In six months, Gwen Johnston turns thirty, and when she does, she vows she'll have her life together. She'll no longer be jumping from one job to another, from one relationship to the next. A new, more mature, Gwen will have emerged. She's giving he...
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Blake and I get to the cottage a few minutes before Izzy and Jeremy, who stopped at the convenience store down the road for snacks. While I anticipated two bedrooms and a pull-out couch, I'm not loving how old the furniture looks. Was it this outdated online? If there's one thing I've learned on this trip, it's that dating profiles aren't the only things that get a glow-up on the internet.
On the bottom floor is an open kitchen and living room with a wooden rectangular table in the transitional area. There should be a bedroom and bathroom down here, and upon opening some doors, that's exactly what I find. The much older furniture is still the trend, but everything looks clean. Up the winding metal staircase to the left should be a second bedroom and another bathroom, and I go up the narrow staircase to double check. Thankfully, the big details about the cottage seem spot on.
"I'll take the couch," I say on the way back down the stairs.
"No," Blake says, dropping his suitcase beside it. "I'll sleep out here."
"No, absolutely not. My friends. My inconvenience. Besides, Izzy and I will likely stay up until all hours catching up on our gossip." It's more likely that I'll hear Izzy and Jeremy having very loud sex. She said he's amazing in bed, which made me extra envious because I haven't had anyone in my bed, amazing or otherwise, in months.
If only there'd been a way to make Blake my ideal travel companion and my fuck buddy. There's no plausible way he'd have let that happen. Any hint of anything sexual and he noped out.
Despite how far we've come, he's too conscious of the risks, and at first, I didn't want to sacrifice the good thing we had going either. My caution, however, is starting to flap in the wind. Might be gone soon. I'm almost desperate to know what things would be, could be, like between us if we crossed the line. Disaster is written all over it, but I care less and less every day we get closer to parting ways.
"You text or talk to her every day. How much more could you possibly have to say to her?"
"Have we met?" I gesture between us. "I have no problems coming up with things to talk about."
"Are you sure about sleeping out here?" He searches my face. "We could just—"
"Ahh," Izzy says, throwing open the door. "I got that chocolate bar you've been raving about." She tosses one in my direction. "I didn't know what you liked, Blake. We bought all the candy and chocolate we've never heard of before. What sort of thing does a Canadian prefer?"
"Peanut M&Ms," I say. "That's his favorite."
Izzy peers into the bag. "Nope. Nothing like that in here. We have those at home." On the kitchen table, she upends the convenience store bag and an array of candy, chocolate, and personal sized bags of chips tumble out.
I forgot how much Izzy loves to go to extremes when she's on vacation. Her version of "local food" is always of the junk food variety. And while I might have started there on my trip, now Blake and I scour each place we stop, each city we're in for the best local cuisine. We've become foodies, and I don't have the heart to tell Izzy that Mr. Big bars are so six weeks ago.
