As in the contemporary romance author Ashton Ashley that is published by Prewitt Publishing. The name I switched to make my male main character’s name. Who is an author. And whose family is in the publishing business.
“Oh, God.” I whisper His name in a disoriented plea as I piece together what’s happening in real life and unravel the fictional world I created.
One that might not have been so fictional after all.
My head is spinning like the tilt-a-whirl at the town fair, and I’m about to stand and reschedule with Bryan when he walks through the door, wearing his typical khaki pants and a tucked-in flannel shirt.
“Hi,” he says in that grating, monotone voice of his. I’m goingto have to practice an immense amount of patience with him tonight, but I will find out what happened on his end. Because whatever it was might lead me to whatever truly went down in Bora Bora.
“Hey, Bryan. Thanks for inviting me out tonight.”
He sits down across from me, flagging down the waiter.
Once we’ve both ordered, our sweet teas are brought to us, and we’ve entered into idle chatter about his work and the hot summer weather, I steer the conversation to the topic at hand. “So, Bryan, I’d love to know what truly happened last year. All I know is that you left me at the altar. I deleted all traces of you from my phone and social media, apparently.”
Bryan closes his eyes and takes a breath, his bushy eyebrows knitting in the center as a dimple forms there. “I wasn’t ready to get married. I freaked out on the day of our wedding, and I bolted. I sent you this text message.” He holds out his phone to me, and I read the text.
Me:Esme, I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I’m not ready. Go to Bora Bora without me and enjoy yourself. I’m sorry. - Bryan
I stare at the date, which is exactly one year from today. It would have been our anniversary. The now-familiar sense of unsettlement undulates around me. It happens more often than I’d like, the feeling that I’ve somehow jumped through time. There are marks of my presence in years gone by, but I have no recollection of them. No emotional attachment to the stories told to me about my life.
“So you left me at the altar because you were scared,” I reiterate. The idea he did such a thing frustrates me, but of course, I don’t feel the pain, hurt, and betrayal I’m sure I should be experiencing.
“And though I’m a year late, I want to tell you I’m sorry in person, and I’d like to ask for your forgiveness. I was immature and selfish. There are things…” He trails off as if he’s contemplating telling me something. And his tone is different. He sounds regretful. With a tinge of hope.
“I forgive you.” The words flow easily. It’s not like I am harboring hate for his actions. And I’m glad to know his reasoning, no matter how ridiculous it sounds to me. He had six months of engagement where he could have left, but it is what it is. “Did I ever respond to your text?”
The waiter delivers our food as Bryan fidgets with the sleeves of his shirt. How is he wearing long sleeves in June? This guy is odd to me; what was the other version of me thinking, wanting to commit my life to him?
But then I remember I think I found the answer to that question I often wondered about. I was settling because my expectations were too high.
“You did send one more text. The day before you were supposed to come home.”
“Can I see it?” I ask, moving to sit on the edge of my seat.
Bryan shifts his eyes from me to his burger and then finally to his phone lying face down on the table. “I deleted it.”
“What?” My tone is loud, causing other diners to glance in our direction. I wave a hand, forcing a smile to let the onlookers know everything is fine. “I’m sorry. Do you remember what I said?”
Bryan swallows, clearly uncomfortable. I’m about to demand an answer when he finally speaks up, his voice darkening, “You said something about how you were thankful that I left you at the altar and that you’d found the love of your life because of it.”
My heart races against my rib cage, preparing to beat right out of my chest. My palms are sweaty as I slap my hands down onthe table and rise from my seat. “Did I say who? Did I send any pictures?”
Bryan shakes his head, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest. “No. That was the last time I’d heard from you before your parents found out that you were in the hospital in a coma from a jet ski accident.”
I want to scream, but I clench my teeth to hold it in.
Noah must be real.
And he—he somehow stole my heart.
No wonder I feel a connection with Ashton.
He’s the last person I was with, and now, I need to know everything. I need to know who that man is to me. He must remember. He found me. He—
I start hyperventilating, and the overwhelming scent of greasy burgers stirs my stomach.
“I’ve got to go, Bryan. I’m sorry.” I stand all the way and push my chair in. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”
