Page 53 of Seale the Deal

She exhales and looks at me, eyes practically drained of life. I didn’t make it for you, if that’s what you’re thinking.

I smirk. I’m more upset you didn’t bring me a cup since I slept in an uncomfortable chair to make sure you didn’t choke on your own vomit in the middle of the night.

She glares. It’s far too cute.

It took everything I had just to make the coffee, she mumbles. You were on your own.

Fair enough. I shrug.

She pauses, then says, Thank you. For last night.

You were a mess, I tease gently. But I won’t hold it against you.

Good. Because if you ever get blackout drunk and face-plant in a bush, I’ll return the favour. No judgment. She pauses, face crumpling. Wait. No. Scratch that. That offer is only valid if you don’t puke. I cannot—cannot—handle vomit. You can cry, ramble, quote Lord of the Rings, hell, I’ll quote along with you, but bodily fluids? I will ghost you from inside this house.

Is this what you do when you’re drunk?

I plead the fifth, she says, lifting her mug like it’s a gavel.

She lifts her mug to her lips, takes a sip, then immediately grimaces. Nope. Nope, nope, nope. She drops the mug. I can’t even enjoy coffee. This is officially the darkest timeline.

With a groan, she flops her head onto the table. Unlike two nights ago, when she cried on my couch and I didn’t know what to do, I reach out with more confidence and pat her shoulder.

There, there.

She doesn’t lift her head, just rolls it enough to fix one tired eye on me.

I grin into my coffee.

Chapter 8

Wrenley

DAYS LEFT ON VISA: 73

It’s been ten days since I got drunk, baptized myself in Remi’s bushes, and caught a water bottle to the face like it was a rogue dodgeball. A day I lovingly now refer to as The Incident. Since then, I’ve developed what can only be described as a slow-burn friendship with the man I’m supposed to marry.

Ruger made me eggs after finding me a shell of myself with a hangover I well deserved. It kind of felt like a big deal because he didn’t do it to earn points. He wasn’t angling for a thank you or watching me take my first bite to see if I’d melt into a puddle of gratitude. He just set the plate in front of me and sat down like we had been doing this for years. I’m not used to that kind of treatment. Captain Skinny-Dick never made me breakfast. He would cook for himself all the time, but it didn’t even cross his mind to ask if I wanted any. Of course, if I ever cooked and didn’t think to make enough for him as well, I was the bad guy. Looking back, there were so many red flags I ignored.

Then we just went back to life as it was. Ruger goes to work or does whatever Ruger does, always leaving a thermos of coffee for me, and I find myself enjoying knowing that he wakes up and thinks of me.

Most days, I work on my coat, and Remi often joins me. We try to talk about the wedding, but every conversation leaves me feeling vaguely nauseous. Too many people buying into the illusion and getting excited about something that isn’t real.

When Ruger gets home, he makes dinner. I usually join him, attempting to introduce some form of vegetable into the meal. He reluctantly allows it. Then we eat. Sometimes we don’t talk at all. Other times we have that weirdly domestic how was your day? Conversation. The latter is my favourite. And then somehow—God knows when it started—we ended up watching true crime documentaries at night. One minute, I was searching through Disney+, and the next, Ruger was making a sarcastic comment about the shoddy police work on a cold case special, and before I knew it, we were three episodes deep into a serial killer docuseries on ID.

I think the night I truly realized I needed to check myself was when I shifted on the couch and accidentally brushed my knee against his. It should have been a harmless little oops moment. Instead, for one second, my brain considered leaving it there just to see what he’d do.

After that night, I did what any emotionally stunted, terrified-of-catching-feelings woman would do: I found a new distraction. Which is how I end up wandering around town alone for the first time. Well… partly because Remi has some kind of important meeting, and partly because I can only hide in Ruger’s house avoiding conversations about the wedding for so long.

Some of my sewing supplies are running low, and according to Apple Maps, there’s a fabric store in town called Fabric Delights, which I’ve made a note to give Ruger and Remi shit for not telling me about it sooner. With Ruger at work, Remi preoccupied, and my brain apparently committed to turning one accidental knee brush into some kind of Hallmark moment, I’m determined to find this store. Unfortunately, Apple Maps appears to not have my same ambition. Instead of leading me to a fabric store, it walks me directly into the middle of a back alley.

What the hell?

I stop and turn slowly in a circle.

There’s nothing here except a dumpster, some fish traps, and seagulls fighting over something. But when I look back down at the map, it’s saying I’m literally in the middle of this store.

I sigh and head out the other side of the alley, looking up and down the street. I walk another block toward the ocean, but there’s no sign of a fabric shop, and my phone continues insisting it’s located in the alley I just left. I turn onto another road, figuring I might as well head back to the house, when I finally spot it across the street.