bring a date to rile June up. All of this, plus at least a hundred harmless pranks.
Yeah, thinking back, I wasn’t the nicest guy in the world to June. The difference is, my pestering was never an actual attack. It was the only way I could get her to pay attention to me. And I wanted her attention on me.
“But worst of all…” Her sleepy words break through my thoughts. “I tipped my chin up to you, and you walked away.”
“Tipped your chin up? What are you talking about?” I step a little closer.
She falls onto her side to bury her head in her pillow. The hem of her little black dress hikes up an extra inch, and suddenly, it feels wrong standing here in her room without her sober permission—wrong to see her picture frames, and her throw pillows, and hear her honest thoughts.
I’m an uninvited guest, staying late to a party I wasn’t even invited to in the first place.
But then, June mumbles into her pillow, and I think maybe I’m not such an uninvited guest after all. “On graduation day, I wanted you to kiss me, but you walked away.”
My head spins. Did June not hate me back then? Was she just playing the same game I was?
I cross the room to stand next to June’s bed and pull her comforter up over her. She’s just going to have to sleep in that dress tonight, because there’s no way I’m taking it off her.
After I’ve lingered beside her way too long, and maybe even brushed her hair out of her face, I wonder what life would have been like if I hadn't walked away.
What if I’d kissed her that day?
Would I be sleeping next to her tonight?
Would I be happier than I am now?
What ifs ping around my brain for the rest of the night like an annoying screensaver where the words never reach the corner. No matter how hard I try, I can’t convince myself I made the right decision all those years ago. And even worse, I still can’t tell if I’ll make the same decision again a second time.
All I know is that June says she hates me. But I don’t hate her. In fact, I think I’m just as crazy about her as I was back then. Maybe it’s a poor decision, and maybe I’ll think more clearly in the morning, but I’m going to get June’s attention again. And it turns out, the strategy is exactly the same as it was in high school.
I’ve gotta get under her skin.
Chapter Five
June
I am going to murder my best friend.
Go ahead and zip me up in an orange jumpsuit and lock me in the slammer for life, because Stacy Williams is dead to me.
Was she out of her ever lovin’ mind to plan her bachelorette party on a Sunday night? Meaning, the night before MONDAY—the day that I have to wake up at five in the morning to open the bakery. (For those of you doing the math at home, that’s only about two-and-a-half hours after I stumbled into my bed.)
I hate her. I grumble it fifteen more times before I bring myself to squint my eyes open, and good heavens, that’s one spinning room.
How did this even happen? I haven’t had over two drinks in a night since my early twenties. I’m usually very careful, especially knowing I have to open the bakery the next day. But last night, having Ryan only feet away from me did strange things to the rational thinking part of my brain. I was too nervous to eat and lost count of my drinks (did I mention I never do that?). The combo was brutal and life-changing. Life-changing in that I will never touch another cocktail again.
Women hung around Ryan like the world was suddenly being depleted of oxygen and he contained the super-special, never-ending supply behind his lips. Everything he said garnered a barrel of laughs. The man should be a stand-up comedian for how funny everyone seemed to think he was. If the conversation just barely turned to something that wasn’t worship for His Majesty, some little darling would pull it right back to him and then stare at his special oxygen lips while he spoke.
Ooooh, Ryan, you’re a chef! Ryan, what’s it like running a prestigious kitchen? My, what big muscles you have, Ryan!
I don’t know if it’s the tequila trying to make its way back up or the thought of Ryan that’s making me want