“Do me a favor?” He’s now looking at me with those smoldering green eyes. I hate him for it.
“What?” I groan.
“Don’t make any rash decisions until after the airport. I give you full permission to beat me to death if you’re unhappy. Wait, actually, I take that back. I give you permission to beat me if, in fact, your assumptions are correct.” He tilts his head to the side and asks, “Deal?”
“Deal,” I say softly, taking another shrimp. I mean, I might as well eat my fill, if he’s going to sit there and tell me he’s flying his ex-wife to Hawaii. And why couldn’t he have let me go? I would have been much happier on a plane right now, even if I was alone.
Oh, and I’m sure the flight attendant, whatever country she’s from, would walk up to me and be like, “Why you cry?” To which I would reply, “Because the man I love doesn’t love me back.” And then she would say, “Oh, so sad,” and walk away, but not before telling everyone in first class how sad my situation is and not to bother me… Wow. Some great things to look forward to on the way home.
We finish dinner and dessert and a long walk before going to the airport. And I would bore you with the details, except the fact that my blood is boiling so much during said time I can’t even recall what we talked about, or if we even talked. I guess you could call it being lost in thought or lost in anger. I think I like the second one better.
Anyway, we get to the airport, and guess what? The flight is delayed.
Okay, I can’t lie. I ate way too many shrimp, and those little buggers are freakishly rich and making my stomach do this heave-ho type thing with every breath I take. I’m sure Preston can hear it. I mean, seriously. If he isn’t running for the trees already this would solidify it for me.
“You okay?” He asks as he gently puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Fine,” I reply, trying to keep the food in my stomach. I need the pink stuff bad.
“Are you sure? Because you don’t look too well. I’m sorry we’re stuck here for another hour or so. Do you think you'll make it?” He looks genuinely concerned, which would normally touch me, if I wasn’t ready to blow half-digested shrimp all over his face.
If I don’t stop burping up the sweet sauce from the coconut, I’m going to lose my mind. “I think I just need to go to the restroom.”
“To throw up?” Preston asks smiling kindly. Why does he have to be so nice sometimes?
“Yes,” I groan weakly, and honestly, I feel like I am going to pass out any minute.
“I have an idea,” he says.
“Oh my gosh. Please, no more ideas. No more Angelina or Morocco or…” I can’t finish my sentence.
"No, nothing like that,” he says and within moments he’s slowly walking me to the single family bathroom and opening the door.
I try to protest, but I feel too sick to open my mouth. He did this to me! He should know I tend to overeat when I'm nervous, or that I eat when I don’t have nice things to say to people.
“You know, Amanda, you shouldn’t eat to get back at me. It's mean to your body.” He shakes his head, but I don’t care if he’s kidding around at this point. I just need to get rid of the excess rich food.
“Okay, so I’ll hold your hair,” he offers.
“You’ll do no such thing!” I’m completely mortified.
“Yes, I will. I don’t want old shrimp on your cute dress, or on your pretty face, or in your hair, okay?” He’s being difficult, and I don’t have time to argue, so I just nod my head and heave. Yeah, there it is. Everything I just ate at the restaurant makes its encore appearance in the shiny toilet.
The weird part is, he doesn’t even say anything. He isn’t mocking me, he isn’t laughing, and he isn’t even getting grossed out. Maybe it’s a fireman thing? I don’t know, but I do know one thing, and that is I’m ridiculously embarrassed right now. I just threw up shrimp in front of the hottest guy I know, even if he’s unavailable and a cheater. He’s still good looking, and, well okay, I’ll admit, deep down he’s a good guy. I can’t blame him for wanting his wife back or vice versa. I mean, I’d want him back if I was her.
I finish up and wash my tan face before finally working up enough guts (sorry, poor choice of words) to make eye contact. I look up to see Preston digging through his pockets. What in the world is he doing?
He pulls out two breath mints, one of those disposable toothbrushes, and some chap stick. And then I cry. I know, I know. I’m pathetic. But I’m just one of those girls who, once she doesn’t feel well, ends up crying, holding her teddy bear and calling her mom to ask her to please drive four hours to take care of her baby. I mean, it's not that I’m not independent, I just hate not feeling well. And here’s Preston in the bathroom with me, offering ways to make me feel better. Not only that, but he doesn’t seem the least bit affected the way I just got rid of all of my lunch/dinner in the same room we’re still standing in.
He kisses me, yes, kisses me on the forehead, before leaving. I sigh and cry to myself as I lean over the porcelain counter top. How did this happen? How did I fall in love with the most wonderful guy on the planet just to find out I can’t have him? Where’s the justice in this, God? I wait, but don’t get an answer. Maybe my feelings will dissipate, and one day Preston will be like the brother I've never had.
I meditate on this for a while and shake my head. No way can I ever look at that man and think brother. Not even if he was was a terrible kisser, which he isn’t. The man has a mouth on him, let me tell you. His kiss could get a girl pregnant. And I can’t see that perfect smile and tight body and imagine, Oh look, how nice. Preston and his wife are now having kids. and I'm still single. Nope, not going to happen. Dang, I‘m going to have to move. Or switch churches. I groan before trying to fix the mess I’m in the mirror.
Chapter Seventeen
I walk outside to sit, only to find Preston already sitting there reading US Weekly. Yeah, right. Like he just happened to pick it up from the seat?
“I got this for you,” he offers me the magazine and some 7-up.
“I thought your stomach might be upset. Hey, did you know it says here that Brad and Angelina are cooperating with the Maui authorities to try to find their impersonators? Apparently they’ve been on some sort of tour for World Hunger this whole week.” He shrugs as if it's no big deal, but I snatch the magazine from his hands.
I begin searching the table of contents frantically until I hear laughing next to me. “You're kidding, aren’t you?” I say in a panicked voice.
“Oh yeah.” He peeks around the magazine. “You should have seen your face though. Priceless.”
I roll my eyes and try to hide my smile as I look through the magazine.
“Is that a smile I see on that pretty face?” he says, leaning in.
Why is he torturing me?
“No,” I fight to hide my smile and turn away from his tempting face
“Oh good. I wouldn’t want you being happy or anything.” He pats my leg and then looks at his watch. “Time to go to the gate.”
I follow him numbly. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. This is where I finally see who this mystery woman is. This is….wait a second…
“Hey, Bobby! Over here!”
I look to see who Preston is talking to and see a kid–well, okay, he's probably around nineteen, a young —approaching us with some sort of crate. “Hey, brother. Long time no see.” They do some sort of ritualistic high five before looking at me.
“Amanda, I’d like you to meet Bobby, or BJ for short.”
BJ holds out his hand, and I take it. This isn’t the Bobby from my past. This is an entirely different person, and that means the text messages could have been from this Bobby.” I immediately feel sick again.
BJ looks back to Preston. “Sorry, dude, when you called to talk to Ashlyn, I was in the process of getting patted down by some foreign guy in the airport. Get this; he made me take off my shirt? Who does that?”
“Ah, so you’ve met Jorge,” I interrupt.
“Yeah! That was his name. Hey, how’d you know?” BJ asks.
“Oh, lucky guess.” I shrug.
Preston looks at me and smiles, then says, “Amanda, meet Ashlyn.” He opens up the crate and pulls out the tiniest, and honestly, the cutest little lab I’ve ever seen in my entire life. She’s chocolate with deep brown eyes. I nearly squeal from joy at the size of this little thing's paw—wait.
“Ashlyn?” I swallow hard.
“Ashlyn,” he repeats positively pleased with himself.
“Ashlyn, as in, Ashlyn is a dog?” I gasp. “As in, your ex-wife is a dog?” I ask, confused and half hoping it’s true. Then I won’t look stupid.
“No. Ashlyn, as in, Ashlyn the firehouse dog I’ve been taking care of the past few months,” he says, lifting an eyebrow.
“But I thought your wife was named Ashlyn!” I blurt, because I’m panicking.
“Where would you get that idea?”
“Yeah,” BJ interrupt. “Her name is Sara, and she doesn’t even live around here anymore. Seriously, dude, if she was still dating Bobby, I’d bring physical harm to that dude. Ugh. They deserve each other.”
I’m listening to the conversation, but at the same time, I feel rather faint. This means the texts from Bobby were really from BJ, and Ashlyn was the puppy, and…oh wait, this also means the bet had to do with something else entirely.
“You bet you’d marry me so you could get a dog?” I shriek as my fists tighten.
“Um, no,” BJ interrupts again. “Actually, he bet he could marry you, so he could give you the dog as a present. Because, apparently, he thinks your cat, Mrs. Butterworth, is it?”
I nod.
“Yeah, your cat is like clinically depressed or something, because it has no hair. Which, if you ask me, is just weird. Anyway Preston here has been my mentor at the firehouse, and he gets annoyed with how many times I call him and make mistakes with the dog and with…other things. So, I told him that if he could get a girl as hot as you, I’d not only transfer to a different firehouse, but let him keep the dog. And well, he won. Because look at you. You look like you’re crazy in love, or maybe just crazy. I can’t tell. I blame my inability to commit.”
He finishes his little rant, and I take a seat at the gate. Oh. My. Gosh.
I’m going to kill Preston. I’m going to tell Mrs. Butterworth and Ashlyn to scratch his eyes out and feed them to the turtles in the pond by our hotel. I can't help but smile evilly as I fantasize about my revenge and look toward Preston, whose starting to look a little worried.
“Don’t.” He holds up his finger, and then he takes off running.
I jump up and chase him around the airport screaming, “I’m going to kill you!”
I notice that he starts to sprint. Smart man. I mean, I’m fast and he knows it. I try to catch up to him but have to stop suddenly when he jerks someone else's luggage between us to hinder my progress.