Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

Amelia

"I'm not sure this job is worth the emotional strain." I sigh, hearing what sounds either like a laugh or cough coming through the phone. Or possibly a grunt? "I know you're not laughing at me right now."

"Not laughing," Morgan says, but there is definitely humor in her tone. "I just can't help but find this new development delightful."

It's the next morning. Dad, again, left before me, and now I'm sitting in my car, staring up at the Summit, trying to will my hands to open the car door and my feet to get out. I tried giving myself a pep talk. It didn't take. So, I called my best friend.

Not sure this is any better.

The new development she means is whatever nuclear level of tension now exists between Van and me. I already told Morgan how, when Van and I saw each other yesterday, it was electric—and not in a good way.

More like an electrical fire set to torch a whole city block.

Sure—there was attraction too—I'd have to be dead not to be attracted to Van. But that only makes the ugly parts of the tension worse. Because what am I supposed to do with the attraction?

Nothing. That's what. Absolutely nothing. If I ignore it, I'm sure it will go away.

Hopefully soon.

"Morgan, you're supposed to be my best friend."

"Yes, and best friends—real, true best friends—want what's best for the other person. It's how you put the best in best friend."

"Your point?"

"My point," she says, "is that maybe this is best for you."

"Being around a man I'd like to never see again?"

Even as I say it, I know it's not true. I only wish it were true. I wish I could take a shovel and excavate all my feelings, leaving them in a heap somewhere outside of town.

There's another noise, a heavy clank this time, and I frown. "What are you doing, by the way?"

"Trying to fix my car engine."

"Is that something you know how to do?"

"YouTube," she says, like this is the most obvious answer in the world. Or that having YouTube necessarily equates having the ability to fix whatever's wrong with her car.

"That's …"

… not a thing , I was going to say, but Morgan cuts me off. Clearly, my work-and-Van-related woes take precedence over whatever is wrong with her car.

"Look—your whole life was shaken up. Not by you. Not in a good way. Now, it's being shaken in a new way. A delicious way," she adds. "And it's not happening to you. You're in the driver's seat."

Am I, though? I wonder, watching a car pull through the gates and across the parking lot. I can't help but also wonder if telling Morgan the whole truth might garner me some different advice. Though she is correct—I've been shaken up.

While all that freedom and letting loose felt great in Florida with Van, back in my normal Harvest Hollow life, it feels like a costume I tried on for a few days.

One I secretly wish I could put back on and make it my new daily norm.

I honestly have no idea what Morgan—or anyone else who knows me—would say about my impulsive decision to marry Van. My best friend might just as easily say this was the best decision I've made rather than the worst.

I know her better than anyone, but Morgan continues to surprise me. It's her nature. She's like a rare kind of butterfly, unable to be caught and pinned down to a board. This is one of the things I love about her.

But it also means I don't feel like I can tell her this because I can't anticipate her response.

Also, I'm still choosing to believe that the more time I think about marrying Van, the more times I say it out loud, the more I act like it actually happened, the more real and unavoidable it becomes.

I'm a kid with the boogeyman inches from my own nose, and if I don't open my eyes, he isn't there .

"I've got an idea," she says. I hear the sound of her hood slamming followed, a moment later, by her engine starting. "Yahtzee! I love you, YouTube!"

"Idea?" I remind her.

"Right. My idea involves Van, a closet, and putting alllll that frustration to good use." When I say nothing—mostly because my mouth has gone completely dry and my insides feel like they're melting—she adds, "I'm talking about making out in a closet at work with the guy you say you can't stand but actually seem to have very strong feelings for and?—"

"Hanging up now," I tell her. "Glad you fixed your car. And also? Just letting you know that I'm officially in the market for a new bestie."

I hang up, tracking the SUV that just pulled into the lot a row up and a few spaces over. My heart pounds as I wait for the door to open. When a man who looks like a Swedish assassin, with white blond hair and sharply cut features climbs out of the car, I expect to be relieved that it's not Van.

Instead, the only thing I feel is disappointment.

An hour later, I've decided that Parker is on a personal mission to punish me. And also that maybe she and Morgan are conspiring together.

Despite Parker's assurance yesterday—as in, twenty-four hours ago—that I wouldn't be doing as much with the guys this week because of playoffs, she left me with a list of suggested questions and three of the Appies, one of whom I happen to be married to.

As to why I think she's intentionally torturing me, it was the way she patted my shoulder and whispered "Have fun" in a sing-song voice before she left me thirty seconds ago. If she doesn't suspect something already happened between Van and me, she is trying to encourage something between us.

I clear my throat and look everywhere but at Van. I can feel him looking nowhere but at me.

The guys must have come off the ice because they're in practice gear aside from their helmets. Other than some footage I've watched online in a weak moment, I haven't really seen Van in a jersey and pads.

It's … a really good look on him. Masculine and a little intimidating and— nope!

No ogling! Back on track, Mills!

Gah! Van has even poisoned my internal monologue with his nickname.

"So, um, let's get started," I say. "I'll keep it brief. I'm sure you all have important hockey things you'd rather be doing."

Eli laughs, leaning back in his chair. "No way! We don't mind. Your dad is making everyone else do four lines." When I stare blankly back at him, he adds, "It's a drill."

"One that involves a lot of skating back and forth at full speed," Alec says. "A lethal combination of boring and exhausting. So, please take your time."

"I don't know," Van says, "I'm in the mood for a little matrimony. Sorry—I mean monotony ."

I cannot keep my eyes from him now but immediately wish I hadn't looked. I was doing so well before I looked. Okay— sort of well. Semi -well. Well- ish .

His dark hair is a little damp, probably sweat. Which should be gross but is somehow very, very hot instead. There's the tiniest shadow of stubble on the jaw that was bare yesterday. Van's espresso eyes blaze, sparking a matching flame inside me. Just like yesterday in Parker's office, I can practically see him issuing a challenge.

But what does he want from me?

"Sorry, no matrimony today." I give him a smile that is both sweet and sharp. "But I'll try to avoid monotony as well."

Van reaches across and taps the paper Parker left. "Just stick to the questions, and I'm sure it will be fine. It's always a safe bet to color in the lines and follow all the rules."

From my periphery, I can see Eli and Alec exchanging looks at this back-and-forth, which is growing more bizarre by the moment. At least, for them. Van and I are having a whole other conversation, existing firmly in the subtext.

I keep my gaze pinned on his as I snatch the paper from the table. I crumple it in my hands, then toss it toward the trash can in the corner of the room.

I miss.

Van smirks.

I shrug. "Actually, I think I'll just wing it today. I'm in the mood to live on the edge. Make impulsive decisions. Let loose. You know how it is."

Van narrows his eyes. "I don't know if that's a good idea. You might make a choice you regret."

It's on the tip of my tongue to say, I regret nothing —which would have been a huge mistake—but Eli speaks first.

"Um," he says, scratching the blond scruff on his jaw. "Are we still talking about the interview?"

I straighten in my chair and smile at Eli, then Alec, whose gaze is bouncing between Van and me. He looks like he's about to ask a question I don't want to answer, so I clear my throat. Then realize I didn't even skim the questions Parker left. I can't remember what the focus of this interview was going to be.

Awesome.

"Maybe you could start with the basics," Van suggests. I'm slightly relieved until he follows this with: "Like, our relationship statuses."

I swallow. Before I can disagree, Alec says, "Single. Happily single, I might add."

Eli raises his left hand, a ring glinting in place. "I'm married," he says with a huge grin. "Heard you met my wife last night."

"I did. She's really great." I can't help but think about what Bailey said about Van walking her down the aisle, and it makes my skin feel tight.

Van leans forward, elbows on the table. "Want to guess my relationship status, Amelia?"

I cross my arms. "I don't see a ring."

Eli claps Van on the back. "Van enjoys the single life. Maybe a little too much."

I try not to let my lip curl. The idea of Van, single and enjoying it makes me want to set things on fire.

"He'll probably never settle down," Alec says.

"Wrong on both counts," Van says, inching forward until he's leaning practically halfway across the table. "I don't like being single. And it would only take the right woman to make me put a ring on it."

I say nothing. My brain has gone back in time to a pre-language era. A caveman grunt is about all I can manage.

"Really?" Eli says, looking a little too eager. "Well, we should set you up with someone then. Doesn't Summer have a sister who's single?"

"Not my type," Van says, and I find myself holding my breath. "I prefer lighter hair. Pale blue eyes. A gorgeous smile."

There's a flutter in my belly and my fingers go numb. Van's eyes skate over my face as he speaks. I don't think my smile is particularly gorgeous, but … he is talking about me, right?

Despite myself, I think, Please let him be talking about me.

"Someone not afraid to take risks. A woman who will stick around and talk things out when they get hard. Good communication is hugely important. It can help avoid misunderstandings and allow someone to say they're sorry when they've made a huge mistake. One they would have explained, had they been given a chance."

I am frozen in my chair. Can't move. Can't breathe. Thankfully, I can blink, which is the only way I'm keeping in the tears right now.

What was a war of words has turned into something else entirely. I'm not exactly sure what this is, but … it sounds like an apology. As well as a very pointed critique of the way I handled things.

He's not wrong.

Maybe … I really, really was .

"That's oddly specific," Alec says. "Based on your track record, I thought you liked all types. Blonds, brunettes, red-heads, tall, short, curvy, athletic?—"

"Excuse me." I bolt from the room so fast my rolling chair crashes into the wall. I can't even be bothered to make an excuse.

It's all just … too much.

My favorite crying stairwell is at the end of the hall and I sprint for the door, the red EXIT sign a beacon of welcome. I burst through the door and scamper down the final flight, my footsteps echoing against the cement. On the bottom level, I duck into the shadows under the stairs, breathing heavy and squeezing my eyes closed. A few tears still manage to slip out and down my cheeks.

A moment later, I hear the door open and heavy steps jog down. My heart tries to catapult out of my chest, and I force myself to breathe in and out, slow and steady even as the footfalls stop behind me.

"Mills," Van says, and I turn, not bothering to hide my tears.

Van's face crumples, and before I can react, he's pulling me into his arms. I fold into his big, warm, and still slightly sweaty jersey. His hand cups the back of my head and I shudder through a few breaths, my arms locked around his waist.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't want to make you cry. I was trying to—I don't know what I was trying to do."

"You were trying to make a point, and you made it." My fists bunch the fabric of his jersey. "So did Alec."

Van sighs and tugs me a little closer. The hand behind my head shifts, his fingers tunneling through my hair, massaging my scalp gently. His other hand moves up and down my back, fingertips lightly dancing over my spine with a gentleness that surprises me. It feels so good, but I can't relax. Every cell in my body is saturated in tension, like I am made up of millions of tiny, coiled springs.

"What happened before you, who I did or didn't date—that doesn't matter."

"Why not?" My voice is tiny.

His head dips, his nose tracing a little path across my cheek until his lips find my ear. "Because I only married you ."

The words curl around me, soothing and sweet. I am cocooned in comfort, even though there is still a niggling worry, and a sense that this won't last. It can't.

I barely know Van. I made an impulsive choice after having a hugely emotional thing happen on what was supposed to be my wedding day. Marrying someone I barely know isn't me .

I'm a planner. A rule follower. A by the book kind of woman. Van's very opposite.

And while the time in Florida was fun and freeing, and I got to explore a new side to myself—that simply isn't me. I'm not the person Van said he wanted to marry. That was Vacation Amelia. Just Got Cheated on Amelia. Needs to Blow Off a Little Steam Amelia.

But now, I've come back to the neat and tidy life I know. It's familiar and comfortable, and more than that, it's who I am at my very core.

Isn't it?

I am above my life, looking down on it. Two Amelias are perched on a teeter-totter. One side has Florida Amelia—who I might as well call Van Amelia—and the other has Normal Amelia. Solid and Stable Amelia. Boring Amelia.

The two are engaged in a violent teeter-totter battle to the death. The prize and the cost of this war seems to be my sanity.

Van's hands lift away, and I barely hold back a whimper. But they cup my cheeks, and he drops his forehead to mine. This close, his eyes are inky black pools, not totally in focus.

"It's not too late to fix this," he says, and my brain goes straight to annulment.

But his brain is clearly going in a different direction because the next thing I know, he's kissing me.

And I'm kissing him back.

It's like we're on the beach again, and I'm channeling Bad Idea Amelia, Brave Amelia, Stupid Amelia all over again.

This Amelia is actually pretty awesome. Maybe I need to find a way to fit the two halves of me together. To tell them to balance out the teeter-totter instead of trying to throw each other off.

Van's mouth is both familiar and new. He kisses me like he's finally found his way back to me and has been simply starving in the meantime. He kisses me like he owns me, but also like I own him.

I try to memorize the shape of his lips, the curve of his smile. I need to commit them to memory because even as I'm lifting my hands to his neck and pressing in closer, I know this can't happen again.

Not until we untangle the mess we've made, and I'm not sure where to start.

Kissing … probably isn't the wisest place.

I need to figure out how to get out of this marriage and how to be around this man without being drawn into his orbit. But he's a giant planet and I'm just some little bit of space dust. I stand zero chance of escaping his pull.

Van makes a low, rumbling sound that draws out goose bumps on every bit of my exposed skin.

Maybe I don't need to forget about him. I just need to backtrack. To figure out what it would look like to date Van in this setting, with this version of me.

The one who doesn't kiss men in a stairwell after a heated subtext-y conversation.

"You know what's totally not fair, hotshot?" I say, pressing a kiss to the corner of his smiling mouth.

He shifts, trailing kisses down the line of my neck. I shiver. "Price gouging during a pandemic?"

I laugh, and he brings his mouth back to mine, swallowing up the sound. "No," I say between kisses. "The fact that you smell good after practicing."

"You think I smell good?" He nips at my lip. Somewhere near my waist, his fingers gently pinch me, bringing back memories.

"I just said so, didn't I?"

"I missed you, Mills," he says.

I'm not sure why it's these words that do it, but they pull me back out of the deep waters and to the surface, gasping for air. Reminding me where we are. I slow down the kiss, pressing one last quick one to his lips before taking a huge step back.

His hands drop. So does his expression.

"We can't keep doing this," I say softly.

Van smiles, but it's forced. So is the lightness in his tone. "What—kissing in stairwells? Or having secret conversations in the middle of public situations? Pretending not to be married?"

I flinch.

"Ah," he says slowly, stepping way back.

But before I get a chance to locate rational thoughts and organize them into words I can say, the door behind Van swings open, and a short man with dark hair and a maintenance uniform steps into the stairwell and stops.

"Oh," he says, a slight trace of an accent. "I'm sorry."

Van gives him a tight smile. "It's fine, Javi. I was just leaving."

Now, Van is the one fleeing the scene, slipping out the door Javi just came through and giving me a small sampling of what it feels like.

Being the one left behind feels just plain awful.