Buckley’s words are like that errant piece of confetti; they’ve trailed me all the way back here. After the final round and the hugs and pictures, without the excessive external stimulation of a TV set, my mind can’t escape the loop it’s stuck in.
Leo sets the cardboard monstrosity down inside the unstable closet and looks at me. No, not at me. But through me. Maybe I am barely here. A ghost—transparent, floaty, not awake in this world.
Until I landed in Los Angeles and Leo leaped into my life, I can’t say I was ever very present. I was often wishing events to be over, social interactions to fall through, life to pass by. I would live it up when it felt right, and I wasn’t missing Mom with every fiber of my being.
It’s occurring to me, only now, that perhaps I’ll never stop missing her. That maybe I’m one of those people who’s not meant for romantic love because of the constant Mom-shaped empty space in my life.
“I expected you to be more excited,” Leo says while tugging off his sweat-stained top. Even the sight of his exquisite torso in touching distance doesn’t break me out of my obsessive spiral. “Is it because your mom’s not here?”
“Something just feels off.” My words taste like a straight shot of vinegar. It’s not something. It’s everything. I’m one unruly mess of emotions, and I can’t stop shaking my head.
“You’re probably just in shock,” Leo says, crossing to the swag bag he left on the table. As a parting gift, theMadcap Marketassociates gifted us a grocery store chain gift card, fancy chocolates, and a pricey bottle of wine on top of our winnings. Leo begins unwrapping the cork. “This was a goal of yours since you were young, and you did it. We won one hundred thousand dollars.”
“Minus taxes.”
“Yeah, okay,” Leo rebuts. “Minus taxes, but still. That’s got to be hard to wrap your head around.”
“Yeah,” I say with little umph. “Maybe. But we lied to get it.” I know this isn’t my primary concern, but it still weighs on me.
Leo scoffs a little. “It’s reality TV. They’re interested in ratings, not truth. Have you ever seen an episode ofThe Real Housewives? I would say the only thing real about those women is their bodies, but even that’s not true!”
I nod, unconvinced. “Fair point, but...”
“Once you have a glass of this, I’m sure you’ll be feeling better.” He grabs the paper cups from the bathroom and unwraps them. It’s the least classy receptacle possible for such an expensive bottle and vintage. “To our success, to our windfall...and to our conversation tomorrow.”
Leo’s blush reminds me of the napkin we signed at the downstairs bar. Where did I put that? Tomorrow we’re supposed to hash out how we can make this work as a long-distance, official couple.
After what Buckley said to me, there’s no way I can entertain a relationship with Leo beyond what’s transpired already. Can I?
My ghostliness turned Buckley from a boyish nerd into a vengeful ex. If that’s the effect I have on men, I want to leave Leo unscathed before I diminish any of his light. Sure, he was snarky when I got here, hardened by growing up without his dad, but he’s still optimistic. He has a world of opportunity waiting for him.
He’ll get his own apartment, a new, satisfying career, and he’ll find a partner who can cook without lessons and sing karaoke without the help of alcohol. He deserves a happy ending.
If this whirlwind has shown me anything, it’s that endings, I’m good at, but happiness, not so much.
“About that,” I begin, unable to find the words to let him down easy. A napkin signed over beers isn’t binding. He’ll understand. He has to.
“No,” Leo presses a stern finger to my lips as his domineering bedtime voice comes out to play. With his other hand, he gives me a cup of wine. “Tomorrow we can talk more. Tonight I want to make love to you.”
“Love?” I choke out.
He looks as surprised as I sound, but then his eyebrows fall, and a small smile tickles the edges of his lips. “Yeah. I’m not jumping the gun here. I promise. Before we were fucking. Intense and deep but still separate. After today, I feel so connected to you.”
I want to say I feel that, too, because I do in some ways, but my tongue won’t allow me and mostly I just feel numb. Instead, I ask, “Sorry, but you’re in love with me?”
His eyes bulge. “Oh, God. No, not exactly. Not yet. I’m just thinking, uh, that maybe I could be? In the future?”
The same sentiment lives inside my heart, but if I let it out, I’m only leading him on. According to Buckley, I don’t have the emotional capacity for an intimate relationship. My frazzled brain won’t string together anything coherent.
Leo sips his wine, smiles shyly. “Sorry, can we forget I said that? I was only trying to say that we did the damn thing. We’re tired from a long, hard day. But, I’m so, so horny for you, Holden. Seeing you shine out there, all this adrenaline inside me. I want to edge you and tease you and make you cry my name. I want to slowly slip inside you.” He steps closer to me, brushes a stray strand of hair from my borderline-watery eyes. “I want to feel you grip me as we lie on our sides. I want to be depleted before I fall asleep with you in my arms. Tomorrow will be tomorrow.”
His lips find mine. It’s like the kiss on the show but somehow more loaded. I pitch into him, allowing myself one last moment, one last night even. This was all fake from the start, right? What’s one more evening of playing pretend—one last stellar act of avoidance from Holden James?
“Tonight,” he says as he breaks the kiss. “Can we do that?”
Hesitantly, I nod.
Then, we do.
