Playing Hurt - By Holly Schindler Page 0,81
more like a beer and a burger at the edge of the lake,” I mutter.
“To the lake, then,” Kenzie tells me, leaning over the top of the table, angling so that my eyes hit the drooping-open top of her dress.
Chelsea
fake out
Gabe,” I breathe as I step inside. “You must’ve spent every last dime you’ve made on our room.”
“Not every dime. Close, though,” he teases as he puts down our overnight bags.
“This is like a suite that some movie-star couple would rent for their honeymoon,” I say, staring at the enormous crystal chandelier, the luxurious draperies, the lush coverings on the king-sized bed.
“Why don’t you freshen up?” Gabe says, nodding toward the bathroom. “I’ll order dinner.”
I nod. “Freshen up” means getting out of the dark-washed jeans and plain T-shirt I’d worn to make it look like I really was going to a game in Springfield. I drag my bag into the bathroom, where I slip into my gauzy blue dress with spaghetti straps, racy thong, and a pair of strappy sandals. I try to work magic with my makeup brushes, hoping that an extra layer of concealer is all I need to hide every second thought that keeps bubbling to the surface.
When I finally emerge from the bathroom, Gabe jumps to his feet from the edge of the bed. “Perfect timing,” he says, smiling at me nervously. “Dinner just arrived.”
He points toward a small table draped with Irish linen and dotted with covered sterling dishes. A bottle of bubbly on ice serves as the centerpiece. I realize that in the time I’ve been gone, Gabe’s changed into a suit coat and tie and has turned down the bed, exposing ivory-colored satin sheets. He’s also taken it upon himself to spread rose petals all over those sheets, to light candles, and to place a nosegay of red roses beside my dinner plate.
“You look beautiful, Chelsea,” he says softly. He fidgets like he isn’t sure what to do next. I have to admit, the pressure of it all is hitting me, too—sure, I’ve done this before, but not in such a structured way. Which is exactly the way it feels. Not romantic. Structured.
Back at White Sugar, on grad night, when Gabe had talked about sex at prom being a cliché, I’d felt lucky that he wanted to take the time to do things on our own terms. Now, it seems like we’ve spent way too much time waiting for the right moment to happen instead of just making it happen, the way I had with Clint. Injury aside, what does it say about us, that we’ve never made the moment happen in almost two solid years of dating? What does it mean that sex has never been a have-to thing with us? Being at the Carlyle with Gabe, now, makes me feel like we’ve missed our opportunity and we’re here to compensate—like taking a makeup exam or something.
Stop thinking so much, I scold myself. I throw my arms around Gabe’s neck and kiss him. I kick off the strappy heels I’ve just put on and grab his tie.
From the look in his eyes—a mix of thrill and wonder and, yes, maybe even a little fear—fear?—I can tell he thinks we’re skipping dinner entirely. Or, at least, that I’m skipping the appetizer and heading straight for the main course.
“Wait. First,” he says, pulling our bubbly from the ice, uncorking it, and pouring two full glasses. “To tonight,” he says, holding his glass as he proposes a toast.
And that’s all it takes to bring Clint into the room. Gabe’s toast brings me back to that last night—I hear, again, Clint saying, To never living timidly. Suddenly Clint’s everywhere, showing me everything that’s wrong with this night. Everything that’s missing. I blink back the tears that well up in my eyes, hoping Gabe hasn’t noticed.
Gabe clinks his glass against mine and we both tilt our heads back.
“Sparkling cider,” I say.
“Stupid, I know, but I couldn’t order champagne—no ID.”
“It’s wonderful,” I say, because even though it’s kind of a silly imitation, it really does soften the dry, nervous burn in the back of my throat.
I wrap my arms around Gabe’s waist and kiss him, powerfully. I can feel the beating of his heart against my own. His kisses wander to my neck as we edge our way toward the bed. Together, we tumble onto the slick sheets and rose petals.
It’s the first time we’ve kissed this way since I’ve been back. Really kissed, our tongues tangling, hands