“Sure.”
“—which we probably won’t, since it’s a big resort—”
“Naturally.”
“—although, I did run into them, like, an obscenely large number of times over the past forty-six hours, so—”
“Sybil?”
“Hmm?” I stop rambling and look up, suddenly realizing how close we are. Seb is now leaning forward on the doorframe, one hand gripping the molding along the top of the door, the other holding the strap of the duffel slung across his shoulder. Seb is not an especially tall man—he’s probably only got a few inches on me—but there’s something about the way he’s standing now that makes him seem large. Masculine. I can smell his cologne, the same spicy one he used to wear.
Memories of a hundred moments just like this cloud my mind. Moments where we said we wouldn’t but did anyway. Moments where we acted without thinking. Moments that, in the end, were only ever moments.
“I would be honored to play your fake-platonic-hand-holding boyfriend for the next two days,” Seb says, drawing my attention back to the present.
“Thank you.”
“Do you want to meet up later for brunch?”
Despite having already had a pancake breakfast with Jamie, I know I’ll probably be hungry again later. Jamie used to call me a hobbit, given my affection for “second breakfast.” “That’d be great,” I tell Seb. “Meet in the lobby around ten?”
Seb nods, then pushes off the door.
“And you let me know if you change your mind about the servicing. We did always used to say, ‘if you’re single and I’m single, then—’”
“Goodbye, Sebastian.”
He gives me a wink and heads down the hall to the elevator. But halfway there, he stops. Turns around.
“Forget something?” I call to him.
He walks halfway back down the hallway so we can speak at a normal volume and not risk waking anyone else on this floor. “Just—explain it to me one more time.”
I let out a long groan and lean my head back against the wall. “Yes, okay—I panicked and made up a bald-faced lie about dating a fish scientist, are you happy?”
He smiles, but for once, it doesn’t quite seem to reach his eyes. “Not that. What I can’t understand is… why?” His voice is low now. I have to strain to hear him.
“Why what?”
“I mean, you left him at the altar, right?” Seb asks. “Shouldn’thebe the one trying to save face aroundyou? What are you trying to prove, Sybil?”
SEB’S WORDS HAUNT MEwhile I try to bang out a few work emails. After about forty minutes, I push away from my laptop and head into the bathroom to shower.
While I wait for the water to heat up, I survey my reflection in the driftwood-framed mirror. A messy pale blond topknot. I look chaotic, but nowhere near as bad as I looked running down the aisle last year. And I knowexactlyhow awful I looked that day, thanks to some preteen cousin of Jamie’s who had the audacity to film the whole thing and post it online. Emma tried to shield me, blocking terms like #runawaybride from my feed, but of course, the algorithm came for me anyway. That summerafter the failed wedding, I used to lie in bed and watch the clip over and over, stuck in a self-pity doom spiral.
I wonder if Seb saw the video too. If that’s why he believesI’mthe one who left Jamie—even though that’s not exactly what happened—I can see why Seb would think that. The video doesn’t capture the heartbreaking words exchanged in harsh whispers under the flower arch. Just the moment where I took off down the aisle. Classic Sybil, doing a runner. Just like I’d broken my engagement to Seb two years prior.
Is that why I didn’t correct him? Because on some level, it’s easier to live with the story that I’m just not built for commitment instead of admitting that I’d runbackto Jamie, only for him to call things off?
And now, after my talk with Jamie at the tiki bar, the story has a whole new layer to it. I’m still struggling to wrap my mind around the bittersweet reality—that Jamie hadn’t rejected me because I’d disappointed him, but had set me free because he’d thought that was what I really wanted. It feels like we are finally starting to understand each other, and a part of me wants to throw caution to the wind, confess everything, and see if we can find a way forward. But I can’t tell if that is just another wild Sybil instinct, destined to leave me hurt all over again. It’s a tangled mess, and I’m not sure how to untangle it.
But I suppose I can start by untangling my hair.
The shower has filled the bathroom with steam, and I step inside the glass stall, letting the hot water wash away the remnants of sweat from this morning’s workout and hoping it takes my anxiety down the drain with it.
I toss my still-wet hair with the tiniest bit of mousse so it will airdry looking beachy and effortless, then throw on anemerald-green one-piece with a low back and a pair of white linen pants. When I get to the lobby, I don’t see any sign of Seb, so I make my way over to the concierge desk where Ash is wrapping up with another guest.
“Good morning, Sybil,” she says once she’s free.
