All I’d wanted was to hear her voice, for her to tell me it was okay. That what I’m feeling is just… normal.
That in a few days, all of the nerves and the anxiety would be a memory, because we’d have each other and everything would be okay.
I know it’s stupid. But…
I just wanted to hear her say it was okay. That she loved me and it would all be fine and we were going to have the best wedding ever.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she got pissed that I called her, said I was being controlling, and I needed to give her space.
Space for what?
I’d gotten anxious, her words setting me off. I was already feeling like shit after a night of drinking and waking up in the wrong bed, and my brother and friends—who were somehow immune to hangovers—just couldn’t sit down for five seconds because we’re in Vegas.
All I wanted was to breathe. To rest and maybe just binge eat some room service until it was time to get up and go out.
And then my future wife told me I was the one being controlling? That I wasn’t respecting her boundaries, and how dare I call her when I knew she was with her girlfriends. Like she’s fucking ashamed or embarrassed I’d call just to hear her voice.
That I needed her.
I told her I loved her, but she’d hung up by that point.
I thought it was the right thing to say, but clearly, I don’t know what the right thing is.
That’s the thing people don’t realize about me. Everyone’s got their expectations, their image of who they think I am, but no one really knows me.
My watch glints off the lights from the bar, and that sadness in my stomach swells.
Well, maybe there is one person who does, but he’s—
“There you are,” Cam says, his grin wide, showing off his perfect teeth. His hair’s a mess again, but it doesn’t look terrible.
I get that weird feeling again, like a buzzing in my fingertips that can only be quieted by running my fingers through the silky locks.
I reach one hand out, but it falls halfway, because the sadness is spreading.
I reach for him, but he doesn’t notice. Instead, his gaze flashes to my bottle of vodka, which looks almost empty.
“You okay?” he asks, his smile fading, and the radiating sadness, guilt, and anxiety reach my heart, and I can’t hide it.
Not here, not with him.
“No,” I say as the tears threaten to pull me under. Cam moves closer to me, his eyebrows furrowed, his stormy grey eyes imploring mine.
“Austen, what’s wrong?” he asks, reaching his hand out, settling it on the side of my neck.
I look up at him, at his gaze that holds mine. His hand on my neck is warm, his touch firm. I can’t take my eyes off of him, my breathing rapid as I try to find the words, but they are lost.
He takes the bottle from my hand with his free hand and sets it down on the corner edge of the bar.
“Austen, say something,” he says. I stare into his grey eyes like they are a raft and I’m drowning. My chest rises and falls rapidly as everything converges on me at once.
My gaze dips to his lips, or more accurately, the way they are parted, the way his tongue flecks out to lick them.
All I can think about is how anchored I feel right now. I lean into his space just a fraction, trying to find the words to speak, but I have none.
His scent surrounds me, comforting and warm, and his hand slides into my hair.
