Wild Temptation (Wild, #1)(58)

“Um, you watch too much TV, Mom.” I cough to disguise my laugh. “No, he’s not a secret mass murderer or something. He’s just… Well, Tyler. Besides, it’s only one date.”

“Only one date? That in itself—”

“Is dangerous, I know. I have a handle on my crap now, okay? I’m not a kid anymore. I’m twenty-five,” I huff. “Like I said, it’s only one date. Plus, it’s to a company party and I can’t turn up there without a date. How silly would I look?”

Silence lingers for a long moment. “I suppose. I do worry about you though, darling. That last man you were seeing wasn’t suitable at all. Perhaps your judgment is skewed. Maybe you should come home this weekend instead.”

I take a deep breath. I understand her worry—I do. I understand her desire to tie me up in bubble wrap and keep me safe. Since they moved farther in-state, her mama bear instincts have gone fucking crazy.

“Momma, listen to me. Tyler is a good guy. I can cope with my issues.” The word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, because really, my addictive personality isn’t an issue in itself. “A year of therapy teaching me to recognize my triggers has me pretty freakin’ sorted out.”

And what bullshit therapy it was. I was forced into it. After they had done a psychiatric exam, they’d determined what my issue was—what my addiction was, is. My doctors decided that I needed to learn my triggers. My weak points. My soft spots.

Of course it was next to impossible, at first. It took me three months to accept that, no, overdosing on pills wasn’t a normal way to cope with the end of a relationship. It took a further month to understand that the way I’d thought I’d loved Warren, my high school boyfriend, hadn’t been love at all.

It had been obsession. An unrelenting obsession. And when he’d gotten the letter saying that he’d been accepted to Miami and wanted to break off our relationship, it had come to a head.

I see it now. Looking back, I see the way it developed. Classes together. Casual meetings with friends. Dates. Stolen kisses between classes. Late-night phone calls and holding hands in the classes we did share.

Like all high school relationships, we were besotted—but with lust. It wasn’t love. Love is healthy. Love enlightens you and sets your whole freakin’ world on fire. What I had with Warren was pure lust. The only thing he set on fire was my clit. And even then, he did it badly.

It’s the same with Tyler. Yes, my body comes to life whenever he’s around. Yes, all I want to do is touch him and hear him speak and seduce him. But that doesn’t mean I’m out of control. It doesn’t mean I can’t control it.

My heart says that Tyler could be my Disney prince. My Prince Charming, my Kristoff, my Flynn Ryder. My mind says to tread carefully like Anna and Rapunzel did. To take it every second at a time. To never stop believing in what you dream of.

For Anna, it was to have her best friend back, her sister. For Rapunzel, it was to see the lanterns.

For me, it’s the chance to love freely.

They achieved their dreams. I don’t see why, one day, I can’t do the same thing.

“Okay,” Mom says down the phone. “Just be careful, darling. And call me on Sunday, okay?”

I nod despite the fact that she can’t see me. “Sunday. Bye, Mom.”

I hang up after her goodbye and put my phone facedown on my coffee table. In the silence of my apartment, my emotions swirl the same way they always do when I have to talk about the past. Somehow, when it’s in my mind, it doesn’t seem as loud. It doesn’t seem as real.

Saying things out loud solidifies them—makes them more than a fleeting thought you can bat away. And I like batting. I like fleeting. I don’t like lingering words.

I glance at the time on my phone and sigh. Time to go out and be a good little bridesmaid. Today’s jobs: find Dayton some new shoes since she’s changed her mind and find my shoes. Shoe shopping, I can cope with. In fact, shoe shopping is exactly what I need.

I leave Angus staring out the window in his spot on the windowsill and get into my car. I turn the music up as I drive farther downtown in a vain attempt to brighten my mood. Music is good.

I park outside Arabella’s store, just behind Dayton’s car, and get out. She joins me on the sidewalk and locks her car.

“I’m confused. Why are we at Arabella’s and not a bridal store?”

“Because they’re all the fucking same at the bridal stores. It’s honestly like looking at one pair of shoes with minor adjustments—an extra crystal here, a bow there, a ruche under there. Now, Arabella’s,” she says, pushing open the door and glancing over her shoulder at me, “has real shoes.”