“Esme, wait!”
I spin on my heel. He’s on his feet with one hand reaching out to me, a hairbrained look in his eyes. It frightens me a little, if I’m being honest. “Give me another chance, please? I promise not to repeat my previous mistake, and I will be more romantic for you. More unplanned date nights, I promise. Let me show you who I really am.”
Did I hear that correctly?
I told him he wasn’t romantic enough? Planned date nights like Ryan in my novel? My head spins, reality and fiction blurring.
Was I the cause of him running away from me?
A small part of me wonders if it would be wrong to say no. If I should give him another chance. If he will be upset if I say no.
But then I remember Ashton’s—Noah’s?—words. I owe Bryan nothing. Regardless of what I demanded of him, to use Lane’swords, he didn’t have the decency to call off the wedding until the day of.
I can’t stop the miffed laugh. “No, Bryan. Just… No.”
He clenches his fists, his eyes becoming blaring red alarms to run. A hazy image of Bryan grabbing my forearm too tightly as I tried to run resurfaces, but I don’t give the potential memory another thought.
I bolt. As I quickly walk out of the restaurant, balmy summer heat wraps around me like a blanket. I race to my truck, and once I’m inside with the door firmly shut, I scream.
I beat my hands against the steering wheel and shout at God for answers while salty tears create rivulets down my cheeks, soaking my yellow T-shirt. My parents knew. They knew I met a man in Bora Bora, and they kept this from me. From him.
And what was with that memory of Bryan? Was I—?
I gulp, knowing it’s no use to try and remember whateverthatwas. I don’t want answers to that.
I want answers surrounding Prewitt Publishing and Ashton and Bora Bora.
A knock at my window yanks me from my fit. Crazy Colt waves and motions for me to roll down my window. Knowing I won’t get the old man to leave me alone until I comply, I set to work manually lowering the driver’s side window. I work to keep my voice even. “What do you need, Colt?”
“I don’t need nothin’, but yer might.” He offers me his flask through the window. I huff in disbelief before rejecting it. I smell the moonshine on his breath. Maybe I should take it to make sure he doesn’t consume anymore tonight.
“No, thanks, Colt. I don’t drink while I’m upset.” I wipe at the steady flow of tears still pouring from my eyes.
“Always helps me with the pain,” he says in a forlorn voice.
It piques my interest, and I shake the fog in my head away. “What causes you pain?”
Colt’s blue eyes crinkle in the corners as he looks up at the night sky. “Losin’ yer other half, Esme. Issa pain no human escapes from.” Before I have a chance to respond, he throws back the contents in his flask and staggers off. I make a mental note to text Sheriff Hodges when I’m home.
God, protect him,I ask, even as my tears pick up once more. Poor Colt. We all knew he was sad when Gigi died five years ago, but he’s never moved on. Judging by what he told me tonight, I don’t think he intends to move on. My heart hurts for him, and it hurts for me. It hurts for all the confusing, aching loves that have existed and will exist in this messed up, fallen world.
Hey, sweetheart. It’s going to be okay. I’m here.Noah gently caresses the neural pathways in my brain.
“Shut up!’ I scream. “No you’re not! You’re fake! Ashton is real!” Silence follows.
Pulling up Ashton’s picture from Prewitt Publishing’s website, I cry harder. He looks as I pictured Noah in my story. All this time, I’ve been writing about him. About us. Hiking on Bora Bora. Jet skiing. Swimming. Painting. And so many kisses and conversations lasting early into the morning.
No wonder he wants to represent me, an insignificant, unknown author.
I mean something to that man, and I want to know exactly what it is.
I want to remember. The real. Untethered from fiction inside of my brain.
My hands shake as I type a message to Ashton. Before I can think better of it, I press send.
Me:Can we meet somewhere a little more private tomorrow? Maybe High River Catfish House in Jackson?
I want to be outside the prying eyes and listening ears of Whitney for this conversation.
