“Will you listen to yourself?”
“I am, and I’m getting all hot and bothered thinking about it.”
“You have something seriously wrong with you,” I say but laugh. “There will be none of that. We’ll be at a campground for god’s sake. Think a big communal room with bunk beds, footy pajamas, and no privacy. Besides—”
“There is no besides. There are no footy pajamas. Communal bunk beds or not, you can still get some action and walk around with the biggest, smuggest grin to let all the other ladies know just who Slade is sliding it into.”
“Nothing is going to happen.”
“Shhh. I’m not listening to you because I’m too busy making up all kinds of sexy scenarios that are going to happen—kisses against trees, blowjobs behind the dining hall . . .” She wiggles her shoulders as if she’s imagining each and every one of them. “I’m going to live vicariously through you.”
“Pine tree needles stuck where they shouldn’t be, mosquito bites on my ass.”
“Sometimes incredible sex comes with a few hazards. I’m sure you’re willing to accept those if the trade-off is toe-curling orgasms.”
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes but will admit to myself I’ve thought way too much about the other night at Metta’s. About his lips whispering in my ear. About the too-long stares across the table. About the bear hug and kiss on the cheek when we parted.
“Come on, the man has a to-do list for you guys. And right on top, written in invisible ink, is that he wants to-do you.”
“He’s just being nice. And organized and . . .”
“Nice, handsome, sexy, and let’s not forget a freaking heart surgeon. It’s perfect that he knows how to mend a broken heart.”
“My heart is just fine, thank you.”
“I beg to differ.”
“The last thing it needs is to be involved in anything with anyone for the time being.”
“That’s exactly why this whole situation is perfect. He’s obviously into you or else he wouldn’t be doing this. You need to have some after-Paul sex to wake up your lady parts so you realize what you’re missing. A rebound of epic proportions. What better way to ease your toes into the dating pool than with some sexy, hot doctor?”
“Easier said than done.”
“Who cares if it’s for a night or a week or a month? You played the part of the polished, pretentious wife for too long, it’s about time you do what you want without caring what anyone thinks. You know for sure that I’m not going to be the one judging you.”
“I know, but . . .” My sigh fills the room and smothers the excitement she just filled it with. She notices it right away and moves to sit on the coffee table in front of me so I can’t avoid her stare.
“Hey.” She waits until I look at her. “What’s wrong? Talk to me. Tell me why you’re struggling so hard with this?”
Where do I start when I feel like there is so much wrong with me?
“Why is it so hard for me to accept this? To think that Slade might actually like me?” I look down at my hands clasped on top of my lap. I think of the last line on Slade’s to-do list and know that’s the problem. “I swore that when the divorce was final, I was going to be this bigger and better person. That I was going to be more spontaneous. Care more about my wants and less about what others expected. But you know what, Kels? It’s really hard to be this new me, and I’m not exactly sure how to wear the shoes yet.”
She puts her hand on my knee and squeezes, giving me a moment to get my emotions in check. “For the record, I still like the old you.”
“The old me was a pair of granny panties.” I laugh. “I don’t want to be granny panties anymore. I want the new me to be—”
“A G-string?”
“More like lacy, sexy, boy shorts,” I say.
“Substance, coverage in all the right areas, but sexy as hell when they need to be.”
I look at her and shake my head until the tightening in my throat manifests into tears welling in my eyes. “I’m sick of being the perfect ex-wife who pretends that everything is fine and then cries into her pillow at night because she failed. I’m sick of being the always-cautious, always-worried-what-others-think Blakely Foxx who is so sick of taking everyone’s shit but smiles anyway.”
“I don’t know who you are or what you’ve done with my friend.” She laughs, her face lighting up. “But I like where you’re going with this.”
“I’m here. Still the same but trying to be different . . . and as hard as it is to admit, I’m scared as hell about this week.”
“What about it?”
“Just the million things that could go wrong. What if we don’t get along? What if he ends up being a jerk? What if I make things worse at work? What if they find out we’re not really a couple? What if—”
“What if you two hit it off and a real connection is made? What if he makes you laugh till it hurts and things go well? There are positives that could happen here, you know?”
I flop back on the couch and cover my eyes with my hands. “This has all the makings of a rom-com movie disaster. You know the kind—”
“Where the heroine is a wreck, the hero is a prick, and their whole plan goes to hell?”
“If you want to put it that way.” I nod.
“Just remember that the girl always gets the guy in the end.”
“This isn’t fiction.”
“No, but it’s going to be so much better.”
We sit in silence, the years of friendship between us have her giving me the space I need to process everything she’s said. To finally admit what she already knows.
“I like him. A lot. And . . . maybe I’m afraid that I do. And perhaps, I’m scared that I
