The questions I have about that message I saw yesterday rise up, almost taunting me. But…
No. Just no.
Today is for Luna. I refuse to let Beckett’s problems pull me under.
I slip out from under his arm, careful not to wake him, gather my clothes, and take a quick shower. A couple spritzes of the styling product I splurged on, some scrunching, a little fluffing—and thankfully, my hair looks close enough to how it did yesterday.
Today, the ship docks in Cabo San Lucas, where I arranged for the wedding party and several of the guests to go out on a private yacht tour around the arches. Live music, catered lunch, open bar, a true “luxury experience.”
When your little sister shares Pinterest pics of her ideal prewedding excursion, you make damn sure it’s perfect.
I even bought a new dress for it. Aqua cotton, flirty hem, light enough to catch the breeze, finished off with sandals that show off my newly polished toes. By the time I emerge from the bathroom, the sunlight has climbed higher, slanting across the bed, catching on the dark scruff along Beckett’s jaw. At the sight of him, along with the memory of how I acted last night…
I just freeze.
When he took me in his arms last night and I reached for him, I was only acting out of habit. That’s all that was.
My body wanted the intimacy our marriage no longer had.
And I’d had a few too many drinks, obviously.
It didn’t mean anything, and… he was right to shut it down.
And I know it shouldn’t bother me.He did the right thing.
But yeah,hewas the one to shut it down.
Ultimately, we just fell asleep. Fully dressed, for Pete’s sake—which should make this simpler than it feels.
Without thinking, I walk closer, lean over, and—God help me—almost kiss him.
What the heck am I doing?
I jerk back, heart pounding, and busy myself grabbing my purse, my documents, anything to keep my hands from betraying me.
Sure, a woman can be excused for almost making a pass at her not-quite-estranged husband after a sentimental song and a few too many drinks.
But she absolutely cannot—under any circumstances—kiss him good morning.
I gather my resolve along with my beach bag and slip quietly out of our cabin, careful not to look back.
Every self-help book insists that change—even good change—is hard.
Just like Beckett’s chest.
The thought hits me out of nowhere, and for a split second I just stand there, hand on the door, breathing like I’ve done something wrong.
No.
Not going there.
I need coffee. A very tall one. Something solid. Something that doesn’t stir up doubts I settled weeks ago.
Then I head toward my mom’s room, where the boys are probably already bouncing off the walls, where everything still makes sense.
“Mom!” Max sees me first. “We’re going on a different boat today!”
“And we’re taking a little boat to get to the different boat!” Blakey adds.
