Page 51 of Some Sort of Happy (Happy Crazy Love 1)
Every moment.
From the front seat of my truck (who’d have guessed Skylar Nixon had a dirty mouth?) to the hammock (her hair pouring like liquid gold through my fingers) to my bedroom (better than any fantasy I’d ever had about her, and certainly better than any reality I’d ever experienced), every single second with Skylar had been perfect.
I’d been able to stay in the moment ever since she’d agreed to come home with me, so focused on her that there was no room in my mind for anything else. It was enough to make me utter those two little words to myself, the scariest two words I knew…What if? Only this time, the words didn’t frighten me because I was anxious about causing harm—the question wasn’t What if I hurt her? The question was What if I could make her happy?
And that was fucking terrifying.
How had she done it? I lay atop her now, our bodies still connected, our breathing still synced, our skin still slick, and wondered what spell had she cast to make me think after just two days that she could be mine and I could be hers and we could have this little place in the woods on the water where no one would bother us? Where we would love each other and explore each other and hurt each other and forgive each other and find grace in one another’s bodies and souls? Surely there had to be something enchanted about tonight—some sort of witchcraft that was bound to fade and break once the sun came up.
Because I knew better than anyone that this feeling never lasts, not for people like me. It’s an illusion that makes you feel good for a time, but it makes the fall that much worse when you realize it was only a tease. See what it could be like? See what you can’t have?
Skylar shifted beneath me, and reluctantly I rolled off her, stretching out on my back, hands behind my head. I locked my fingers together, refusing to let myself touch her the way I wanted to. Expecting her to get out of bed, I was surprised when she turned toward me and laid her cheek on my arm. I wanted nothing more than to hold her, but I couldn’t—I had to steel myself for the inevitable crash that was coming after such a high. I closed my eyes, inhaled and exhaled, desperately trying not to think about how hurt she was going to be when I pushed her away again.
She lay next to me for a minute before nudging my side. “Hey.”
“What?”
“What are you thinking?”
That I wish tonight would last forever. That I knew how to love someone without disappointing her. That I believed in happily ever after. “Nothing. I’m tired.” Her disappointed “oh” softened my heart, but I willed iron into it. “I should take you back.”
Slowly, she sat straight up. Looked at me in disbelief. “That’s it?”
“What’s it?” Like I didn’t know.
“That’s it for tonight? I don’t want to leave you, come home with me, I’m so glad you’re here…and after everything we did tonight, all you can say is I should take you back?” She threw my words back at me.
“Yeah. I guess so.” I shifted uncomfortably. “You were expecting something else?”
“Oh my God. Whatever. Fine.” She got off the bed and scooped her panties off the floor, stepping into them before throwing her dress over her head. The silhouette of her curvy breasts and hips against the window made my jaw clench. “Your sheets are a mess,” she said, fluffing that cloud-of-gossamer hair I loved. “Do you have a spare set to sleep on?”
“I have seven spare sets.”
She stopped moving and looked at me. “You have eight sets of sheets?” Then she threw her hands up. “What am I thinking? Of course you do. Do you want help stripping the bed?”
“No.” Did she think I didn’t want to sleep with her honey-and-almond scent next to my skin? I knew it was my soap she’d used but damn if it had ever smelled that good on me.
“OK then. I’ll meet you in the car.” She went for the ladder and started down.
Fuck. FUCK.
“Skylar, wait.” I sat up, dragged a hand over my hair. “Don’t go.”
“Too late, asshole.” She continued down the ladder and I heard her jump to the floor.
“Fuck!” I thumped a fist into the mattress, hard. Then I did it again, and again. I knew I shouldn’t take my frustration with myself out on her, but if I didn’t harden my heart against the what ifs, they’d drag me under. She’d drag me under. I’d be fooled again into thinking I was capable of being the person a woman like her deserved, of loving her the way she needed to be loved. And I knew—I knew—I wasn’t.
So fuck the big, sad ending. I could
stop this bleeding at the source, and I would.
Angry and sad, I threw my clothes on and jogged out to the truck, where she was already waiting in the passenger seat, legs tight together, arms crossed. I knew she was really mad because it was the first time she was totally silent for more than five minutes. We were almost to her parents’ place when finally she broke down.
“I’m sorry,” she said shortly, her tone cold.
I glanced at her, but her pose hadn’t changed. “What are you sorry about?”
“For thinking I could do this. It’s too frustrating. You’re too frustrating. You’re hot and cold too fast.”
