Ten out of ten do not recommend starring in a viral video where you jilt your groom right before your vows after finding out there’s a massive list of shitty things he did to a lot of people you love and that all of your friends and family kept from you for years.
Twenty out of ten don’t recommendknowingthat he did shitty things—though not the shittiest of the shitty things that came out just before I walked down the aisle—and convincing yourself you could still walk down that aisle and fix him if you just loved him enough.
And a billion out of ten don’t recommend living in shame, guilt, and regret for knowing what your choices have done to the people you love.
That’s the one I’ll have to face when I get home.
I count to five hundred, assuming that’ll be enough time for the man on my porch to be long gone, and then I flip the lock and slowly slide open the door again.
I click on my flashlight app on my phone.
And I whimper.
Whyis he still there?
“Wha-hm?” a froggy, sleepy, Jonas-Rutherford-sounding voice says. “Who’s there? Where’s there?”
I hover in the doorway. “I think you’re lost. This isn’t your house.”
“Not my—where am I?” He pushes to sitting, groaning softly and grabbing his head. The white wicker egg swing just to my right sways lightly in the breeze, looking like a ghost. He fumbles for something in his pocket.
His phone.
He hits a button, the flashlight blinks on, and I wince and shield my face as he aims it at me.
“Oh. Sorry.” His voice is still froggy, but he seems to be more aware. “I thought this was—crap. This isn’t my bungalow.”
“It is not,” I confirm.
“Are we in Fiji?”
“Yes.”
“Are you a reporter?”
“No.”
There’s a beat of silence like he’s weighing if he can believe me.
Ironic, considering I’m not sure I trust him. Nor do I think I want to if rumors about why he got divorced are true.
“Is the island having an earthquake?” he asks.
“No.”
“It’s not spinning?”
“No.”
“Am I spinning?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely positive.”
“Where’s my place?”
