Beep. Beep. Beep.
The alarm clock shatters the dream like glass.
I bolt upright, chest heaving, sweat at my collarbone. Disoriented. Empty. Still aching for him. Still reeling from everything I now know.
I reach for my phone, then stop. What now?
A breakfast date?
Suddenly, I’m terrified at the prospect.
A whole day of lies ahead. Photos. Walking down the damned aisle. Seated together at the wedding party table. Dinner. Toasts. Drinks.
I close my eyes again.
I want Esme.
I want the dream back.
I want answers to questions I’m not sure I’m brave enough to ask. And then a text alert.
It’s him.
Good morning.
I don’t respond. I suddenly have no idea how to interact with him.
I was able to get a 9:00 a.m. reservation at a French cafe about 10 minutes from here.
A French Cafe. My heart aches to go to a French Cafe with this man. But my fingers run interference.
So sorry. I woke up not feeling great.
Then:
Maybe the cold risotto.
Too scared to go and too scared not to, I write:
Could I get a raincheck?
Three bouncing dots. Disappear. Reappear. Disappear. Reappear.
Of course. Hope you feel better. See you at the photo shoot.
Then, before I can respond, the three bouncing dots appear again.
Disappear.
Reappear.
Then:
Repose-toi bien. Je pense à toi.
I stare at the words. “Rest well. I’m thinking of you.” The ache in my chest deepens, and I can’t help myself. I tap the heart emoji, hit send. And second-guess the choice immediately.
The 11:30 stylist appointment isn’t just hair and makeup.
