It’s a dream come true…
A dream, shadowed by the fallout of my broken relationship.
I peer down at my empty ring finger, trying not to imagine the look on Alex’s face when I placed the diamond in his hand. Or the way he begged for me to stay, to give him one more chance, when I returned to the condo to pack up my things. Or the text messages that followed.
Grinding my teeth together, I thumb through the last string of messages between us.
Alex:Annalise. Please. I’m sorry for the things I said. I was mad. Totally blindsided.
Alex:Hey, call me. I just want to talk.
Alex:I’m willing to forgive you. We both fucked up. Just text me back.
Alex:Why can’t you pick up the phone and call me? I deserve that much. You cheated on me. Fuck.
Alex:I’m sorry. I love you.
Alex:I can’t do this without you. Please come back to me.
Days later, I finally returned his texts.
Me:It’s over.
Me:Go to Thailand. Swim in the lagoons. Feed the monkeys. Eat that weird scorpion-on-a-stick thing you always talked about. Do all the things we said we would.
Me:But not for me. For you.
Me:Please don’t contact me again.
He hasn’t.
I stare at one of the messages as a knot tightens in my throat.
You cheated on me.
“Annalise!”
My head snaps up. Hauling my legs over the side of the bed, I glance in the mirror, doing a double take. Dear God. My roots are greasy, my skin pastier than week-old mashed potatoes, and my eyes tell stories of sleepless nights and soul-deep guilt.
When I look down, I notice I’m not even wearing pants.
Mortified, I do a one-legged hop into a pair of yesterday’s leggings, douse my head in a cloud of dry shampoo, and spritz perfume on every exposed inch of my skin.
Then I race down the stairs and out the front door, painting on a smile. All the guys, plus Kenna, are gathered around the van, now officially christened.
Slapped on the side in high-gloss vinyl is our logo:Honey Moons, scrawled in blocky weathered script like it’s been scratched onto the side of a bathroom stall at midnight. The doubleO’s are crescent moons, one waxing, one waning, both slivered sharp like fangs.
My smile grows, turning real.
Chase leans back against the rear, one hand in his pocket as he scrolls through his phone. He doesn’t look up when I approach, and I don’t expect him to. I’ve been distant over the past two weeks, keeping him at arm’s length. Our discussions have been strictly music-related as we focus on the tour, the songs, and the whirlwind journey ahead.
The truth is, I can hardly look at him.
Because, despite everything, Alex’s words echo, stubborn and sharp.
You’ll break him too.
The bruise on my wrist has faded, but inside I’m still black-and-blue. It doesn’t matter that I left. Doesn’t matter that I knew I had to, knew it was right. Because another part of me keeps whispering that he wasn’t wrong. That I ruined him.
