Page 49 of A Pack for the Wedding
I pull at the cardboard sleeve on my cup. "It means I'm making things complicated for no reason. The arrangement is working. The pack looks real enough from the outside. There's no reason to blow it up by actually—" I stop.
"Actually what?"
"Actually... maybe... wanting it?"
Shit. I didn't plan to say that.
This time, Maren manages to smooth her expression back to neutral, picks her drink up, and takes a careful sip. "So what are you going to do?"
"Nothing," I say. "Obviously. We haven't even talked about what happens after the wedding. We're already taking thispacka day at a time. I'm not about to make it more complicated than it already is."
"Hm," she says.
"What does 'hm' mean?"
"It means I'm thinking about what you just said." She tilts her head, watching me.
"Well, I have a feeling I know what you're going to say." I lean back and cross my arms, bracing myself.
"What am I going to say?" She asks.
"That I'm being avoidant. That I use logic to talk myself out of things I actually want. That I should just let myself feel it."
Maren tilts her head. "I wasn't going to say any of that."
Uh. Am I just projecting?
"I was actually going to ask about Arthur," she continues.
My stomach drops. Which is a stupid reaction, because Arthur and I haven't kissed. But even as she says his name, I'm picturing him next to me on that fallen oak by Lake Vienne, smelling so outrageously good I catch myself starting to salivate.
"What about Arthur?" I manage wiping my mouth with a napkin, and I must do a bad job of sounding casual because a knowing little spark lights up Maren's eyes.
"You kissed two out of three," she says simply. "I'm just curious where he fits."
"He doesn't fit anywhere. We haven't—nothing has happened with Arthur."
"Okay." She shrugs one shoulder. "You said nothing's happened. I believe you."
But the way she says it makes me feel like she's leaving a door wide open and waiting to see if I walk through it. And I don't want to. Because if I start thinking about Arthur, then I might have to admit this whole pack thing is getting bigger than two kisses that "just happened." And I am not ready for that.
"The point is," I say, pulling myself together and glancing sideways at the mostly empty café, still lowering my voice. "It's fake. A couple of smooches don't change the arrangement."
She stares at me for a long moment. I hold her gaze, willing myself to believe what I just said.
"Anyway," I suddenly say, a little too brightly. "Tell me more about Elena. What's she thinking for the cross-promotion?"
Maren blinks at the pivot, and I can see her decide to let me have it. "She's thinking a joint booth at a bridal expo."
And just like that, I'm off the hook. We spend the next twenty minutes talking about her business—the espresso machine at the bakery that keeps making a sound she describes as "demonic," her plan to debut a cardamom cake for the summer menu, whether she should finally cave and get an Instagram.
It's easy. It's normal. It's exactly what I needed.
But when we finally gather our things and step out into the late morning air, Maren puts her hand on my arm.
"Beth."
"Yeah?"
