in bold type all over his handsome face. Whatever lightness I saw earlier has been replaced with the same tension from our first meeting.

“Hey,” I say, nudging him with my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Jo forgot to grab this back,” he says, turning her phone over in his hand.

I take a deep pull from the bottle he just handed me, the crisp ale refreshing in the Argentinian heat.

After we learned we’d all be safe from elimination, the first thing Jo did was hand Asher her phone.

She’s now got us trained to take a selfie, no questions asked.

I wrapped my arms around Asher’s shoulders, pulling his back flush against my front, and he snapped a photo that was probably more blurry than not.

The only things in crystal clear focus were our wide grins.

But now I can practically hear his gears turning, and any trace of that smile is long gone.

“When I realized I still had it, I couldn’t help myself,” he admits, finally, tapping the phone against his hand. “I had to see.”

“See what?” I ask quietly.

Asher exhales a long breath. “Clint.”

Ah. The ex.

“He’s just…” His voice trails off. “Well, look,” he says, unlocking the phone and handing over the illuminated device. It’s open to a group photo posted several hours ago.

A handful of stereotypical men in every shade of white is staring back at me. Each with a raised drink in their hand and a smug look across their face. If I had to ballpark, they’re all clinging to their thirties and whoever posted the photo went a little heavy on the editing.

The caption simply reads Cheers to an epic new chapter.

“I’m assuming one of them is Clint?” I ask, almost afraid to know the answer.

Asher points to the man smack in the center of the photo. He’s…not horrible. Not my type, that’s for sure. But not horrible.

“ Epic new chapters, huh?” I read. “That’s a little on the nose, don’t you think?”

More like a calculated and dickish move.

“It’s nauseating,” he says, taking back the phone, his fingers lingering for a whisper of a moment. “See that guy?” he says, pointing to a cookie-cutter middle-aged man with his arm snaked possessively around Clint. I nod. “That is—well, was, I guess—our couple’s counselor.”

That’s brutal. It’s like Asher’s ex isn’t even trying to hide his indifference or stupidity.

Maybe he’s just downright cruel.

“Well, what’s our vibe?” I ask, not really knowing what to say. “Are we angry? Out for revenge? Utterly devastated and heartbroken? I need to know how to proceed here, Ash.”

He turns toward me, his smile returning. Slightly.

“What, you have different procedures depending on my feelings?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Alright then,” he says, taking a sip from his bottle.

“Let’s see how you proceed with equal parts humiliated and enraged mixed with a touch of self-loathing.

” Whatever smile he managed to force across his face disappears as quickly as it formed.

There’s an undeniable exhaustion behind his eyes, a weight he’s been carrying all alone.

“Ah, the mother lode,” I tease. “Well, for starters, I’d tell you that everyone has an ex or a romantic situation or two they’re embarrassed by, and if they say otherwise, they’re for sure lying.”

“Is that so?” he asks, his voice quiet and slow, like he’s trying to hide the slight crack I can hear.

“Mm-hmm,” I say from behind the rim of my bottle as I take another pull.

Asher nods and picks at his bottle’s label. “Do you?” he asks after a long moment, and I really should have seen that coming.

I haven’t thought about him in ages.

Or more honestly, I hadn’t thought about Ethan since Asher came bursting into my life. Thought about how it felt to have someone, and even worse, to have to move on without him.

“Of course,” I admit, realizing it would be unfair to let him wallow in relationship self-pity alone. “Falling in love with the wrong person and then getting your heart broken? That’s just another part of life, right? One of those things we all gotta deal with at one point or another.”

“And have you?” he asks, turning toward me. “Dealt with it?”

More like ignored it at all costs, but he doesn’t need to know that.

Not now, at least.

It’s easier that way. To pretend the past is truly in the past. That what happened then has no bearing on today—especially when you’re still unsure about who you can or should talk to about it.

I clear my throat. “Sure I have,” I say, but even I don’t buy my lie. “But the more important question here is how do you want to deal with it?”

He mulls over my question, opening his mouth several times but then seeming to change his mind.

“I don’t want to deal with him or any of it,” he says after a beat.

“I’m just upset about how it all ended and what that means.

The only thing I can think about is how angry I am for wasting so many important years of my life trying to make someone like him happy. ”

Asher’s brow furrows, and I realize now that this isn’t a conversation he needs me to interject in. Right now, he just needs to vent, and I’m happy to let him.

“I lost myself, Theo,” he says, and his voice is filled with a sudden vulnerability. “I don’t know when or how exactly, but somewhere along the way, I lost just about everything I happened to like about myself and became…this.”

Asher fixates on something in the distance.

“And this is?” I ask, hoping to gain a better understanding of how he views himself.

He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know…just a version of myself who I barely recognize anymore.

Someone who strategically molded themselves into what they thought was the perfect partner.

Someone who said and did all the right things to make sure they didn’t inadvertently cross some imaginary line.

Someone who made sure to let everyone else shine.

And yet somehow, all that could never be enough.

But I see the relationship for what it was. And more important, what it wasn’t.”

I hate that. God, do I hate that.

He turns back toward me. “Did you know that last year, my team at work won the Walter R. Fitzgerald Award for Healthcare Innovation?” he asks excitedly, but he must see the blank stare on my face.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” he laughs, shaking his head.

“I keep forgetting we’ve known each other for a literal millisecond. ”

This sends a slight pang of hurt through me.

“Will you tell me about it?” I ask, hoping he’ll elaborate.

“It’s…” he starts, a flush sneaking up his neck.

“It just this award they give to a research lab that makes a significant development in the advancement of our career field. Our department won last year for our work on artificial nerve regeneration and it was a really big deal and moment in my career. I mean, Theo—we developed technology that helps damaged spinal cords by directing synthesized signals to the human brain…”

Asher comes alive as he rambles on about artificial nerves and something about sensory injuries. The passion he has for what he does is obvious.

Sexy, even.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his chest rising and falling excitedly.

But his apology catches me off guard. “What are you apologizing for?”

“I…I don’t know, actually,” he admits, a nervous laugh escaping his mouth. “I have a habit of getting lost in the weeds once I start talking about this stuff.”

“It’s something you love, right?” I ask, confident I already know the answer.

He nods, biting his lip, and I know he watched as my eyes briefly darted down to it.

“Don’t apologize for something you love, Asher,” I say, hoping he believes me. “For something that makes you you .”

He shrugs his shoulders, setting the beer bottle on the table in front of us.

“Anyway, he didn’t come with me that night for the award,” he says, his eyes brimming with the weight of his frustration.

“Or any night that was mine, for that matter. There was always something more important going on in Clint’s bubble.

His job, family, friends—they were higher priorities than me. ”

That’s bullshit. “And what exactly does Mr. Perfect do?”

“He’s in corporate finance.”