“Of course you do all those things with me, you’re my best friend,” I say, brows furrowed as I watch his entire demeanor shift in real time. This isn’t him. “Maybe this isn’t the time or place for this conversation. Can we come back to this later?”
“No,” he says, lips flat and nostrils flaring. God, he looks sexy when he’s all angry like this, but still, he’s in the friend zone and that’s exactly where I want him to be. I can’t imagine kissing him anyway—I imagine it’d be akin to kissing a brother or cousin. Weird. Wrong. Unnatural. “I’ve been crazy about you from the moment we met.”
“I know.”
“We have so much in common,” he says. “We fit perfectly. We’ve never had a fight or a disagreement. We love all the same things. We could be so happy together.”
“It’s hard to explain…”
“Try me.”
I swallow a deep breath and stare into my lap at the cloth napkin I’m wringing the life out of.
“I’m still in love with someone,” I say.
Seth exhales, jaw clenched.
“And until I can stop comparing every single man I meet to him,” I continue, “I have no business being with someone else.”
“So that’s it?” he asks, tone colored in disgust. “You’re not even going to try?”
“Believe me, I’ve been trying,” I insist.
“Try harder.”
“It’s not that easy. And last weekend? In New York? I ran into him for the first time since we ended things.”
He shakes his head, chuffing. “Of course that’s where you ran off to. Makes perfect fucking sense.”
“It’s complicated,” I say. “There’s a lot of unfinished business between us.”
Seth rolls his eyes.
“But he hates me,” I add. “And we’re never going to be together. So there’s that.”
“Must be rough,” he says, though I sense some sarcasm there. “Pining after someone for months and months who doesn’t look at you half the way you look at them.”
My chest tightens. I want Rhett. Seth wants me. Nobody’s happy.
“I wish it were different,” I say, placing my hand on his.
He jerks it away, grabbing my champagne and tossing it back in one swallow. “Yep.”
Pushing himself up, he straightens his tie and tugs on his lapels.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Home,” he says, eyes scanning the room for the nearest exit.
“Because I won’t date you?” My face pinches. He’s got to be kidding me right now. “Seth, come on. Don’t do this.”
“I can’t be around you anymore. Not if it’s for nothing,” he says. “Goodbye, Ayla. I hope you and your ... delusional fantasies about getting back with some ex-boyfriend are very happy together.”
There’s a package lying against my front door Monday afternoon. The return address is the Cutler and Bagby headquarters in Seattle, and I know exactly what it is.
I tear into the packaging, pulling out my proof of Cold Hearted, the spin off of my first book.
It’s going to print soon, and then the world will get to read the story of “Reed” and “Ariana.” It’s a love story born through tragedy, only these two have the happily ever after Rhett and I will never know.
This is the story of us—until about the halfway mark. In this version, Reed forgives Ariana. He understands that she loved him so much, she didn’t want to hurt him. He lets her in. He loves her back, twice as hard as before, and they live happily ever after. It isn’t that simple, of course, but that’s the gist of it.
I started and stopped this story a half a dozen times, starting from scratch every time. I never intended for this story to be so rooted in my own reality, but somehow it came back to that every time.
Maybe it was my way of getting the closure I so badly needed.
All I know is that I so badly wanted to know what would’ve happened if only ... so I had to draw my own conclusions, even if they were purely fictional.
I grip the book, spread out on the couch, and crack the spine. Starting with page one, I lick my index finger and flip through each page; past the copyright page and the table of contents and the epigraph and then stopping at the dedication.
* * *
For Rhett. Always. –A
* * *
I suppose it’s silly to dedicate a book to someone who’ll never lay eyes on it, but it didn’t seem right dedicating it to anyone else.
This book exists because of him.
I hit chapter one next, which begins the day we met. I’ve changed the details, of course, and I’ve adjusted a bit of the dialogue, but these characters are us and this scene is the reincarnation of one of the most profound moments of my life.
It feels like going home.
And it makes my chest hurt.
My eyes water and the words blur, but I keep reading.
And I know when I get to the happily ever after, when Reed and Ariana say “I do,” my heart is going to break all over again.
Thirty-Nine
Rhett
* * *
“That girl won’t stop staring at you,” one of my teammates says, elbowing me. We’re in some bar in some city ... Atlanta, I think. I’m not sure. We’ve been on the road for two weeks straight, and all the days and nights and cities are blurring together.
“I see that.” I take a drink of my beer and stare back at her but only because she looks like Ayla. I don’t want to fuck that girl. I don’t want to fuck any girls. Except Ayla.
Two weeks ago, I let her have it—twice—thinking if I just had one more fix, I could finally get her out of my system, but my brilliant plan backfired.
I want her just as much if not more than ever before. Thoughts of her invade every waking moment of my life, and as if that’s not enough, I’ve been dreaming about her almost every night.
The girl brushes the dark waves from her shoulder and climbs off her bar stool, sauntering in my direction.
She’s wasting her time.
“Hey, stranger,” she says, slipping her hand on my shoulder. “What are we drinking tonight?”
I don’t answer because her question is asinine. Clearly I’m drinking a beer.
“Have a name?” she asks.
Another stupid question. Of course I have a name.
“You’re really terrible at this,” I tell her, taking another drink and scanning the bar. There’s an old black and white picture of the Rat Pack on the wall. I’ve probably seen that photo a hundred times, and it’s still far more interesting than this conversation.
“You’re not giving me much to work with,” she says, her smile fading and her tone shifting. She looks like Ayla even more when she frowns. “I’m trying here.”
I say nothing.
“You’ve been staring at me all night,” she says. “How is that not an invitation to come and introduce myself?”
“You look like someone I know,” I say.