“Goodnight, brother.”
I end the call and stare at the ceiling for a long moment, feeling an ocean of relief and excitement coursing through me about our conversation. The comradery between us felt the same as it always did. It was like no time had passed.
Amy.
Those same sexual images from before flicker across my mind, against my will.
Fuck.
I roll onto my side, my mind racing, and finally decide to try that technique Ryan told me about to clear my racing thoughts when insomnia strikes. What’d Ryan tell me, again? Oh yeah. Think of unrelated objects, one after another, and soon, your mind will be clear and you’ll drift off to sleep.
I roll onto my back, take a deep breath, and let my mind wander.
Horse. Barn.
Shit. Those things are related.
Horse. Daisy. Cloud.
Yeah, good. This is working. I’m already feeling more relaxed.
Suitcase. Vodka. Lemonade.
Shit. Vodka and lemonade are kind of related.
Genovia. Curly hair. Green eyes.
Perfect. Fucking. Tits.
In a flash, I see myself devouring Amy’s perfect tits. Her head is thrown back and she’s screaming my name.
Jesus.
Stop.
I roll onto my other side and realize I’m hard as a rock and my balls ache. With a deep sigh, I grab my phone, swipe into my favorite porn purveyor, and head to my saved videos. I click on the one at the top of my list—a clip that always gets me off fast. As the video gets started, I shove my hand into my boxers and grab my dick, ready to get going . . . and suddenly freeze.
Oh, fuck.
The woman getting banged from behind in the video looks like Amy. Auburn hair. Peaches and cream skin. Full lips. Freckles on her nose. Perfect tits.
Obviously, I couldn’t have known my porn star of choice resembled the adult version of Amy O’Brien. But now that I do, I’m disgusted with myself. I mean, the resemblance is uncanny!
I swipe into Instagram to look at the photo I posted of Amy and me tonight—and, yep, there’s no denying Amy looks like my favorite porn star, though Amy is much prettier.
Whoa. Kiera liked the photo of Amy and me! Why the hell would she do that?
For some reason, that pisses me off. I didn’t post that photo for Kiera to see it. I didn’t intend to bait her. I posted it for Nate. To make him feel like a tool for negging Amy. And, yes, if I’m being honest, also for Laila, too. I thought maybe she’d see it, which it turned out she did, and show it to her hotheaded boyfriend and say, “See? I told you Colin’s not interested in me anymore!” Which, in turn, would hopefully keep Savage from shooting me daggers—or maybe even shooting me—throughout Laila’s birthday party.
With a loud exhale, I do something I should have done months ago: I block Kiera on Instagram and delete her number from my contacts list. Those tasks completed, I toss my phone onto the nightstand, close my eyes, and will sleep to come. But all I can see when I close my eyes is Amy riding my cock.
How much vodka did I drink tonight?
She’s off-limits, Colin! For so many reasons.
Again, I roll onto my other side and try thinking about random, unrelated objects. But again, it’s no use. Finally, I grab a pillow and cover my face, figuring I’ll fall asleep like this or suffocate myself to death. At this particular moment, either outcome would be perfectly fine with me.
Seven
Amy
I’m trembling as I walk down the center aisle of the church, while concentrating mightily on the wedding coordinator’s instructions from last night:
Maintain the proper distance with the bridesmaid in front of me!
Hold my flowers below my bustline!
And, most importantly, smile for the cameras!
It’s a lot to remember with all those eyeballs staring at me. Not to mention, when I’m trying not to face-plant, thanks to my high heels, or stumble over the hem of my bridesmaid gown.
As I reach the midway point of my journey, my eyes find Logan at the altar, and the look of elation on his face nearly makes me forget my nerves. Aw. I’ve never seen my brother looking quite this happy. How sweet.
From Logan, my gaze drifts down the line of groomsmen and rests on Colin’s handsome face. When our eyes meet, Colin and I share a huge, beaming smile that sends warmth into my belly and makes me completely forget my nerves—at least, for now. Damn, that man looks fine as bleep—I’m self-censoring because I’m in church—in that dark suit!
I take my place at the end of the bridesmaids, sighing with relief that I made it without tripping, and smile at Kennedy’s adorable niece who’s sashaying up the aisle amid a swirl of flower petals.
In short order, the overhead music changes and the audience rises. And there she is. Kennedy soon-to-be-O’Brien. Dressed in white.
I glance at Logan and discover he’s welled up with tears as he watches his bride approaching him. Aw. Not surprisingly, the sight of my usually stalwart brother losing control of his emotions provokes the same reaction in me. As I wipe my eyes, I look at Colin, curious to see his reaction to this glorious, tear-jerking moment . . . and the man is cool as a cucumber. Smiling, yes, but basically unfazed. Instantly, I realize: This is how Colin would react to me walking down the aisle toward my future husband, whoever he might be. And for some reason, that’s a startling epiphany.
Why do I keep swooning over a man who doesn’t, and never will, swoon back? If I want to have any hope of finding my person and being in Kennedy’s shoes one day, then I need to quit reacting like I always do when it comes to Colin, starting now. Once and for all.
Yes.
What a relief to know my brain has finally gotten the message, loud and clear.
Nodding to myself at my new resolution, I watch Kennedy taking her place next to Logan and swoon at the look they exchange. See? My first swoon since my new vow to myself isn’t over Colin! I’ve one hundred percent turned over a new leaf!
The pastor launches into the ceremony, talking about the power of love and the holy bond of marriage. And I swoon a couple times, not over Colin, at the beautiful sentiments he discusses. But after a while, my mind begins to wander. To contemplate the mistakes I’ve made and the embarrassments I’ve suffered, while looking for the kind of love Logan and Kennedy have found with each other.
I think my biggest mistake in the past has been my repeated propensity to subconsciously compare every guy to Colin. It’s not fair for me to do that, because nobody else grew up next door to me. Nobody else had years to get to know me, without sexual expectations or my awkwardness or boobs getting in the way.
Colin never had to make awkward small talk with me online, before meeting me at a coffee house and discovering I’m actually a dork who makes weird facial expressions when I tell a story. Colin never had to meet me in person and discover I’d unintentionally catfished him with a photo taken in really good lighting. Colin never had to chat me up at a frat party, only to find out I’m the kind of girl who wants to have sex with someone only when I genuinely care about them. At least, that’s how I felt back then.
I thought being on the road with a group of horny guys for nine months would turn me into a sex machine. Or even better, I’d wind up with an amazing boyfriend at the end of the tour. But after nine months, the only new sexual experiences I got were from a vibrator I’d picked up on sale in Paris. Thankfully, the vibrator did for me what Perry never could, so I’m grateful for that. Although as a boyfriend, the thing was a truly horrible conversationalist.