She nods decisively. “I’m positive. Don’t let us stand in the way. If you want to date him and it doesn’t work out, we will be fine. I promise.”
I exhale, big and long, picturing possibilities, seeing options. They’re fuzzy, hazy, but they’re coming into focus. “I don’t know what I want,” I say, but as those words clip out, they don’t feel as true as they did a week ago. “And I don’t know what he wants either.”
And that . . . that also doesn’t seem quite right.
Bryn lifts a brow in curiosity, perhaps hearing the same uncertainty I do—perhaps feeling it too. “Is that true though? That you don’t know what you want?”
I absorb her question, turning it over and inside out. As Daisy paints my toes a bright robin’s-egg blue, I picture tomorrow, and I start to see how I want it to unfold.
I can see the chance I want to take.
Coming back to the present, I turn to Bryn decisively. “Actually, I do know what I want.”
And I proceed to tell her.
13
Ransom
I am not the fifth wheel.
No way.
I’m so good with this setup. As I fiddle with my tie, waiting for Logan and Oliver along Fifth Avenue, I’m completely cool with heading into Central Park for the wedding with these guys and their women.
Nothing weird about that—about me wandering in with two couples.
Especially since I’m meeting Teagan at the event.
When my friends arrive late Saturday afternoon for the nuptials, dressed in sharp shirts and slacks, Bryn and Summer by their sides, I do not feel like I need to be part of all this two-by-two Noah’s Arking. Nope. Not at all.
“Looking good, Ransom,” Summer says approvingly as she surveys my attire.
“Same to you—and that ugly git by your side.” As I take the teasing jab at Oliver, I think of Teagan and our conversation the other night. I imagine how, if she were here, she’d smile privately at me, knowing my language. Translating smack talk to English the way Tempest translates into ASL.
She’d understand that Oliver’s a good bud. Since Fitz hooked me up with this crew, his friends have become my friends too.
Oliver wiggles a brow. “In some areas of England, ‘ugly git’ is a compliment, so I’ll take that, thank you very much.”
“Aww, I love you, my ugly git,” Summer teases.
“I’m such a lucky ugly git,” he says, turning to drop a kiss onto his wife’s cheek.
When he does that, my chest has the nerve to pinch.
Whoa.
What’s that about?
Oliver can kiss his wife all he wants without me longing for that kind of affection.
I don’t need to kiss someone on the cheek or hold hands like any of these lovebirds.
I don’t wish for what they have. I swear I don’t.
I roll my shoulders, shedding these strange, sudden twinges of . . . envy.
There is no room for love-envy in my life.
None whatsoever.
Logan and Bryn stroll over, Logan knocking fists with me then glancing around. “Where’s Teagan?”
Yeah, where is she? Why isn’t she here yet? Longest wait of my life.
“She’ll be here in fifteen minutes,” I say quickly.
At the same time, Bryn answers with “She’s on her way.”
The simultaneous replies do not go unnoticed by Logan, who arches a brow, shooting me a sly look as the five of us wander into the park. “I’d expect Bryn to know what her best friend was up to, but I didn’t know you were so intimately acquainted with her schedule too,” he says.
As the others walk ahead, I shrug like it’s no big deal, cool as a tomcat. “That’s when the wedding starts. In fifteen minutes.”
He scoffs. “No, dude. In fifteen minutes, it’s four forty-five. The wedding starts at five. Being, you know, not dickheads, we all agreed to be here early for our friends getting hitched.”
“Exactly. That’s why I’m here now.” My logic is crumbling, but I’ll hold tight to it. Hell, will I ever.
“And you know exactly when Teagan is arriving,” he says, like he’s busting me.
“Because we’re friends.” Maybe if I keep up the friend excuse, it will feel more true to me too. I’ll convince myself that’s the only reason I know when she’ll be here. It’s definitely not because I’ve been counting down the seconds until I see her again.
The long, long seconds.
I’m dying to see her.
I can feel it in my chest, this clawing desire to set my eyes on her.
It’s intense, and it’s terrifying.
Logan sighs, shaking his head, then curls a hand over my shoulder. “Listen, I don’t pretend to know everything about women. Or to be an expert on love or second chances.”
“But it sounds like you’re about to try and fake it,” I joke. But this is more deflection than affection. I’m not sure I’m in the mood to turn down the path of Smart Supportive Advice, and it seems he’s steering the car thataway.
