Back in the Burbs by Tracy Wolff
Chapter Forty-Nine
If Nick doesn’t fall asleep soon—and I mean soon—I am going to go from panic attack to actual heart attack. And sadly, I’m pretty sure that isn’t even an exaggeration. The human heart is not meant to beat more than 130 beats per minute for extended periods of time, and mine has been pounding like an acid rock drummer for way too long.
Add in the fact that the room is spinning and I can’t catch my breath, and I would have thought I’m already having a heart attack if all of this wasn’t clearly a result of me absolutely, positively freaking out…and have been since Nick carried me out of the bathroom and laid me on this bed nearly an hour ago.
We talked for a little while before he turned out the light, but now we’re curled together under his thick down comforter—and by curled together I mean he is wrapped around me like he’s the tortilla and I’m the stuffing. Which also would probably be fine at any other time, considering normally I like being the little spoon.
But right now, after everything that happened in the bathroom, it feels like the room is closing in on me.
It isn’t Nick’s fault—none of this is his fault. It’s my fault for stepping outside my comfort zone and doing something I knew I wasn’t ready for just because I was strung out on desire. I can’t believe I told Nick I needed him. I can’t freaking believe it. I made it what, a month, after vowing to never need another man again? Way to stay strong and independent, Mallory.
And I can’t believe he said he needed me, too. We’ve known each other less time than it takes to grow a tomato, for God’s sake.
He can’t need me. I’m a freaking mess. Broke, in the middle of an existential crisis and a messy divorce, currently living with my mother and my sister…both of whom are also in the middle of messy relationship drama. What about this scenario makes me sound like a good relationship bet?
And I know, Nick hasn’t actually asked me to be in a relationship yet, but men don’t do what he did in that bathroom if they plan on keeping it casual. I may not be the world’s leading expert on relationships, but even I know that much. And earlier tonight, in the kitchen, I know we were taking friends with benefits to a new place. It just went from fun and games to overwhelming me in the span of a breath.
All of which has led to me lying here in his bed, freaking out, as I wait for him to fall asleep. Is it a coward’s move to sneak out while he’s unconscious? Absolutely. Am I going to do it anyway? Abso-fucking-lutely. Not because I don’t like Nick but because I do. More than I want to. Definitely more than I should. And after what he shared tonight about his wife and child, I know I have no choice. I can’t put him through more heartache.
“You okay?” he asks as he pulls me closer, nuzzling in.
“Yeah, I’m good.” I don’t know what else to say. Plus, there’s a part of me that wants it to be true, a part of me that wishes I was okay with all of this. Because this is definitely a case of it isn’t him, it’s me.
No matter how much I want to paint him with the asshole card because of our first meeting, the truth is, he’s a good guy. A very good guy. One who helps out his neighbors, serves in the community, rescues stray dogs, and gives divorcées who are in over their heads really good legal advice and representation.
And me? I’m a woman who still needs to work on her shit. I’ve gotten a lot of it together since I first told Karl I wanted a divorce, but there is more than a little left to go. And until I get that shit figured out, there’s no way I’ll be able to give Nick what he deserves…and what he apparently wants, as well.
Eventually, his breathing softens out a little bit, becomes more rhythmic, and the arm around me grows heavier and more lax. And still I wait a couple more minutes before rolling gently—oh so gently—away.
His arm flops on the bed between us and he startles a little—which also startles me. My heart begins beating even faster and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to freak out and just run. But since I’m pretty sure that will just make Nick chase me, I stay where I am, facedown on the bed, and hyperventilate pillow fuzz for a while.
When nearly ten minutes go by and he doesn’t so much as move, I finally decide it’s safe to start inching toward the edge of the bed. As my fingers and toes eventually touch nothing but air on my side of the bed, I just go for it.
I roll straight out of bed and land on the floor with an oompf that knocks the air out of me—and settles out my hyperventilating at the same time. Nothing like a few bruises for the win.
I think about trying to get my clothes, but they’re still in the bathroom and there’s no way Nick will sleep through all that. And if he doesn’t, what am I going to say? I have a crawling fetish? I’m sleep-crawling? No, nothing good can come from that, so it’s going to have to be every pair of lace underwear for herself in this situation. Besides, I never liked that suit anyway.
Inch by inch, I stealth-crawl to the door, feeling more and more like a special-ops soldier moving through enemy territory. The bedroom door is open, thank God, and I’m out and in the hallway when I hit my second booby trap. Buttercup.
She must be a night dog, because suddenly she’s right next to me—and she’s wide awake. Also, apparently, feeling the love tonight.
I get a face full of enthusiastic doggie kisses and end up having to take every single one of them, since she’s determined not to be dissuaded. Eventually, she eases up a little and I take my shot, power-crawling to the stairs as fast as my hands and knees will carry me.
Yes, I am aware that I am a thirty-five-year-old woman who is sneaking out of her lover’s bedroom because she got cold feet.
Yes, I am more than aware of how pathetic that is.
No, I really don’t give a damn about my pathetic quotient right now. Frankly, I don’t give a damn about anything but getting out of here before Nick wakes up and decides we need to talk.
I have to put up with Buttercup’s kissing and dancing around me all the way to the top of the stairs. Once there, I jump to my feet before bolting down the steps two at a time. I’m so freaked out at this point that I almost make it to the front door before I remember that I’m naked. And while it’s late, it isn’t middle-of-the-night late, and somehow I bet my neighbors will freak out if it comes to light that I was streaking through the neighborhood at midnight.
Their loss, but still.
A quick search of the living room yields one of Nick’s shirts—and my phone, thankfully—and I shrug it on before racing for the door. I button two buttons, which is more than enough for decency in my book—though I’m pretty sure I lost my own decency somewhere between Nick’s bed and his bedroom door. Then I make a break for it and head straight down the driveway, across the street, up my driveway, and—force of habit—through my gate and around to my back door.
I run the whole thing as if I’m angling for a gold medal in the sprint of shame and don’t let myself slow down until my back-door handle is actually in my hand. Then and only then do I breathe a sigh of relief at finally being safe.
But as I go to open the door, I realize my sigh of relief is more than a little premature. Because my mom and sister—being two savvy women who are now living on their own in New Jersey—were smart enough, or diabolical enough, to lock the door before they went up to bed.
Fuck. My. Life.