The Christmas Pact(25)
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
He didn’t argue with me.
After I said goodbye to Kennedy’s mother in the kitchen, he walked me out to the car.
He tucked my suitcase in the trunk and shut it with a firm push. He placed his hands in his pockets as he turned to face me. Neither one of us seemed to be making easy eye contact.
“You know, my little act on Christmas Eve was a quick fix,” he said. “Have you thought about what you’re eventually gonna tell your mother about my being gone?”
Well, I was kind of hoping you wouldn’t be gone, but now I see that’s not where this is going.
“No. But I won’t address it for a while. Hopefully by the time I have to deal with it, I’ll have a story in mind.”
He nodded slowly, then cleared his throat. “Thank you again for last night…for being there for me. You’re an amazing woman. I hope you realize that.”
Nothing like raking in the compliments while someone is basically telling you to take a hike. This just sucked.
I stood up on my tippy toes and planted a chaste kiss on his cheek before I got in the car and drove away, unsure of whether I’d ever see Kennedy Riley again.
Two days later I was back at work, and, from the outside, everything appeared back to normal. The last week seemed like a dream. A really crazy, impulsive, sexy dream. Actually, it probably would have been easier if the time I’d spent with Kennedy hadn’t been real. Because it was difficult to walk around each day now remembering what his mouth had felt like on mine, how soft his lips were, or how his hard body pressed to mine when we slow danced. Just knowing what a sweet guy he was beneath that gruff exterior made my heart ache.
I took Liliana to lunch to say thank you for taking care of Sister Mary Alice while I was away. Over Chinese food, I confided in Liliana about my crazy Upstate adventure. After she picked her jaw up off the floor, she started goading me to reach out to Kennedy and ‘make the first move’.
“Seriously, Riley, the man is drop dead gorgeous. Who cares about some archaic romantic notion that a man should make the first move? Fuck that.” She jabbed her straw in and out of the crushed ice in her cup. “Let me ask you this: do you like to be on top?”
I blinked a few times. “On top? Meaning in bed?”
“Yes, on top. You know, indulging your inner cowgirl.”
It was kind of a personal question, but I trusted Liliana, so I just went with it. “I actually do. I have trouble having an orgasm in missionary position.”
She sucked on her straw until the liquid was gone and she made a loud, gurgling sound. “This was a large cup of ice with a side of soda, not the other way around. But anyway…you need a man to get your cowgirl on, so pick up the damn phone and get yourself one.”
I laughed. I’d thought she was going to impart some wisdom about it being the new millennium and how women have become empowered in the bedroom so we should also be inviting men on dates. But her logic was on point anyway. I gave her a serious look. “I’ve never asked a man out.”
“What’s the worst that can happen? He says no. You’re already walking around like someone kicked your dog, so why not go for it? Obviously, you want to saddle up.”
I smiled. “I’ll think about it.”
“We can even do it on speakerphone. If you get tongue tied, I’ll help you out.”
That was definitely not happening. But I appreciated the thought. Sort of. “Thanks, Lily.”
By the end of the week, I still hadn’t heard from Kennedy. I guess a part of me had held onto hope that maybe he’d miss me and call. He certainly knew how to reach me. I sat at my desk at nearly five o’clock on Friday, in no rush to go home. The rest of the office was already racing for the door, but I decided to dig through my inbox and find the emails that had started this whole mess. Reading the string of messages back, one thing really hit home. It was the advice from that columnist—or at least the woman who’d answered for Dear Ida. She’d written:
Dear Boring,
It sounds to me like your problem isn’t your mom’s Christmas letter—though I do find those to be obnoxious myself. I think if you dig a little deeper, your problem is actually with your own life—and the fact that you don’t actually have one. Sometimes difficult things need to be said and our friends and family are too polite to say them. That’s what I’m here for…so here’s my advice to you:
Go out and live a little. Give your mother something to write about. Life is too short to be so dull.
God, that email had pissed me off so much when I’d received it. But now I realized that was because she’d hit the nail on the head. I have no life.
I sighed. Someone more badass would have done something about it. But instead, I shut down my laptop and put on my coat.
Four hours later at home, I still couldn’t stop thinking about those emails. I’d stuffed my face with pizza and downed a few glasses of wine when the bright idea to write to that columnist again popped into my head. If she was right once, maybe she could tell me how to handle the situation with Kennedy now. So I grabbed my laptop and decided to be safe this time and write her from my personal email. The last thing I needed was another mix up with my and Kennedy’s emails.