“And you’re concerned that Ed’s priorities will shift.”
I shrug.
“So it’s not that you’re jealous? You’re not worried about the end of guys’ night as you know it?”
I turn back to her. “Jesus Christ, no, I’m not jealous. Did I look jealous tonight?”
Her cheeks pink, but she doesn’t answer the question. “So you’re worried he’s going to mess up the business. Make mistakes and stuff? Or take too much time off?”
I pull in a breath. “Maybe. I’ve been a part of a business that failed in the past. I don’t want another to go down on my watch.”
She looks surprised by my confession. “Ed always seems very dedicated to his work.”
I smile at the way she defends him. “Yeah. It’s just since the wedding planning started, I’ve picked up a bit of slack. And then if they have kids soon ...”
“You don’t want to be left running things on your own.”
That’s true enough. I went into this because I wanted to be in business with Ed. I don’t want to run the business myself. “I don’t want it to be inequitable.”
“You should talk to him,” she says. “He’s your friend, and maybe he knows his eye hasn’t been on the ball. Maybe he’ll reroute.”
“Hmmm.That’s easy to say. But it’s Pandora’s box. Once it’s open, you can’t close it again. If I tell him I’m concerned he’s not one hundred percent in, it could undermine our relationship.”
“But it’s already undermining your relationship,” she says. “You’re sitting with this problem, and you’re not sharing it.”
She’s right, but something about telling Ed doesn’t feel good. At the moment, I’m handling it. He has a lot going on. It’s fine. The business is doing well. But I don’t want it to be like this forever. “I don’t want to say anything yet.”
“You want me to say something to Katherine?”
“No!” I snap. “You promised.”
She doesn’t bite back like she normally does. She doesn’t even move. Very gently, she says, “I promised I wouldn’t, and I won’t.”
I believe her. I exhale, feeling better after sharing my worries with her. “Thank you,” I reply.
She nods slightly.
“Sweet dreams, Lucy Jones.”
She gives me a shy smile that feels like a victory, and I close my eyes. I replay the evening through my head like a film. The fire. The s’mores. The blanket.
Lucy. Lucy. Lucy.
Her mouth around my thumb. My lips on her soft hair that smelled of ocean breezes and woodsmoke. The way her body felt in my arms as I picked her up and laid her in bed.
I open my eyes to find her staring at me.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey,” she replies.
“I was just thinking about tonight.”
“Me too,” she says.
“Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Too much,” she says, and then her eyes flutter closed before I can ask her what about the evening she enjoyed so much—and whether they were the same parts I enjoyed best.
