Page 139 of Sweet Distraction

“Rocket—”

“Shh,” he says against my lips and then kisses me so I can’t question or protest or wonder.

But I do.

It’s all I’ve thought about since earlier today. It’s the only conclusion I can come to. This is most likely over.

Us.

This weird dream I had where I thought this could be more.

And I’m either a glutton for punishment or desperate to prove him otherwise because I kiss him back.

We undress in silence. The unspoken words are punctuated by actions.

There is no fervor. No wild hunger. No urgency in our touch.

It is slow and devastatingly tender. As if, in this fleeting moment, we are both carving out a before and after. His body over mine, his hands gentle, his mouth moving over my skin like he’s memorizing it for later, when the memory will hurt worse than the loss.

My body feels like it’s the only part of me that could tether him here, so I let it. I let him. I need it as much as he does.

I search his face for a hint of what he’s feeling, so that I don’t feel so alone in this unspoken goodbye—the beginning of the end—and perceive the sorrow in his eyes, the hardened set of his jaw, and the slightest of trembles in his touch.

I hold him as tightly as I can manage, pull him into me as if I might change fate by force, but it’s a losing battle. In every breath he takes, I hear the words he doesn’t say.

We come in the quiet comfort of each other. Tense muscles and linked hands. Soft kisses and yielding sighs.

And when we finish, he lies beside me on the same pillow so our foreheads meet. His eyes search mine and in them I see sadness and regret.

Long after he falls asleep, I study him. Memorize him. Map every detail to memory.

Tonight might not be our last time, but it’s the start of it.

Deep down, I know it.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Rocket

The backyard’s quiet.

But I’m out here because inside the house is even more so.

Out here there are crickets and the occasional car driving past. The hum of the A/C kicking on and off and an occasional plane overhead.

Inside is a smothering silence of disappointment, uncertainty, and yes, my failure.

“No, Sandra, I’m not happy with how it went. The more I sit on it, the more I see the fallout, the angrier I get. Wasn’t it your job as my lawyer to protect her?”

“My job is to protect you,” she says quietly.

I grit my teeth and fight the urge to punch something. “This is total bullshit. This is character assassination and—”

“You can thank social media for the fuel to its fire. You can thank yourself for getting involved with the one witness from whom we needed credibility. I had to use what I had to work with.”

“What you had to work with? What? An upstanding, incredible human being who would sacrifice herself for me and for Poppy?”

“Your relationship created the content. Got people to dig and post and fabricate stuff about her. I did my best to try and protect her as well as let the judge see how slimy the Whitmore’s lawyer was. She’s a smart cookie, the judge.”