Until it wasn’t.
Until he was running into me through my town’s coffee shop’s door with piqued interest in my debut novel.
What secrets are my family harboring?
Ashton stands behind his chair, waiting with bated breath for permission to tell me everything. For me to say something. To prove I know him.
“It’s you.” My voice is barely a whisper.
He nods as he sits, tugging at his shorts. He looks at old wooden walls decorated with lures, fishing poles, and mounted fish. Then he looks down at his folded hands resting on the table.And, finally, he settles on me. Taking a deep breath, he leans forward on the table and folds his hands. “We have much to discuss today, Esme.”
His formal tone surprises me, but what shocks me even more is the desperation he’s attempting to hide. It's in the slight quiver of my name on his lips, in his whitened knuckles as he squeezes his hands. It's in his run-through curls that were tamed the last time I saw him. It's in the heaviness of his slightly swollen eyes that signal a night as rough as the one I had.
I’m silent as I wait for him to start discussing whatever it is we must. Realizing I’m not going to respond, he continues, “My name is Nikhil Ashton Prewitt, and I really don’t know how to tell you this.” Ashton leans back, running a large hand through his messy curls.
The round table presses into my stomach as I take a turn leaning in, anxious for him to say what I know he’s going to say. “Do we know each other? From my past? From Bora Bora? Are you…” I hesitate. I can’t believe I’m going to ask this.Never in a thousand lifetimes…“Are you the man from my novel? Noah?”
I hate the anxiousness in my voice. It’s hazardous. Pleading. Needing. Which completely matches this man’s energy in this moment.
When Ashton shakes his head emphatically, my heart stops as confusion strangles me, and I question with force, “Then who are you? And what is this about?”
His downcast gaze lifts, and when his eyes meet mine, there is indescribable pain etched in the golden flecks. “I told you. My name is Ashton, and I am a literary agent. I do want to represent you, but there’s more.”
I’m losing my patience, and if I’m not careful, my heart may very well explode right here and now. From fear. From anxiety. From confusion. “Then tell me!”
“Promise me, Esme, not to tell anyone.” Ashton stares intently at me from across the small square table, pleas painting his hazel eyes. “This is not public knowledge.”
I only pause a breath before I blurt, “I promise.”Whatever it is, I promise. Just tell me the freaking truth. Somebody, please! I feel crazy.
Ashton grimaces as a sheen of sweat coats his face. He’s not entirely sold on my promise, but I see the moment he decides to trust me. On a long exhale, he says, “I believe you’re the woman my brother was writing in his—our—novel. One that I haven’t had the strength to finish or publish. He’s the Ashley in Ashton Ashley.” Ashton swallows. “Was.”
A swell of justification blooms within me. I knew it! Ashton is Ashton Ashley, and he’s the—
Wait.
Brother?
Was?
I feel like that ridiculous meme where all the mathematical equations float around a person’s head. What’s he getting at? What does he mean by— “Was?” The blood drains from my body.
“He’s no longer writing. No longer doing much of anything.”
The jet ski accident…
“What are you getting at, Ashton?” A numb darkness scrapes my throat as I swallow. I fight to reach into the black hole in my head, but the strain only makes me dizzy. I’m connected to this somehow, but I can’t remember and I’m agitated. I stand, placing my hands on the table for support, and spout, “Did I kill someone? Was I involved in your brother’s death in Bora Bora? Is that how we have this weird connection? Did I kill your brother and then use your looks in a novel? That’s sick. I’m sick. Oh, my gosh. Am I an accidental murderer? Oh, God. Ashton, I—”
“What? No!” Ashton interrupts my anxious spewing, standing and waving his hands to motion me to stop that train of thought. Sweat drops form on my face as he continues. “Noah’s not dead. He’s just… missing.”
Noah.
The world stops spinning at the mention of his name, and I plop down into my chair, mentally and emotionally spent. “Noah is…real?”
“Very real.” The corner’s of Ashton’s eyes wrinkle as he gives me a soft, sad smile. “He’s my identical twin, and I think that necklace you're wearing belongs to him.”
Hi, sweetheart,Noah appears in my head again after a night of complete silence from him. It’s strange hearing my character when I now know that he’s real. Out in the world. Existing in this very moment.
My hand flies to hold the silver cross. As my brain computes, firing off at all cylinders and failing to find a foundation of thought, Ashton pulls his phone from his pocket and sits down. Before long, he’s showing me a picture of him times two. The two men in the picture are mirrors of one another. Ashton is only identifiable by the half-sleeve tattoo on his right arm while the other man—Noah—has a full sleeve on his left arm. Both wear cross necklaces.
