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I miss the way she winked every time our eyes met across the room.
I miss the way she pressed her nose to my throat and inhaled every time we hugged. I miss the way she licked my lip at the start of our kisses.
I miss our arguments, her laugh, her stubbornness, her magic.
Our magic that we used to spin ourselves a cocoon of inspiration, lust, and love.
I’m consumed by thoughts of her and it’s ruining my life.
I haven’t been able to write, or play since I got the invitation.
I need to end this.
So, here I am.
It’ll hurt. But it won’t kill me. When this is over, I’ll be stronger.
So, I’m going to sit here and watch Elisabeth Mortimer Wolfe becomes someone else’s wife.
The sick part of me that doesn’t give a fuck what DNA or the law says will be permanently deprived of its main source of sustenance — hope.
And then I will, finally, move on.
After avoiding it since I walked in, I force myself to face forward and look at Duke Tremaine.
At the sight of him, my throat tightens, and my eyes start to burn.
He’s surveying the crowd of people gathered to watch his triumph.
He looks so fucking smug. When his eyes sweep the corner where I’m sitting, his smile tightens and something like fear flashes in his eyes. But, when I blink in surprise, his gaze has moved on and his smile is restored
I must have imagined it. Even if he could see me, why would be afraid?
He won.
And if this is happening, it’s her choice. I know from my own experience, that when your heart is broken, sometimes you end with the very last person you’d ever chose.
Except, he’s actually the very first person she chose. For good reason. She’ll get her inheritance and her way out.
I should be happy for her.
But, I’m not. I’m fucking angry and bitterness is digging its claws into my chest.
The pipe organ’s soft background noise stops abruptly and then, in the next beat, it launches into the familiar opening strains of Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major.
I turn with the rest of congregation and see a groomsman standing there with Dina on his arm.
As she passes me, her gaze sweeps the section where I’m sitting. The flash of alarm in her eyes before she moves on, surprises me, but it’s also clear that I’m visible from this vantage point. I don’t want to think about what might happen if Beth and I make eye contact.
The music stops and the doors to the church close. Everyone surges to their feet when the next song starts.
Except me.
The song that’s playing is the one I have tattooed on my arm, Sonata 17 in D Minor.
It’s not a popular wedding song, but it’s one of Beethoven’s most popular pieces. It’s possible that this is just a coincidence.
Then I hear the modification I made to the sixth and tenth stanzas. And I know it’s not.
