Page 71 of How to Ruin a Wedding

“Unless,” I add, “you’re uncomfortable. Then I can take the floor. This is your house.”

Anders pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a frustrated sigh. I’m not sure what I’ve done to warrant it, seeing as I’m offering to sleep on the solid floor instead of him.

When I get up, I move to where he drops the pillow, and he grips my arm as I kneel. “Lucinda,” he says, “the reason I am trying not to share a bed with you is because I can barely control myself now. You’re in my clothes, still wet from your shower, and in my bedroom. I am a man.” The last part is said so deadpan, I can’t help but laugh despite the dots of warmth sprouting throughout my body.

“You Tarzan, me Jane.”

He laughs, though there is still some frustration leaking into it. “Just get in the damn bed.”

I do, dropping a few pillows in the center as Anders moves to turn off the light, leaving only a sliver of moonlight to creep in from behind the sheer curtains of the windows. My eyes are adjusting, so I can’t see him well when we’re flooded with darkness, but I feel the mattress shift, and it steals some of my air from me as it does, like the room just lost half its oxygen supply.

“Good night,” he says.

“Night.”

We’ve been alone plenty of times, but this time, it’s a little hard to breathe. We’re both sober, there’s nobody around watching us, and we’re cloaked by the darkness while lying inches apart.

Of course I knew why Anders didn’t want to share a bed, but I was trying to be nonchalant. If we’re not going to acknowledge this blooming attraction between us, then I certainly am not going to be the first to say anything about it.

I link my fingers over my stomach, shutting my eyes and begging sleep to just take me. I remain like that for a few minutes before shifting, and shifting, and shifting. No matter how much I toss and turn, no position is comfortable enough for exhaustion even to pretend it’s ready to blanket over me.

After what feels like hours of turning, Anders says, “Are you okay?”

I pause mid-shift. “Yup, just ... not tired, I guess.”

“Me either,” he says.

I chew on my bottom lip. Now that I know he’s up with me, I’m too self-conscious to keep obviously struggling to sleep. I fill the silence with, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Why do you work?” I ask. “Your stock makes you plenty to live off of. Why do you keep doing art?”

He hums, and I like the way it sounds, like the start of a ballad. “I love art,” he starts, “and I like that people like my art enough to want it.”

“Is it fun?”

“Most of the time,” he says. “If I have a block, it’s a little agitating, but usually it feels like relief. For me, it’s like there’s a bottle inside me, and when I’m not working on anything, it starts to fill up. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, and it only goes away when I start to work on something. I have to keep pouring it out, so it feels light. Does that sound pretentious?”

“Not at all.” I smile at the thoughtful answer, at the hint of insecurity at the end of it. Anders can feel a little perfect, and that can be intimidating, but really, I’m learning, even if I think he’s without flaws, he doesn’t feel the same. It makes him more human, more relatable instead of this rich, handsome, perfect man who always seems to know what to say.

Whenever I learn something about Anders, I’m eager to dig for even more. Like one taste makes me crave his whole life story. “How did you start getting into art?” I ask. “What’s your favorite way to work?” I sit up, lean on my arm, and face his blurry silhouette. “I found your website with your pseudonym, well, my sister did, and I looked through your stuff. I like your paintings, the landscape collection.”

He’s quiet for so long, and panic seeps into me. Was that too far? Maybe I should have kept it to myself, but when lying so much to other people, it’s nice to speak honestly. With Anders, there’s really no need to lie, not when it’s just us.

“Or,” I say, “we can just go to sleep now.”

There’s a rustle of movement, and my eyes adjust to see his silhouette mirror my stance, leaning his head on his hand, facing me. “It’s just a little embarrassing.”

My mouth hangs open for a moment before I say, “I’m literally a jobless, houseless, twenty-eight-year-old two-time divorcée, and you’re worried about being embarrassed in front of me?”

“I hate when you talk about yourself that way,” Anders says. “Like those facts are these permanent identifiers for who you are, like it’s all you are. They’re not.”

It stuns me briefly, has my heart racing, and my stomach doing somersaults. I’m guilty of self-deprecating here and there, and speaking to myself that way doesn’t feel like too big of a deal, at least to me.

But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t feel good to have someone defend me, even if it’s from myself.

“Anyway.” I shift gears. “We’re talking about you.”