Sweet Cheeks(2)

“Barely,” I mutter as I scrub away the frustration on my face with my hands and in the process smear icing all over my cheeks.

“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 gets home and have wild reckless sex with him, but then again, that spark 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 by 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. Study the images that are typically hidden beneath the crisply starched dress shirts he wears for work as he lifts the invitation to read it again. “I’m sorry this affected you, too. 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 breakup. 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?”

“He invited me, didn’t he? Or maybe it was the bride-to-be who did? Who knows? Who cares?”

“Do you know her?”

“Never heard of her before.”

“Whoever it was probably just wanted to rub your nose in it. He’s arrogant enough. Thinks he’s such a prize. So why not make you worry and wonder if you made a huge mistake leaving him since someone else would snatch him up so quickly? What a fucking joke.”

I love that he immediately came to the same conclusion that I did about Mitch’s intention behind sending me an invitation. At the same time, I silently loathe that since I’ve received it, I’ve been going over my reasons for calling off our wedding more than I should be.

I refuse to acknowledge it has anything to do with Mitch or the invitation.

It’s perfectly normal to have doubts. Like middle of the night stare at the ceiling when I can’t sleep wondering if the grass is greener on the other side doubts. You don’t make major changes in your life without having them.

And walking away from the man you’ve loved and been with for most of your adult life qualifies as a major change, so it’s justifiable to have some level of uncertainty.

“Agreed,” I muse as I lace another row of beads on the next cupcake. “But wouldn’t you feel the same way if someone did that to you?” My brother just stares at me, the snarl on his face betraying the calm in his eyes. “I get why you’re pissed at him—and I am too for what he did to you—but when it comes to me, Ryder, he has a right to be mad. I was the one who called it off without warning.”

“Oh, I remember, all right,” he says over his shoulder as he heads back to the desk. And I know he does. How could he forget holding me while I sobbed when I realized I couldn’t go through with the wedding? Or how he was the voice of reason through all of my hysterics, talking me down from the ledge and urging me to listen to my heart? And then later, holding my hand while I picked up the phone and told Mitch I needed to talk to him. “You want to really know what pissed me off more than anything? You broke off an almost seven-year relationship with him and not once did he get angry or rage or sit on your doorstep and beg you to reconsider. He didn’t fight for you, and you’re worth fighting for. Instead, he acted like the passive-aggressive asshole he is by sending you an invitation to his new wedding.”