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  I hold out an elbow and she tucks her arm through it. “You look so damn beautiful,” I tell her. She giggles again, like a teenager, and blushes a little. “Rocko is one lucky guy. I’m really happy for you two.”

  “Oh, Deo.” She kisses my cheek and rubs the lipstick mark off with her thumb. “Well, should we get started?”

  “Let’s do this.”

  The walk down the aisle feels like I’m underwater, and I float through with no focus, only seeing pieces of all different things. Rocko’s tortoiseshell glasses, Cohen’s plaid tie, Grandpa’s gold wedding band, the crazy mystic who’s officiating’s rainbow scarf… Nothing is solid and whole.

  Nothing except Whit.

  She’s sitting up front, yellow and dark, spine stiff and straight, one seat next to her empty, and, when I deliver my mom to the makeshift altar and kiss her smooth cheek, I beeline for that damn chair.

  The service is all hokey, self-written vows that are sappily sweet but make me squirm a little to hear, like I’m listening in on Mom and Rocko’s pillow talk. Whit stares straight ahead, her big brown eyes unblinking and wide. I thread my fingers through hers, and she looks my way, a ragged smile on her face, and tries to relax.

  When the vows are done and the kiss is kissed, complete with Rocko bending my mother back and all the hippies cheering and the band getting out multiple tambourines, we all throw birdseed, the bride and groom strip out of their fancy duds and into comfortable clothes, and everyone eats from a huge buffet of all kinds of weird but tasty food. My mom knew better than to even attempt to cater anything herself.

  I look over at my mother and Rocko, smiling, kissing, hand in hand, and a tension I didn’t even know I was carrying in my chest melts down. I feel warm. I feel happy. This is all good stuff. But I want more.

  I want Whit.

  I shadow her closely. I know she slept pretty well, but she still looks dazed and edgy, and it worries me.

  “Oh no!” Three huge oily olives stuffed with goat cheese tip off her plate while we’re standing next to the buffet table. I catch two in midair. One lands on her skirt, leaving a nasty oil explosion on the silky yellow fabric. “Oh no.” Her voice drops to a breathy whisper and her eyes pool with tears.

  I take her plate from her hand, put an arm around her waist, and lead her inside, through knots of dancing, slightly high and mostly drunk revelers. I pull her into my mother’s bedroom, all batik wall hangings and the sharp and sweet tang of essential oils. Now that we’re away from all the guests, she starts to cry.

  First it’s little tears wobbling out of her eyes. Then it’s big, breathy sniffles and moans. Then it’s hiccupping, air-stopping sobs that sit heavy on her lungs and make every breath a gasp. “My dress! My dress!” she wheezes, and, even though I know this breakdown can’t be about a dress, I put my hands on her shoulders and turn her, grab the zipper and tug down with a long, slow pull. Her spine curves because she’s buckling over, falling onto Mom’s bed. I help her lie down and pull the dress off her legs. She curls into a tiny ball, and I cover her with Mom’s blanket.

  I want to get in bed next to her and wrap my arms around her, but she needs space. She needs to cry this out. And I need to show her I learned my lesson and step the hell back, no matter that it’s like a dagger plunged into my heart over and over.

  “Whit, I’m going to get the spot out of this dress, okay? My mom is a huge klutz, so she has all kinds of crap to get stains out of clothes. Don’t worry about anything.” I say the words calmly, like she’s not hyperventilating on my mother’s bed, and I go to the laundry room and sprinkle my mom’s magic laundry stuff on the big blotch and put the dress to the side to sit. I head to the kitchen and put a few soaked rags in the freezer and rifle around the medicine box Mom keeps on the tiled counter, collecting what I’ll need to help her when she’s finally ready.

  I hop up on the dryer and listen through the wall to Whit, on the other side, her cries getting louder and less hinged, rolling into muffled screams, sliding back to wet, gasping sobs, and cycling through the whole process again. I ball my hands into tight fists and grit my teeth. I want to burst in there and make it right. I want to fix it. I want to smooth it out so she doesn’t feel all this pain shredding through her.

  But she needs to feel it. And I need to step back and let her.

  It feels like hours before the wails turn into whimpers and the whimpers turn into uneven, half-choked breaths. I finally let myself walk back through the door, armed with all the kooky herbal crap my mom swears by.

  “Hey, killer,” I say. Her face is blotchy, her eyes and lips swollen, body drained and exhausted. I turn her onto her back gently and smooth her hair from her face. Then I put an arm under her shoulders and hold a cup to her mouth. “Bottoms up.”

  “What is it?” Her voice is so scratchy, I barely recognize it.

  “Love potion.” It’s a joke, but she looks so worried, I tell her, “Marigold’s heartbreak remedy. Take it.”

  She drinks slowly, and the lines on her forehead disappear. It’s déjà vu time, the smell of this room, the sun slanting through the window just like it is, the echoes of a long, wrenching sob-fest, a beautiful woman, a ton of pain, a weird herbal drink; all shades of my mom and her breakdowns. There’s still a part of me that wants to get up and run away from this, but there’s also a huge part of me that realizes that me being the one who did this for my mother after my father left her hollowed out sucked. Me doing this for the girl I love? Well, that’s what it’s all about.

  I push her back on the bed and press the cold cloths on her face. “You good, doll?”

  “Sorry,” she croaks. “So, this is pretty damn humiliating. I mean, it’s a dress.”

  “Whit, babe, this is so not about a dress,” I object, moving to cradle her head in my lap so I can rub her temples, her forehead, down her nose and under her eyes. She goes liquid-boned under me.

  Her mouth is a tight line for a minute, then it relaxes. “Wakefield…” She stops and I have to force myself to keep rubbing her head, slowly, quietly, to keep her talking. “Wakefield had this girlfriend right before he joined the Army. She was okay, you know? A little generic for my brother. And after he signed up for service, he was kind of excited. I think it was getting the uniform, you know? It made him feel badass. Like a GI Joe. And he was so damn handsome in his uniform.” A real laugh breaks through all her bitter words. “I joked that he could get any chick he wanted. But he wanted her. He went to her house in uniform with flowers and she told him it was all over. She just couldn’t commit to him because it would hurt too much if something happened to him.” I check her mouth, because I would not have been at all surprised if she had grown fangs that dripped venom. “And I hated her for being such a coward. Then, when we got the news about… When we found out he was dead, I went to her house, and when she opened the door, I went ballistic on her. Her parents had to call mine to come take me home, because I couldn’t stop screaming at her and shoving her… All kinds of crazy.”

  “She sounds like a piece of shit.” I brush her hair back from her forehead and press another cool rag on her face.

  Her mouth twists. “I’m no better.”

  I run my fingers along her tension lines. “Are you kidding? You’re awesome. I’ve never seen anyone bulldoze through all their crazy-ass pain like you can.”

  She rolls over and sits up, knocking the covers off her body. I try very hard not to ruin this moment of deeper emotional connection by ogling her hot pink bra and thong, but sleeping by her all night and spending the day at her side is kicking my horn-dog tendencies into heavy overdrive.

  “I bulldoze because I’m too damn afraid to get my hands dirty and take a pickax to what I’m feeling.” She bites her lip and looks up at me, her voice louder, stronger. “I loved sleeping by you last night. I’ve missed you. So much.”

  It’s everything all at once. My heart and brain have rolled out the kegs, the fireworks, the waterbed with black silk sheets, the side-by-side Je
di/ninja parade, because this girl has finally said the words I’ve been waiting to hear. Well, some of them. There are others, but now I have fact-based hope that the rest of the words will be coming. Soonish, hopefully.

  My honest instinct is to lay her down on the bed, take off the last tiny pieces of lace she’s wearing, and rub my hands and mouth all over her body until she’s hot and wet under me.

  Why did I carry her to my mom’s room so she could have her breakdown? This is a serious mood-blighter.

  I find a gauzy white dress of my mom’s and hand it to Whit before I wind up throwing her back on my mom’s bed and start doing things I can’t stop.

  “I’ve missed you, too. Wanna go say our good-byes?” I’m trying to not sound over-eager, but it’s not working all that well.

  Whit stands up, her body such a few inches from mine, my hands are itching to make the feel of her skin more than just a really awesome memory. She closes the space between us, and her nearly-naked body presses against mine. Being in a suit, I’m wearing more clothes than I usually would be, and now I’m super fucking upset about it.

  I rub my lips on hers, just a quick rub, just to taste her for one single second. She grabs onto my bottom lip with her teeth, then lets go and licks the place she nipped. Her mouth presses harder against mine, and I open against her, my hands on her smooth, soft back. I run my hands in that sweet spot between the bottom of her bra and the top of her thong, up and down, and I pull her closer with each move of my hands. She pushes my jacket off my shoulders in one rushed press, then drops a hand between our bodies and runs her palm down my chest, under my belt buckle, and over my dick.

  Suddenly, I don’t give a damn where we are or what memories there are in this room for me. My mouth drags over her face, down her jaw and neck. I kiss her shoulders, and the round swell of her boobs, jiggling in the lacy cups of her tiny bra. I pop them out and suck on her nipples, run my hands over their full weight, rub my face over her smooth skin. She walks back until she’s leaned against the door, her fingers working on me hard and fast. I move a hand under the sweet swell of her ass and hike her up so she can wrap her legs around my waist, her back braced on the door.

  My free hand is wild, moving fast over soft skin, eager to touch her everywhere and trying to slow down and savor what I’ve been missing like a madman for weeks. I lock my mouth over hers and move my fingers up her thigh, pushing the scrap of fabric that makes up her thong to the side so my fingers have free access. She’s soaked already and pressing herself hard against my hand.

  I slip a finger into her and she tilts her head toward me, bites my earlobe and tugs at my hair, moaning deep, hungry moans. I work my fingers harder and faster, sliding against her with less skill than I’d like. I want to focus on her, but it’s all a crush of sweet, hot, wet need, and my brain is blurry as hell. My belt comes undone under her quick fingers, and she flicks open the button and slides down the zipper, her hand working under the waistband of my boxers so she can grab my dick and cup it softly, then work with quick, frenzied strokes that are making me see little bursts of silver at the edges of my eyes.

  Her body bucks hard, going stiff and pulsing against my hand. “Now. Now, please, now,” she pleads, her fingers pulling against me more quickly. I wrap my arm around her and move the few inches over to my mom’s nightstand. I realize that my soul is about to flambé in so many levels of hell. Who the hell steals a condom so he can fuck his girlfriend in his mom’s room on her wedding day?

  I do. Damn straight.

  I move her back against the door, just in case anyone feels like bursting in on us, and rip the wrapper open. Whit grabs the condom and fits it on me in one slightly awkward, eager roll, and I lift her hips higher, then settle her on my dick in one quick, long thrust. She bites her lip and rolls her head back on the door, arching her back, and pressing harder against me, her tits bouncing a few inches away from my mouth.

  “More,” she gasps.

  I pump in and out of her, slowly, trying to draw this out, because she’s twice as hot and tight and wet as I remember, and I’ve needed this for so long, needed her for so long. My mouth dips low and catches first one nipple, then the other, enjoying her moans and the way she yanks my hair. She jerks my head back with a rough pull and looks at me, her lips parted and shiny, her eyes wide and nearly black with total need. She drops her hands down to cup my face and her eyes close and her mouth makes a small “o” as she strains harder against me.

  She tears through the buttons on my shirt, my tie loose but still on, her fingernails raking down my chest and ribs as her body rocks against mine, with quicker, slicker pulses and total, focused concentration.

  I hold her under her ass with one hand and use my other to pull her face closer. She kisses me, but absentmindedly, and I realize she’s completely locked in her own world, pressing against me to get to the place she needs to be.

  At this point I’m ready to be her whatever, do whatever she needs to get to her release. I rub my hand slowly over her face, down her neck as she tilts her head back. My fingers drag along her collarbone, pinch softly at the soft, sensitive peaks of her nipples, before letting them rub against the rough pad of my palm. Her breath hitches and she presses so hard against the door, her hair is flattened and pushed up wildly. Her hands clutch at my shoulders, fisting around them and then digging into the skin through the thin fabric of my shirt.

  She grinds against me, and I press into her, holding steady as her mouth comes open, her breath pants in quick gasps, and she finally yanks at my hair, crushes her forehead to my neck and muffles a scream into my collar. The relief I feel at the hot, wet downpour of her orgasm is knee-weakening. I come hard, and hold her sweaty, limp body against mine for a few minutes.

  When she looks up, her eyes are glazed and her smile is lazy. “Thank you so much. I needed that so badly.” She rubs her nose on my shirt and takes a long, deep breath. “And I feel like a complete whore. We need to go mingle, Deo. This is your mother’s wedding.”

  She unwinds her legs from my waist and stands on the floor, unsteady in the heels she never kicked off. I collapse my weight against the door and take off the condom, straighten myself up and button myself back together. I’m happy. This is good. Right?

  But there’s something a little too fierce, a little too wild about the light in Whit’s eyes as she asks to borrow my mother’s brush and slips on the dress I grabbed for her. She’s kind of chattery, kind of happy, kind of unmoored, and I feel a prickle of fear, because this feels like I just got spit out of a tornado and sucked into the early surge of a wicked tsunami.

  Her eyes shine like she’s delusional with fever. “Let’s dance, Deo! Let’s drink! Let’s be wild!”

  I take her hand and follow her out the door, wondering why, just when I feel like I got everything I ever asked for, I can’t shake the press of dread that looms over me.

  Chapter Twenty

  WHIT

  Deo shields my eyes from the sun streaming in through the curtainless window of my bedroom. Because that’s just Deo. Thoughtful. Gorgeous. Protective. All the things I’ve ever wanted someone to be but wouldn’t let them.

  I blink the sleep from my eyes and roll over to face him.

  “Morning,” I grumble. Deo runs his hand through his thick hair and his smile is wide and sexy. “What?”

  He puts the tip of his index finger between my eyebrows and slides it down to the tip of my nose, then brushes his thumb over my lips, his eyes lazy and a deep, gorgeous gold. I’ve only ever noticed them this particular shade in the early morning, after a long night of sex. Can sex change the color of your eyes? Or is it something way simpler? Did the sex change me and what I notice about Deo?

  “Nothing, I just love it when you actually sleep. Even though you’re still a scary beast in the morning.”

  “Deo, we haven’t exactly done a whole lot of sleeping.” I bite his thumb when it slides too close to my teeth. It’s true. We haven’t left my bed in three days, but there
have been other extra-curricular activities to keep us busy. Very busy. Very deliciously busy.

  I stare up at the popcorn ceiling while Deo traces an invisible line up my arm. I know what he’s doing. Next, he’ll move on to my collarbone, then my neck, and then—

  I roll off of the bed to stop it before it can start, but Deo hooks his arm around my waist and pulls me back to his warm, bare chest. He presses his mouth to the back of my neck and the room starts to go fuzzy.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he growls. Deo’s hand grazes up my thigh.

  “Come on, let me up. Rocko and Marigold came back from their honeymoon last night; you know I’ve got to go to the shop before him to set up. I don’t want him stressing on his first day back in a week.”

  The words are supposed to sound tough and confident, but they come out on a little gasp when his fingers creep higher than my upper thigh. I want to be able to sashay away from Deo, but he knows me too well, and he’s doing every single thing he can to ensure I get back in bed with him, wrapped tight in his arms, my brain nothing but a blob of oversexed jelly.

  His fingers are doing things that actually make me weak in the knees with excited craziness, but his words are kicked-back and calm.

  “First of all, doll, they honeymooned at an ashram, so I doubt anything could stress him out. He’s probably still got a contact high. Second, he’d understand if I told him you were late because we had to thread the needle.” I clamp my fingers over his wrist, push his hand away, and bite my bottom lip hard. I need to focus, or I’ll fall into his amazing net of sexiness and exchange my job, my degree, my life for endless hours of mind-blowing sex with this irresistible slacker.

  Which I realize, with a stab of humiliating horror, does not bother my independent soul the way it should. Am I becoming some lovesick romantic? This is worse than I thought.

  I mull over his last words and blink, before his euphemism clicks.

  “Seriously, can’t you just say ‘fuck?’” I let the rough word crash over the dewy romance of the morning and enjoy the little frown Deo exhibits when he’s confronted with the unsettling lack of subtlety before I flip over and kiss him quickly on the lips. He tries to lunge at me and manages to pull me back down, but I roll out of his embrace and hop off the bed.