When we finally stepped onto our floor, I stole another glance at Dex. He still wouldn’t look my way, fists clenched at his sides. Her name flashed in the space between us.
Catalina.
We were on our way to hand deliver a love letter written by a man who couldn’t eventalkabout her and I was dry humping him in an elevator. I was going to hell, for sure. But Dex wasright there with me—with all the compliments and the soft smiles and the sweet words, he was every bit as much to blame. We wanted each other. We gave in. That had to mean he wasn’t pining for her, right? Or was I simply a doomed optimist?
Dex slowed as we approached our rooms, his directly across from mine. He turned to me, allowing an unfiltered look of his bitten lips, his unkempt hair made messier by my fingers. “Violet,” he said, keeping his tone neutral. No moreVi.
“It’s cool,” I blurted, throwing on a trusty fake smile, but it felt wrong. I never realized how unabashedly real I’d been with Dex until now.
He rubbed the back of his neck and glanced down the hall. “I don’t want you to think—”
“I’m not thinking!” I stepped away from him. “There could not be any less thinking in this building tonight.”
“Violet—”
“It’s fine. It’s the curse of the strawberry margarita. Mistakes are made. We pretend it never happened in the morning.”
For a horrifying five seconds, I hoped he would protest. Tell me it wasn’t a mistake, he couldn’t pretend, that it felt as monumental to him as it did for me. There was something here, therehadto be. But of course he didn’t argue. He had someone we were on our way to, who I’d vowed to help him reconcile with.
My eyes stung. “It never happened,” I added softly.
Dex nodded stiffly. “It’s better this way.”
“Cool, yeah. Agreed.” I fumbled for my room key, turning my back to him. “Well, good night.”
I didn’t give him a chance to respond.
It was better that way.
Fourteen
LINCOLN, NE
It only took four hours in the front seat for Phoebe to take it upon herself to update the route.
“I’m older, now,” she’d said, as if talking about years passing. “I’ve changed.”
Dex, surprisingly acquiescent, allowed her to peruse what I assumed was a very detailed spreadsheet on his phone. A mistake, seeing as she immediately got bored and began snooping. She tittered over his home screen being organized in alphabetical order, and the fact that the only apps he had were Spotify (Premium) andMario Kart(she downloaded it and friended herself from his account). Every time he got a text, she read it aloud, along with who it was from and her own commentary (“BG Brad says, ‘Sounds cool.’ What does the BG stand for? Big Gay Brad?”).
I spent four hours in the back seat pretending to sleep, pretending not to listen to Phoebe teasing Dex, or the soft rhythm of Dex’s fingers drumming the wheel along to a Sonic Youth song, or their conversation about which fast-food restaurant had the best fries, or Dex threatening to throw Phoebe’s phone outthe window when she added “Blue (Da Ba Dee)” to the road trip playlist and her unrestrained laughter in response. An easiness existed between them—the bewilderment I felt about it was overwhelmed by blistering relief. Phoebe sounded light and cheerful. Like akid. And as much as I wanted her to sound that way when she talked to me, that she sounded that way at all was a tremendous step forward.
I contemplated this with my eyes shut. I contemplated a lot of things, like the look Phoebe gave me when I told her to take the front so I could nap, as if she knew I was full to the brim with shit, or no matter how many times I swished mouthwash around my mouth this morning, I could still taste strawberry. How every so often, in the midst of an extended silence, Phoebe would giggle, and I’d sneak a peek, wondering what I’d missed, and Dex’s eyes would meet mine in the rearview mirror, anticipating it. And when I shut my eyes again, he didn’t call me out.
I wasn’t mad, like he thought. I’d skipped the breakfast buffet to steal a whopping thirty minutes of sleep and then retreated to the back seat because close proximity seemed impossible, and I hadn’t said a word to him, but it wasn’t bitterness or even embarrassment. I just felt really, really stupid.
I had a crush. Because that’s what it was, the very definition of the weight bearing down on my lungs when Dex’s eyes met mine, the inevitable plunge resulting in irreparable brokenness—spirits, hopes, heart. I hadn’t felt this dopey since middle school. Shawn and I met through a mutual friend and we were just… together. No tension, no pining, no sick swirling sensation thundering through my gut at the mere thought of him. I would’ve married the man, but now I had to question whether or not I had feltanythingfor him, even at our best.
A depressing thought, though not nearly as depressing as the realization that struck somewhere around 4A.M.: Phoebe’s goalfor this trip was a happily ever after, and it wasn’t supposed to include me. Here I’d been making eyes at Dex and doing unspeakable things in public elevators, basically throwing middle fingers in the air. Did I believe I held the ability to dismantle the plan? No. Dex made it clear that what happened between us was a mistake. But the what-ifs came charging in:What if we’d slept together and Phoebe woke up before I got back to the room? What if he left a mark on me, or vice versa, and she put two and two together? What if a pervy elevator attendant posted the footage on YouTube and someone sent it to Phoebe?
I’d jeopardized my own happiness, but jeopardizing Phoebe’s hit so much harder. I hated myself.
“Your mom is calling,” Phoebe said, turning down the unfamiliar song blasting from the speakers. I inched an eye open, noting the tension in Dex’s shoulders and the pointed silence as he reached over to ignore the call. “Why won’t you talk to your mom?”
Wind whistled through the window. When Dex answered, his voice had chilled. “I will talk to her. Later.”
“You’ve ignored, like, six calls since we left Boston.”
“Remember when we weren’t getting to know each other? That was fun, right?”
