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“You have to hug me back,” I whisper in her ear. “I have cancer.”
“That’s not fair,” she replies, reluctantly sliding her hands around my waist.
“Life’s not fair, but I don’t make the rules.” This time, it’s me who presses my lips to her cheek. “I love you.”
When I turn, she grabs my wrist. “And I you,” she whispers so only I can hear her.
When I emerge from the back room, Koen glances over his shoulder at me. I don’t say anything, but I hug him. He stiffens, and his reaction is a thousand times more intense than Scottie’s.
“Red blood cells, man. Just building red blood cells.”
He doesn’t hug me back.
We’ll work on that.
At least he’s not on the verge of punching me. That’s a good sign. His expression reads something like, “You weird, orange motherfucker.”
I leave without another word, and as I drive past the front of the store, I slow down to witness Scottie in Koen’s arms. He kisses her, but it’s not a friendly peck on the cheek. It’s passionate.
His hands in her hair, hers gripping his shirt.
I miss that feeling of euphoria—that shared all-consuming passion.
I missher.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
LIFE IS THE DREAM THAT MAKES SENSE.
Scottie
I gasp out of breath,jackknifing to sitting in the middle of the night. A sheen of sweat covers my skin, and I’m aroused. But Koen’s at his place.
This is the third dream that I’ve had about Price in a matter of weeks. The third sex dream. These dreams don’t feel like flashbacks to when we were together. They’re present-day scenarios. He looks like he does now. And in the latest one, I cried while we had sex because I thought he was dying and we would never have sex again.
They’re dreams. I don’t control them. They don’t matter.
Still, every time it happens, I feel shaken for days. I feel like Koen knows and that Price looks at me differently after these dreams. What if I’m with Koen some night and say Price’s name?
I can’t get back to sleep, so I opt for meditation to cleanse my mind and alleviate this anxiety. By six, I’m out for my walk. When I return, my favorite guy is playing fetch with his dog by my trailer.
“No work?” I walk straight into his arms and steal a kiss.
He hums, dragging his lips down my neck. “I don’t workeveryweekend.” His hands sliding to my butt send me back a few steps.
“You can’t touch me like that until we’re married.”
Koen’s blue eyes gleam with playfulness. I don’t trust him.
“What if we just mess around?”
“You don’t like messes.” I pick up the ball that Scrot drops at my feet and throw it.
“I asked one to marry me.”
“Did you just reduce me to an unflattering noun?” I park my fists on my hips.
“You’re my mess.” He reaches for me, but I hold up a stiff finger.
