Chapter 23
Nadine
We both try to pretend that things haven’t changed. That last night wasn’t both awesome and weird.
But the ride back to Portland is strained in a way I’ve never experienced with James.
We still talk. We still argue over what to listen to on the radio, still play the license plate game where we try to be the first person to think of a word that contains all of the letters of whatever license plate is in front of us.
But I can’t stop thinking about last night.
About how it had felt important somehow.
And when we finally pull up to our driveway, I’m relieved. I need some alone time to think. To figure out just what to make of the hand-holding on the beach and the intense intimacy of the sex that followed.
All visions of me-time evaporate, though, the second James puts the car in park and I see the guy sitting on my front porch.
My mind seems to go perfectly blank, although over the ringing in my ears, I hear James mutter “What the hell?”
It’s Paulo.
Paulo is sitting on my front porch, watching with an unreadable expression as James and I get out of the car.
James pulls both of our bags out of the backseat, slinging my weekender bag over one shoulder and his duffel over the other.
Paulo stands as we approach, and the look he gives James is definitely wary. A quick glance at James' face tells me why. His usual easy smile is nowhere to be seen. My fingers touch James' forearm, the gentle touch telling him to stand down.
His eyes meet mine, his expression angry. Still, he respects my request even if he doesn’t agree with it, because he merely jerks his head at Paulo in grumpy acknowledgment as he passes.
“Hey, James.” Paulo moves out of the way as James walks past him, and I’m pretty sure if he hadn’t, James would have done one of those too-hard shoulder bumps.
“We’re just getting back from Cannon Beach,” I tell Paulo, out of the need to say something.
“Ah.” His smile is slight as he studies me. “I have fond memories of that place. Most of them involving sneaking into your bedroom in the middle of the night.”
James just put his key into the lock, but he clearly overhears because his shoulders stiffen.
No. No! And all my brain can register is oh my God! because is this really happening?
Objectively, I know Paulo's comment isn’t geared at James.
He can’t possibly know about last night. And it’s obvious from the slightly desperate expression on his face that his comment is an attempt to remind me of good times—better times.
And yet I have the strangest urge to run after James. To tell him that yes, Paulo came to my room once or twice, but that was before…before…
“What are you doing here?” I ask Paulo, irrationally angry at his presence.
Paulo slumps a bit, probably at my less-than-excited tone. “Can we talk?”
I glance once more at James, only to see him slam the door shut without so much as a backward glance.
My fingers touch my forehead as a headache starts creeping up out of nowhere. “Sure.”
Because what else am I supposed to say to the guy I dated for five years? Even if he did dump me.
