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That was it. That was the answer. He just wasn't that into me. If he was, he'd find the damn time to call me or text me. Like he used to.
God, I didn't even know what to do. I was pissed. I was angry. I was beyond depressed. I was everything.
A small part of me wondered again if he was ill or sick or injured.
But that Sunday afternoon, one week and a day since he'd forgotten our phone date—or "fallen asleep early" as he'd said—I received confirmation that everything I'd dreaded, everything I'd feared, had actually come true.
Absentmindedly, I put away some laundry, killing time before going over to Josh's for the game, and I received a text from my friend in New York, my book buddy Kirsten. She immediately called me, but I didn't answer, instead falling back on my bed, stunned by the picture on my phone, the photo she had just sent me.
Devon, dressed in my favorite suit, had his hand in Violet's hair, his face inches from hers, their gazes locked together like they were seconds away from kissing.
It was like a still from some romantic movie. But it was real. It was fucking real.
My phone rang again. And again. Calls from Kirsten. But I declined each call.
Another text came through from her. "I'm so sorry. I wanted you to know what I just saw. I'm sooooo sorry."
I didn't answer. Just sat there. Numb. Shocked. Disbelief.
I'd known all along this would happen.
"I told him off," she wrote. "He's going to call you. I told him he better fucking call you."
He was going to call me? To what? Confess something? Break up with me? Dump his fucking fiancée?
Seconds later, my phone rang again. And my God, it was Devon. Hadn't heard from the guy in a week. But here he was, calling me immediately after getting caught nearly kissing the goddamn wedding planner.
Fuck him. I was done.
I didn't even debate whether or not to pick up. Tapping the green button, I held the phone to my ear, not saying anything, barely able to hear over the pounding of my broken heart.
"Jess?"
That did it. "Don't fucking call me that."
"Oh, God. It's not what you think it is. That photo."
"Oh, yeah? Then what exactly is it?"
I felt his sigh from across the country. "It—it—"
"Mm-hmm. That's what I thought. Just tell me this. Have you fucked her?"
He was silent. And that was my answer. What the hell was happening in my life? My fiancé had actually screwed our wedding planner.
Anger surged through every pore, every cell in my body. How fucking dare he.
"We're done," I said. "It's over."
"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I don't know. I'm just so confused."
I could practically see him right now, running his hand through his hair, the look in his dark eyes.
"Well, let me unconfuse things for you, okay? We're over. No longer engaged. No longer anything to each other. Okay?"
He didn't say anything, and I could hear his uneven breathing through the phone.
I had one last thing to say. "You don't fuck the wedding planner. Do you hear me, Devon? You don't fuck the wedding planner."
