Track 4: Set Fire to the Rain
Kate
“I look like a 1920s whore,” I groan, starring at myself in the full-length mirror.
“You do not, Kate.”
“Exactly what type of wedding is this?” I raise a brow at the flapper dress I’m being forced to wear.
“It’s a themed wedding—The Great Gatsby,” she explains. “Which means, flapper dresses and feather headbands for the ladies and suspenders and fedora hats for the men.”
“Themed wedding?” People still do that?
“Yes. It’s totally in.”
I stay silent as the seamstress works on the dress. I keep reminding myself, this is for Natalee….this is for Natalee. At this point, I’m willing to do anything to make her happy, knowing what’s to come.
“And these shoes.” She displays a set of black heels. Totally not in style. “Don’t give me that look, Kate.” She’s trying to hide the grin behind her scowl. “These are t-strap heels. Very popular.”
“A hundred years ago,” I mutter.
“You look very charming, Katie Bear.”
“Just what every single girl wants to hear,” I mumble.
She places the shoes back in the box and looks up at me. “You want to talk about it?” she asks. I raise an eyebrow in question. “About Kyle,” she clarifies.
I shrug casually. “There’s really nothing to talk about. We were headed in different directions. I didn’t see a future with us, so I ended it.”
“You loved him,” she says matter-of-factly. My heart aches at the way she’s sympathizing for me, but it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s better off getting over me now before it’s too late.
“I did. But, I think I loved the idea of us more than actually being in love with him.” That’s a lie, but I’ve told myself that every night for the past three months. Sooner or later, I’ll start to believe it.
“Well, there will be plenty of available bachelors this weekend.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “We’ll be gone Saturday and Sunday night, so feel free to take home a… party favor back with you.” She giggles to herself, making me giggle right back with her. Natalee is usually so proper and ladylike, but I know she can be a ball of fun.
“What about Gabe?” I ask, surprising myself that I actually have the nerve to bring him up. “Is he an available bachelor?”
She narrows her brows at me, suspiciously. “Gabe?” She’s thinking to herself. “He’s single, if that’s what you mean. Not so much on the available part.”
“What do you mean?”
“Emotionally. He checked out months ago. This is the first time Trace has seen him in months.”
A hundred questions are spinning in my mind. “Why?”
“A few years ago—”
“All done,” the seamstress cuts her off. “I need you to slowly slip the dress off without pushing any of the pins out.”
I shimmy the dress down my shoulders and body, letting it collect to my feet. I slowly step out of it and hand it off.
“I’ll have the dress ready by tomorrow,” she informs Natalee. She nods and both of us say goodbye before heading out.
“Oh, you want to catch some lunch before we head back? I’m sure the guys are still busy doing their thing. It’ll be nice to catch up.” She smiles excitedly at me. It’s too hard to deny that look, so I agree.
“Sure.”
“There’s a quaint little place near the shore. You’ll love it.”
All the stores are close together downtown, so we end up walking. It’s about a quarter-mile before we reach it.
“This is adorable.”
“Trace and I love coming here. It’s not much from the outside, but the food is to die for.”
I keep quiet for most of our lunch. I let Natalee ramble on and on about the wedding. My heart both aches and screams every time she talks about their future and how one day her kids will call me Auntie Katie. I wish I could just tell her, but I promised myself I wouldn’t. I want to give her this time with me, untainted by reality.
* * *
I finally get to soak in the clawfoot tub, remembering to lock both doors this time. My joints are sore from walking, although it wasn’t really that much. The pain hasn’t really been too bad lately, but it’s something I’m constantly monitoring. The doctor warned me it would come and go.
A part of me was glad I didn’t get Gabe’s background after all. Once we left the seamstress’s shop and went to lunch, I reminded myself that this would not, could not turn into anything more. The less I knew about him, the better.
I have twenty-four things I want to accomplish—one for every year I’ve been alive. It seems fitting. I’ve barely done any of them, so I needed a new outlook on life to ensure I do everything before it’s too late.
Natalee texts me after my bath letting me know her and Trace are going to their last dance class. It’s almost seven, so I decide I’ll head down to the living room and find a movie to watch.
I wrap my hair up into a wet knot, not bothering to brush it out, and pull on some yoga shorts and a long-sleeved t-shirt before heading down the stairs.
I grab a can of Dr. Pepper from the fridge and go in search of my favorite snack. Red Vines. I pop it through my can like a straw and head into the living room.
I’m surprised when I see Gabe in the corner chair, reading a book. He doesn’t come off as the reading type, but what’s even more surprising are his reading glasses. Not the ugly, old man reading glasses either. These are hot. Nerdy hot.
I suck in a sharp breath as I look at him. He barely flinches, but I notice the corner of his mouth curls up slightly.
“Yes?” he asks, keeping his eyes on his book.
“You’re reading,” I say as a statement, but it comes out more as a question.
“Yes.” He drops the book in his lap and looks up at me. “I did go to college.”
My body relaxes, my head tilting as I scowl back at him. “You just don’t look like the reading type, that’s all.”
“And you don’t look like the dancer type.”
I furrow my brows at him. “What’s that mean?”
“Hair on top of your head, short shorts. It’s very…”
“I’m not a stripper,” I say sharply, quickly cutting him off. I’m going to kill Natalee for even mentioning that.
He puts both hands up, a sly smile forming on his face. “I said dancer. Sounded more respectful.”
“Well, either way…” I groan. “I’m not. Either of those. So you just wipe that smug little smile off your stupid face.” I jab my finger at him.
I begin walking to the couch and grab the remote off the coffee table.
“You don’t mean that.” He catches me off guard when I feel the weight of the couch dip behind me.
I begin flipping through channels, keeping my eyes strictly on the television screen. “Mean what?”
“You don’t think my face is stupid.” I can see him grinning out of the corner of my eye. God, this guy is so smug.
“What’s it matter what I think anyway? I’m sure you don’t need me feeding your ego.” I roll my eyes. “It’s plenty big.” I regret the words the second I spit them out. “Your ego, I mean,” I clarify.
He laughs casually, making his way around the couch and dropping down next to me. My body stiffens, wondering if I should move away from him or not. Now that we’re alone and his mouth is close enough to kiss, I’m starting to second-guess myself. I was never that girl—the one with nerves of steel. I dated Kyle for years. We were comfortable, content. But before him, I only had casual dates. Nothing serious.
Be spontaneous.
I lean back against the couch, grabbing the pillow next to me for comfort. Having him this close to me is making my mind spin out of control. He’s attractive and I hate that I’m attracted to him because that only means one thing—complications. I wasn’t planning to settle for an unattractive one-night stand, but one where I’d be too drunk to even care. This is so not what I had planned.
“You don’t have to sit here and babysit me, you know.”
“Who says I’m babysitting you? I was down here first.”
It’s childish, I know, but I can’t help it. “You were down here reading. I just want to watch a good chick flick. Something I’m sure you have no interest in,” I say matter-of-factly, all lightness out of my tone. Flirting with him can’t happen anymore. He’s too close and the closer he gets, the harder it’s going to be to stick to my original plan. They’ll be plenty of opportunities to find single men at the wedding, I remind myself.
“You have no idea what I’m interested in.”
“Well, I doubt it’s Sex in the City reruns.”
“Actually, I find it fascinating.”
“Oh…” I laugh to myself, nodding. “I get it now.”
“Get what?” He narrows his brows.
“You’re into men,” I say, even though I know it’s not true.
“What?” he gasps.
“That’s why you barged into the bathroom, not caring about a naked girl. That’s why you didn’t care if I saw you naked.” I point my hand toward the TV. “Sex and the City? And…” I grab the book out of his hand to read the title. “Whatever the hell that is.” He looks at me in surprise, a slight grin overtaking his lips. “It’s okay…I’m not judging. But I’m guessing Trace doesn’t know.”
“Are you done yet?” he asks, clearly not amused.
“What?” I ask, waiting for his argument.
“I’m not into men,” he insists, setting the book down. He noticeably eyes my body up and down. “Definitely not.”
I tilt my head in his direction, ready to rebuttal. “You don’t have to lie. I won’t tell them.” I keep the seriousness in my tone, knowing it’s only pissing him off more.
“Do I look like I’m into men or something?”
“Well…not in an obvious way, but now that I’m thinking about it…it’s the only explanation. I mean, you dress nice. Like really nice. You have those black things in your ears, which could certainly go either way. Your hair is a bit too perfect, like exceptionally crafted, and put together.”
He looks at me oddly, his piercing bright eyes burning into mine.
“Well, that’s discouraging,” he finally says.
“You aren’t into men?” I pretend to be surprised. “Are you sure?”
“Am I sure?” He laughs. “I’m going to guess you aren’t a people person.”
“What’s that mean?” I ask, offended. “I’m social,” I try and defend, but even I can hear the insecurity in my tone.
“Okay, wait. Back up. First off: I’m not into men. I’m one-hundred and twenty percent into women.” I lean back, slightly amused by how rattled up he’s getting. “Second, It’s kind of a confidence downer when a hot chick thinks you’re gay.”
“You think I’m hot?” I ask almost immediately.
“No,” he blurts out, his eyes lowering to my chest. “I think you’re fucking gorgeous. However, that mouth of yours—”
“Which is up here, by the way.”
“I’m aware.” He finally moves his eyes back up to mine, a shiver rippling through my body at the way he’s staring intently at me.
We sit like that for a few moments, the blood finally rushing back to my brain, reminding myself to speak.
“Well, since I’m still watching Sex in the City,” I begin coldly, needing to break the spell that his eyes are putting me under. “Feel free to stare at their chests all you want,” I suggest sharply.
He narrows his brows at me, noticing the one-eighty I’ve just done. I can’t decide if I should go for it or back the hell away. My mind is spinning in a million directions.
Bucket list #3 – Live with no regrets
Dammit. Number three was written because I don’t do this. I don’t put myself out there. I’m safe, secure, and usually confident. But around Gabe…I’m second-guessing everything.
I suck in a breath, needing to come clean. “I was just messing with you,” I say softly. “I’m highly aware you aren’t into men.”
He stays silent a moment before responding. “I know.”
I continue staring at the TV. “You knew?”
“You’re a horrible liar.”
I glance down, trying to hold in my laughter at the irony. “Better than you think.”
“I don’t doubt that. But you aren’t a very good believer of your own lies.”
“I’ll put that on my list of things to improve on,” I mutter.
“Well, while you’re there, I’d add ‘singing in the shower’ to your list.”
“I don’t sing in the shower,” I defend.
“You do.”
I scowl, furrowing my brows. “What do I sing then?”
“You sing lullabies. It’s like a sweet hum mixed with background singing.”
I sit stunned, having no idea what he’s talking about. I do most of my thinking when I’m in the shower, thinking about my family—my mom mainly—and the direction my life has been forced to go in. But I don’t recall singing, unless I do it unconsciously.
“I had no idea,” I say flatly, my mind instantly going to my dad, who used to sing me to sleep when I was younger. My brain must be remembering the tunes he’d sing without even knowing it.
“Well, now that you do, you need to work on it,” he says harshly.
I try to stop the building laughter that’s threatening to escape. “Thanks, asshole. Anything else?”
“Not yet. But it’s only the second night. Give me some time to think of more.”
“I guess I can add charmer to your list of attributes.” By now I’ve completely tuned out Carrie and Big’s argument in the show with my eyes directly located on Gabe’s sculpted face and intense emerald eyes.
“Oh, we’re making me a list now?”
“It’s the ‘prove you aren’t into men’ list. I’d get started soon if you ever want to get laid again,” I retort quickly.
“I’ve never had to prove I wasn’t gay before. But if you insist…”
He moves so quickly, I don’t have time to refuse. Or push him away. Even so, I’m not sure I would’ve.
His mouth covers mine, a hand firmly planted around my neck, pulling us together. My arms instinctively cling to his chest, squeezing his shirt with both fists. His mouth is warm and soothing as his tongue massages mine. My body relaxes into his, craving more than what he’s giving me.
His lips are soft, not rushed, but forceful. His other hand lands on my cheek, cupping my face in his firm grasp. I can’t control the throaty moans that release in between, telling him exactly how much I like what he’s doing.
Being this close to him, I inhale his woodsy scent. It’s a blend of spicy oak and soap—a perfect mixture. His chest feels hard against mine, and I don’t have to guess what he looks like without clothes, because I already have it ingrained in my mind.
Shit. I’m totally losing myself in his kiss.
He slows the kiss down, his lips barely touching mine, but my entire body reacting it. I feel goose bumps down my arms as he kisses my lips one last time before backing away.
“Well, I finally found what shuts you up,” he says bluntly.
My eyes blink open. “What?”
“We can watch your show now. As long as you stop insinuating I’m into men. Because if you’re still wondering, I’d be happy to prove it some more.” He has his infamous, shit-eating grin displayed all over his stupid, sly face. He’s messing with me, trying to rattle me, so I play it off.
“That proves nothing.” I turn my attention back to the television, where another episode has begun. He sits back with his arm stretched out over the couch with one leg propped up over his knee.
Smug bastard.
I curl up on the other side of the couch, planning my retaliation. This means war.