All the particulars I spent countless hours obsessing over just like I did every other facet of my wedding.
I turn it over again.
Yep. It’s my wedding invitation all right. Same groom—Mitch Layton. Same time of day. Same destination: the tropical paradise of Turks and Caicos.
Everything is the same except the bride’s name. This one says Sarah Taylor.
And that’s not me.
In fact, the only place it says Saylor Rodgers is on the outside of the envelope. I’m an invited guest. I double-check to make sure it’s really addressed to me because surely the man I left high and dry the week before our wedding wouldn’t invite me to his wedding. To someone else.
Only six months later.
But it’s there. My name. My address.
Sweet Cheeks CupCakery
Attn: Ms. Saylor Rodgers
1313 State Street
Santa Barbara, CA 93101
Definitely no mistake on the address because that’s me, and this is where he knows to find me.
The irony. It’s been six months, and not once has Mitch asked for a more detailed explanation than “because I just can’t” as to why I left.
But if I don’t care about him in the least, why does seeing this invitation make my stomach churn?
And even more importantly, why is my hand setting down the RSVP card, picking up a pen, and opting for the filet mignon rather than macadamia nut encrusted halibut as my entrée selection when I have no intention of going?
None.
Whatsoever.
And even stranger, why did I put an X next to the “plus-one” for a guest when there is no plus-one in my life?
Call my rash decision to attend blatant curiosity to see what the future Mrs. Layton looks like.
Deem my selection of plus-one a definitive need to prove to “our” friends—who conveniently forgot my phone number when I dumped Mitch—that I’m better off for doing it. That I was in the right. That I’ve never been better since I left. That I’m happier.
And I am.
I think.
2
Saylor
“Saylor.”
My brother grumbles my name for what feels like the tenth time in as many minutes. I choose to ignore him. Keeping my head down, my concentration remains focused on the elaborate frosting I’m perfecting on the cupcake in front of me.
I’d rather keep my head in the sand than listen to the lecture I know is coming. The comments about how the payables are more than the receivables. The do you know that even with this small business loan you acquired you’re still going to drown in debt unless you figure out how to get more business? The you need to come up with marketing different than everyone else so you’ll attract more customers.
And then he’ll start his spiel. How I need to be more active on social media. How Internet orders are huge these days and where the longevity and success is. Get enough online orders, up the demand for my product in other areas, sell franchise opportunities to service those demands, then sit back and reap the rewards.
Doesn’t he see I’m doing everything I can? That I’ve poured my blood, sweat, and tears into my dream since breaking up with Mitch? Not only to prove to myself that it was the right decision, but probably more so to prove to everyone else that it was. And that I can make it on my own. Without him or his family name or their bank accounts full of money. That none of that defines me.
And so I keep my head down, add the pearl lacing around the edge of the cupcake I’m decorating (for a wedding no less) while my eyes continually glance to the foot traffic outside, hoping they’ll stop in and buy a cupcake.
Or several dozen.
Because his groan is only going to get louder the deeper he gets into the mess I’ve made of the spreadsheet his accounting brain deems easy. His columns, rows, and formulas with symbols that make no sense to me. I’ve got more important things to do than add the numbers into the sheet.
Like running all aspects of the business he’s currently—and deservedly—bitching about.
“Saylor?”
The change in his tone has me lifting my head to look through the open doorway where he stands watching me. The look in his aqua-blue eyes is full of confusion and what I think is anger. There’s something in his hand I can’t quite see.
Crap. What did I do now?
“Did that asshole seriously have the audacity to invite you to his wedding?”
I slowly set the piping tube down and brace my hands on the butcher block in front of me in preparation for Ryder’s protective older-brother gene to kick in. For the anger to come on my behalf when he should be the one pissed off after what Mitch’s family did as a result of my actions. And due to my own stupidity for not tearing up the invitation in the first place.
I’d completely forgotten about it.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I look at the champagne cardstock in his hand and remember the RSVP card I filled out in haste last month. More as an act of “screw you” than of real intent. The response my assistant, DeeDee, told me she mailed out since I had haphazardly left it on my desk instead of in the trash.
My smile is tight as I pretend to be perfectly fine with having been invited. Because it’s easier to pretend than to let the tears of guilt burn bright over the fallout that has affected him as well. My sweet, gruff, overprotective brother who loaned me the money to start this business and then found out his largest account—Layton Industries—withdrew their business, his top source of dependable income over the past eight years.
I see the stress in the lines on his face. Know he’s trying to help me as much as he can and chase new clients to keep his business afloat. Be the mom, dad, and big brother all in one fell swoop. But I know he hates when I thank him for it, so I focus on answering his question instead. I recognized the did that fucker Mitch really invite you? in his tone despite the polite way he phrased it.
“It appears so,” I murmur and worry my bottom lip between my teeth attempting to divert the topic at hand. “Did I mess up the spreadsheet that badly?”
“Screw the spreadsheet, Say. Does that prick really think that—?”
“I left him, Ryder.” My voice is quiet when I speak. A mixture of uncertainty tingeing its edges. “Not the other way around.”
“And for good reason.” He realizes the hard line to his tone hits me harder than I expected. The pressure of being single, friendless, and exhausted from working my fingers to the bone to make this all work to prove I can is taking its toll. His use of hold-no-punches communication with men at work versus needing to soothe an emotional little sister more than he thought has him cringing. He walks over to me and hooks an arm over my shoulders. “Look. I know it’s been hard for you. You basically had to start all over. A new place to live, your friends all siding with him and treating you like shit . . . Everything. But you’re doing it. You’re starting a new life. Have a business up and running and—”
“Barely,” I mutter as I scrub away the frustration on my face with my hands and in the process smear frosting who knows how many places onto my cheek.
“It’s a lot more than most people would be doing seven months after a long-term breakup.”
I inhale deeply and nod my head as I pull up my proverbial bootstraps. This was my doing. My choice. Walking away when I could have stayed. Realizing that even though Mitch and I had been together for six years, the spark had died long before. Sure there is more to a relationship than just the want to throw him up against the wall the minute he got home and have wild reckless sex with him, but then again, that was never there to begin with.
Growing up with parents who had loved so fiercely, yet constantly referred to the numerous goals, dreams, and wants they gave up because Ryder and I took precedence, gave me pause to what I’d be giving up, marrying into Mitch’s family. Because the compromise would have been solely on my part. Not his.
Regardless of my reasons, no one on the outside can fathom why I chose to walk away. I mean, he was Mitch Layton, perfect in every way imaginable—polite, successful, Ralph Lauren-handsome—and even with all that perfection, I can still recall looking in the mirror in the weeks before our wedding and thinking while all that was nice, I didn’t want to live a life always wondering if nice was enough.
I pull my mind from the thoughts and look back at my brother, to the intricate and colorful ink on his forearms flexing as he lifts the invitation to read it again. Most days, the crisply starched dress shirt of his accountant’s uniform covers those tattoos. To the purse of his lips as he lifts his eyes up to mine. “I’m sorry this affected you. That my breaking up with him—“
“I told you not to bring it up again. This was not your doing.”
“Spoken like a true friend.” I chuckle and pick up the piping tube again. More like my only one—and sadly it’s because he’s my brother so he has to be—given the circle of friends Mitch and I had over the years seemed to side with him after the break up. The weekly lunch dates suddenly were rescheduled by text saying, “I’ll call you when I get free time,” and the monthly girls-only dinners for some reason stopped happening. Even my manicurist, who did Mitch’s mom’s nails, suddenly had no openings for my long-standing appointments.
“Does he actually think you’ll show up?”