Page 47 of Don’t Forget Me

“Do you have them with you?” she asked.

“They’re outside.”

Lysandra pushed herself from beside me. “Let me go get them.”

Before she could leave, I grabbed her hand. “Thank you.”

Lysandra lowered her chin once before passing the threshold of the foyer and going on a search for my frames.

twenty two

EZRA

“I didn’t peg you for the kind of girl that would wait around for some guy to come rescue her,” I almost whispered, jealousy clear in my tone.

“I am not that kind of girl. How dare you say that about me?” Lysandra muttered, eyes wide. I guess she didn’t notice my angst, or she chose to ignore it. She proceeded to chew on the chocolate bar we’d been sharing, which we retrieved from the small pantry beside the wine cellar. The maroon liquid in the bottle was almost gone, courtesy of the pain in my chest after hearing about her amazing fiancé.

She went on and on about how he was a resident at the hospital, he was paid really well, and that he came from good money. A reputable lad within the Scottish community. The pinch in my chest turned into a firestorm of anger and envy. I was never the type to want what another man had. But all of that had changed, because this man was about to marry the love of my life.

You might have questioned why the hell I even asked about him, but I just wanted to be sure she was being treated right. That she was happy with him. Excuse a lad for caring.

He was able to sweep her off her feet and make her fall head over heels for him. She was supposed to fall in love with me.

Not him.

Me.

The one who had waited five damn years for her.

It was not like I deserved her anyway, not after what I did. It was obvious that the best choice for her was to stay the hell away from me. I had done nothing but hurt her like I was some sort of plague, I was a malady. My very presence repulsed her, and I saw it whenever she looked at me. I had noticed her flinches and her sadness. I was the cause of that. And I despised myself because of it.

I was beginning to think it was best to pack it in. To give this up. Let her be happy. I shouldn’t have to come into her life and ruined every plan she already had.

God, I was so selfish for having done this at all. I should’ve stayed on my side of the world and allowed her to marry him and start their own happy little family.

But I desperately wanted it to be me. I couldn’t have stopped myself from doing this. I had to know if she could give me another chance. If we could have another chance.

“I’ve never told anyone this. And this might sound a little odd, but I think that was the only time I felt like we were on the same page,” she confessed, lowering her gaze to the wine bottle in my hands. She took it, taking a swig.

I furrowed my brows. “Why do you say that?”

She shrugged with a frown. “In the beginning, it was all so different. We were best friends, you know? We’d do everything together, and it never used to be a problem. I would enjoy being around him, and I could tell he enjoyed being around me too.” She hiccuped. “But now, we barely even see each other. He tries to set up all these date nights, but I can’t bring myself to attend. I find myself feeling like I’m a ghost and he’s looking right through me. Through me but never at me.”

“Oh.”

What the hell was I supposed to say to that? I knew it wasn’t my place to overstep, but she was opening up to me. She was trusting me with her truth, and I felt flattered, but also confused.

Because if I were to be engaged to Lysandra, I would feel seen by her, and I knew I’d be able to see her too. I’d enjoy every moment I could get with her because I knew I was born to live my life by her side. To be frank, I already felt and did all those things.

“And I know this damn wedding isn’t going to plan itself, but I can’t bring myself to think about it.” Her expression shifted into something painful and profound.

“Weddings are stressful for everyone, especially for the bride,” I forced myself to croak out.

Perhaps the alcohol had gotten to her, maybe that was why she’s able to confess these secrets to me. Better to confess to a stranger than a friend, sometimes.

“No,” she cried into her hands. “No, this is different.”

I wanted to reach over, bring her into my arms, and rub her back until she was rid of any sorrow. I pictured that happening in my mind, and I knew that it would be of no use. She would only withdraw, and right then, she was an open book.