Page 85 of The Statistically Unlikely Reunion

Grad or Die

DAISY: I know you’re all destination wedding-ing. But you were maybe in the news?

GWENDY: And we’re dying here.

DAISY: Are you okay?

GWENDY: We’re so worried.

DAISY: Don’t make me . . . make Lars buy me a too-expensive ticket to Lānaʻi.

GWENDY: L?

ME: I’m fine.

DAISY: When does fine == fine?

DAISY: Never.

ME: I’m at a cat sanctuary. What could possibly go wrong?

26

IF I’M NOT READY

BEFORE

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Lucas has never seen me cry before. Usually, he’s the emotional one, the one who tears up during Verizon’s going-away-to-college commercials.

His hands float over my body. Clearly, he’s worried he’s hurt me physically.

It’s cowardly as fuck, but it’s also so, so tempting to use that as an out. To squirm or say something about bruising easily, that he’ll need to be gentler next time.

To say fuck the emotional shit and move on.

But Lucas’s Boy Scout tendencies have clearly started to rub off on me, because I decide to tell him a portion of the truth. “You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for.”

“Doesn’t matter, I’m bloody sorry.”

It takes time for me to get my breathing under control, time to gather the sheet up to my chin so I’m less exposed. “Telling someone you love them during sex doesn’t count.”

There’s a moment of shocked silence before Lucas lets out a bewildered laugh. “Is that all?”

His relief is a tangible thing. He throws himself onto his back, every muscle unwinding.

“We’re not ready for those words outside of sex.”

Lucas is quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the rustic ceiling fan above us. “Interesting use of the word we.”

“By definition, we can’t be ready if I’m not ready.” I prop myself up to lean partially over him, proud of myself for the wording.

I don’t lie and tell him I’m not ready.

Instead, I’ve predicated it oh so cleverly.

If I’m not ready sounds so much better than admitting I’m scared, terrified, petrified by feelings I neither want nor can afford to admit to.