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“Hi,” she says back to them as she comes to stand next to me. “Are you having a good time?” she asks, playing the host, but I can hear the act she’s putting on. I’ve paid way more attention to this girl than I should have over the last year, and I hate that I can pick apart the different inflections in her voice. I also hate how lovely she looks in this orange dress.
“Oh, yes,” Rosie says. “This wedding has been perfect, and it’s so pretty here. We can see why y’all love this little town.”
This little town. I’d like to say it was my town first and she invaded it, but that’s not necessarily true. I’m not sure when her parents bought that house, and I’m waiting for that feeling to pass where it’s like I can’t have one without the other. Right now, I don’t feel like I have this little town. It feels like a caution zone because I never know if I’m going to run into her or not, and I really don’t want to. That’s another reason why I’ve stayed in my house so much. It’s my sanctuary.
“We really do. There’s something about this place that keeps calling to all of us, and we keep finding ourselves here. I’d like to take the credit and say this is all my doing—after all, I’ve been coming here my whole life with my family—but Ash and Clay were here too, we just didn’t know it. I guess that’s kismet for them, right?”She smiles.
“Wow. Fate must have had a hand in something here, because clearly the two of them were bound to meet.”
All four of us turn to look at Ash and Avery, who are dancing. The song isn’t a slow one, but they are swaying together, laughing and wrapped so tightly in their own bubble you can’t help but be happy for them.
“Her dress just turned out beautifully. I don’t know how you always end up surprising me, but you do,” Emma tells her, and Rosie blushes.
“Thank you, although I can’t really take the credit for this one. She had the basic idea of what she wanted, and I just helped bring it to life.”
“Well, it’s still stunning,” she tells her as she looks from the two of them to me. There’s a long heavy pause, and dread slowly fills the space between my ribs in anticipation of what she’s about to say next. “I am sorry to interrupt, but I need to steal Clay.” Emma’s hand wraps around my arm and a jolt of electricity shoots straight down through my fingers. “Can I speak with you for a moment?”
Really? She wants to speak to me now? I don’t answer her. I don’t want to be rude, so I just stare down at her face. She interprets my question and answers it.
“Because,” she replies through clenched teeth while still smiling.
Giving Stokes and Rosie one more larger smile, she then pivots and walks to the tent exit, which is in the back next to the stage. Begrudgingly, I let out a deep sigh and follow. It’s somewhat private with the lake directly behind us, and unfortunately there’s no way I’ll be able to escape her.
She spins around to face me, and I need another moment as I look past her out over the water and cross my arms over my chest. It’s cooler out here, and I hate that I wonder if she’s at all cold.
“Clay, what is the matter with you?” she hisses. Her cheeks are red and her brows are pulled down.
There are so many different ways this conversation could go. I’m not oblivious to the fact that I have pent-up anger toward her over how things played out, but that’s my deal. We weren’t exclusive, she didn’t have to tell me all the details and people that were in her life, but still, it sucks to be played, and that’s ultimately what she did to me.
“W-What do you mean?” I ask, trying to stay calm and hating that because of this stutter, she’s going to know exactly how I’m feeling. This isn’t the time or the place to have this—or any—conversation with her.
“You know exactly what I mean. Seriously, what is your problem?” She props her hands on her hips, and if I wasn’t so irritated with her and the fact that we are out here, I’d think she looked adorable. Her stance reminds me of a tiny schoolteacher attempting to scold someone.
But then I replay her words and get stuck on the last two. What’smy problem?
There are so many ways I could take this question, because I do have a problem, a lot of problems with her, but really, what does it matter? These are my issues and mine alone that I need to resolve.
“I don’t have a problem,” I tell her as I look down at her. She’s so small and petite, and today she looks utterly breathtaking. Her dark hair is pulled into some low knot thing on the back of her head, the makeup on her face has been painted just so to make her eyes look bigger and her lips fuller, and the cut of the dress is so perfect on her body it accentuates every line and every tiny curve she has.
Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say as her skin flushes pink, the color crawling from her chest up her neck to her face. Instead of saying anything, she just stares, sending heated daggers my way. This is getting us nowhere fast, and clearly she has things she wants or needs to say. So, by all means, let me open the door and get this over with.
“Why are you so angry with me?” I ask.
Her eyes widen just a little, she lets out an exaggerated huff, and her hands drop to close into fists down by her sides.
“I’m angry that I gave you so much space in my head, and for nothing. I hate that I think of you nonstop.” Her eyes turn glassy.
I take a step back and feel my nostrils flare. This isn’t what I expected her to say, and the blood in my veins starts pumping harder. She’s with someone else but thinking of me. There is so much wrong with that statement, and I want no part of it.
Pinning her with a glare, I drop my gaze to her lips so I don’t fall into the trance of her chocolate eyes. “D-D-Don’t. Don’t think about me, Emma. I don’t think about you.”
Lies.But she doesn’t need to know this. What good does it do either of us? I’m not going to humiliate myself; I feel bad enough already for being so hung up on her for so long.
She gets quiet, and I can feel her looking at me. Unconsciously and against my will, my gaze drifts to find hers. That anger and fire she had when we first walked out here fades and then flickers to hurt behind her eyes. What she has to be hurt about, I don’t know.
“Right,” she mumbles as a breeze blows over us and she shivers. If I were a better man, I’d offer her my jacket, but out of self-preservation, I cannot. I cannot see her wrapped up in something of mine, nor do I want it to smell like her when it’s returned.
Behind us the band is playing, people are laughing, and they’re having the best time. I too wish for this, as it is my best friend’s wedding, and I’m not getting it. These are not the memories I want to have of this day.
