I lift my head to look in her beautiful, clear blue eyes. "What are you doing to me?"
She quirks her cute smile. "Mr. Willis, I plead innocence. I simply woke."
"And I woke to memories of last night."
"You must have really enjoyed the wedding."
Fuck the wedding. It was my private dance party that I enjoyed. Instead of saying that, I kiss her again. "What is on our agenda, Miss Jones?"
She snuggles closer. "How about staying here all day?"
"In your bed? I like the sound of that."
All at once she throws back the covers. "Well, I wish. Today is Scarlett and Kurt's send-off party."
"What the hell is that? Aren't they off enjoying their honeymoon and Helen's gift?"
Kimbra giggles as she wraps herself in a white fuzzy robe that barely covers her sexy ass. "Oh, I wish you wouldn't have said that. Now I'm going to think about that when we see them."
"See them," I ask as I throw my legs over the edge of the bed and silently tell my dick to soften—its fun for the morning is done. But the way Kimbra looks in that robe with her hair a mess and my come on her thighs is as erotic as her little dance last night. "Seriously, what is a send-off party?"
"Remember my saying they met at a Memorial Day barbeque?"
"Yes."
"Uncle Albert and Aunt Laura are having a pig roast. It's mostly for the family." She claps her hands, feigning enthusiasm as she bounces on her toes. "And we get to watch them open their gifts."
I step toward her, reaching for her ass and pulling her against me. "Your excitement is seriously lacking. You might want to work on that."
"Honestly, do you want to spend more time with my family?"
Kissing her soft lips, I say, "If that includes you, then hell yes. Bring on more of the Joneses, Kimberly Ann."
Chapter Nineteen
Kimbra
Like the elusive breeze blowing through my bedroom window, I'm unable to catch the passage of time. The reality as I pry open my eyes on Monday morning feels like a boulder pressing upon my chest, its weight reminding me that my fairytale is about to end.
Turning toward Duncan, the crushing sensation intensifies. As I reach out, my fingertips brush the soft sheets and I'm faced with the stark, cool reality of an empty bed. This deal was set for a long weekend. The clock never stopped ticking. My shoe is loose and the carriage is on its way to becoming a pumpkin.
The reality—despite my continued shitty analogy—is that whatever this was, it is about to end. My plus-one will be back to only one.
Lingering in my thoughts, I relish a few more moments of the freedom Duncan promised with sleeping nude. Before this weekend, I'd never done it. Now as the covers caress my skin, I wonder if I'll continue once I'm home and alone. It isn't a life-altering question. Perhaps that's why I allow my mind to dissect its continued possibility. Finally, I force myself up, slip on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and cautiously open the door.
Thankfully, the hallway is empty.
A few minutes later, I return from the bathroom with a lump in my throat that I'm unable to swallow. Despite my best effort, the lump is forming at a rate that's too big—too fast. I can't go downstairs and face the voices in the kitchen. Instead, I close my eyes and make a childish wish, the kind that is never granted, but perhaps it's my surroundings that remind me to try.
"I want to open my eyes and be back in my apartment. I don't want to face the end of this arrangement. Please..."
And then, as if adding insult to injury, I remember Shana. The boulder is back. When I do return to my apartment, she'll be gone and I'll be truly plus no one. The heaviness grows until my knees are no longer capable of keeping me upright. I gasp for air as I fall to the floor.
Sometime during this weekend, the confident woman who lives in New York disappeared. I'm suddenly sixteen again, making magical wishes with emotions running out of control. Unable to think, reason, or deal with my current situation, I instead focus on my old bedroom. It's the same as it was ten years ago.
Am I the same?
My argument mounts. I'm not the same. I'm strong and successful. However, the tears cascading like waterfalls down my cheeks present an obvious objection to my case.
Instead of sad, I focus on mad. Telling myself that anger is the more appropriate emotion of a strong adult...irrational rage buds to life and blooms within me.
For no apparent reason, I'm suddenly obsessed with the posters decorating my pink walls. Why are they still there? I haven't listened to those boy bands since high school. No one has. It doesn't matter that the Backstreet Boys was my first concert, that I was madly in love with each member, or that just the sound of their songs coming from my iPod made my heart race.
Giving myself permission and an acceptable outlet, I stand and reach for the curled edge of the thick paper.
"It's over," I say to the smiling faces as a sob resonates from my chest. "It was never real. I was just some little girl in the twenty-seventh row at the Fieldhouse in Indy." Why do I remember that? "You never cared about me. It was never meant to last. It was all pretend."
I pull the paper.
Years and years of exposure to sunlight makes the poster's paper brittle and easy to tear.
Rip!
The sound echoes through the room. I tug more. As the tacks tightly hold to the drywall, the larger shreds of poster flutter to the floor. For only a moment, I stare at the wall. Framed by four corners of torn paper, an un-faded pink rectangle remains. Although the members of the band never truly cared for me, they left a lasting imprint on my wall.
I was so naive when I hung these pictures.
At the time it seemed like a good idea. I loved them. They brought me happiness. Yet none of it was real, only a stupid girl's illusion. The boys in the poster weren’t even smiling at me, but at a camera. They never promised me forever. They hadn't lied to me; I'd lied to myself. And now, looking at the un-faded rectangle, my wall will be forever changed.
Stupid! I was stupid.
It was and is all pretend.
Another muffled sob hiccups out of my throat at the irony.
Suddenly, it isn't enough to remove the pictures from the wall. I fall back to my knees and shred each piece. Smaller and smaller I tear until I'm left with a pile of torn pieces that can never be put back together.
My chest aches as I repeat the process with the Jonas Brothers and NSYNC. By the time my walls are bare, I'm exhausted and my tears are dry. When I stand, I see the woman in the mirror. Her eyes are puffy and red, but her back and shoulders are straight.
"They were just bands. They had too many fans to really notice me," I say aloud. "It's time to move on."
The woman in the mirror nods her head in agreement. In her swollen eyes, I see her pain as well as resolution. Moving on won't be easy, but it was never meant to last forever. Bands come and go. Each love is a rite of passage...my mother's and grandma's words of wisdom come back.
When one door closes, another one opens...blah, blah, blah.
I make my way back to the bathroom, thankful it's clear, and turn the shower to hot.
"There are always going to be new bands," I mumble as I step under the hot spray. Like needles, the water prickles my skin. Instead of turning it down, I let it wash away the bands'/his touch.