Dark Wild Night (Wild Seasons #3)(79)
Author: Christina Lauren

“So you didn’t break up with him?” Harlow asks. I can tell she’s trying to figure out where to fall on this. Is she protecting me and what I need right now, or is she preparing to smack some sense into me?

“I just told him I needed to hit pause.”

“Seriously?” Harlow asks, and I know she would actually be reaching over and pinching me if she didn’t think it would draw attention.

“Look, I don’t know why this is such a big deal.” I take a deep breath, staring at the pattern on the surface of the wood table. “I’m really late on a deadline because I just spaced it—no other reason. I have all these script edits I need to have done in a week and a half and spent most of the time in L.A. ineffectively arguing with the douche bag screenwriter. I’m also supposed to be coming up with ideas for the book that comes out right after Junebug, and they wanted the first few pages of that turned in a week after Junebug is due . . . which was two weeks ago. Meaning: the first few pages of the new-new book are already a week late. I leave for book tour in two weeks. I just . . .” I pick at a tiny hangnail on my thumb. “Everything was already busy with travel and writing, and as soon as I let the idea of being with Oliver into my head, I really fell hard, and fast. I was really disorganized up in L.A., I flubbed deadlines. I saw how quickly I could lose it all.” Finally, I look up at them. “I want to try to get a few things handled and then let myself enjoy . . . it.”

I can feel the way they exchange worried glances but they all seem to be unsure how to respond.

“You do have a lot on your plate,” London says. “I mean, I get that.”

“But it’s Oliver,” Mia says. “It’s not like . . .” She lets the words trail off, and

I know

I know

I know.

It’s Oliver. It’s not like he’s pushy. It’s not like he gets in the way.

It’s that I was getting in my own way.

“Even when you’re busy, you still check in with us every couple of days. Why does it have to be different with him?” Mia asks.

I can’t answer that. I can’t, because I don’t feel like I should have to explain to someone who is madly in love with her new husband that it’s different when you’re in love, versus checking in with girlfriends. I want to be near Oliver every second. I’m not sure I can do the dance of balance yet; I want every particle of him touching every particle of me.

“How did you deal with it when Ansel was working crazy hours back in Paris?”

She shrugs, poking at the ice in her water with a straw. “I left him alone at night to work.”

But—Jesus—how how how? I want to ask. The mystery of it makes me want to rip at my skin. If Oliver was in the room with me, or even down the street at the store but still mine, I would never get anything done. I would let Razor and Junebug and everyone else I love just fall into the cracks. I’ve proven that.

“I just feel like you’re being so hard on yourself,” London says quietly. “I feel like maybe you’re punishing yourself?”

And yes, she’s right. I am. I know we can’t stop what we’re feeling. I know that. I can see my three friends studying me like I’m a fascinating bug in a glass dish, because—at least for Harlow and Mia—they would never worry about how to balance these things. Mia’s done it before, and Harlow will just bend the world to fit the palm of her hand.

I’m not so naïve that I think this is a common thing to ask.

I want to scream out loud that I realize I’ve asked something huge of Oliver, something unreasonable even, but I’m not sure if I can apologize, either, and I know that—eventually—he’ll understand. I don’t want to lose my career. I don’t like the way I so easily let things slide the minute Oliver became my lover. I feel like I have to scrabble up this little hill and then I’ll be more grounded, more established. I’ll be better for him, and better for me.

I pull a pen from my bag and a crumpled receipt and start drawing.

The panel shows the girl, hunched over her desk. Scraps of paper litter the floor. The desk is covered in pencil shavings.

“So you think he’s moving on?” I say, head ducked, heart slowly shredding.

Everyone pauses, and with my pen poised on paper I feel the protective egg trembling under my ribs, threatening to roll off the table and shatter. I want Oliver to be my friend. I need him to be my friend, because I love him. Am I an enormous idiot? I don’t feel like what I was asking was extreme, just some quiet, just a little bit of rewind. I don’t know how I’ll deal with it if I hear that things are really done.