My God. I know we were young. Know that I did the right thing in chasing my dreams since she was only seventeen and I was nineteen. But how selfish was I to leave without an explanation or a goodbye?
Ass. Hole. Yep. You sure as hell were one, Whitley.
And for that I deserve her understandable caution, every bit of her wrath, and every ounce of her hatred.
I start behind her down the worn path toward the car. Use the sight of her hips swaying to distract me from the memories rushing back.
My mind still runs but turns instead to how this was supposed to be easy. How I was going to come back, convince her to go to the wedding, and do my part to help her show up Mitch. Debt repaid just in time to walk away. Again.
And yet one look at Saylor the other day and I knew it was going to be far from easy. That combination of the fresh-faced girl-next-door I left mixed with the hurt and feistiness I see now, and I can’t help but wonder what if. What if I hadn’t left? And how did my leaving change her life’s path somehow?
Fuck that, Whitley. You did what you had to do. Took advantage of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that definitely panned out.
But watching her ahead of me with the hurt in her eyes fresh in my mind, I know this is going to be harder than I expected.
Good thing she rejected the offer.
I have a plan. I have my world. My perfect, chaotic, surreal, fucking awesome world and there’s no room for error. She fits nowhere in it. That’s what I told myself when I left. That’s what I’m standing by now.
I’m just here to repay a debt to Ryder.
Just here to ease the guilt over what I did to her.
So why am I already thinking about the next time I can see her again?
I wanted him to kiss me.
That’s my first thought when I wake up. How standing beneath the tree house with his hands on my hips and the moonlight in his hair in the field we used to play in as kids, I wanted him to kiss me. Lean in and take over. Wash away any of the doubt about why I walked away from Mitch. Rationalize why seeing him again makes me want in ways I shouldn’t want.
And then I move. My head pounds. My mouth’s dry. My hair is matted. And I’m still in last night’s clothes.
I want to die. Like throw my head in the toilet, and puke my brains out to make this roiling in my stomach, spinning of my head, and hot flash over my skin type of sick go away.
But I can’t. I think my body wants to punish me for being such an idiot last night. For thinking if I swung my hips enough or flirted with Ryder’s friends more, that it would make Hayes realize what he lost.
A foolish, amateur bullshit move. Like he hasn’t seen that one before from one of the million women who would do just about anything to be a notch on his belt.
And the joke’s on me as I lie in bed while the rest of the night—or what I remember of it—replays through my mind. How right now I probably couldn’t even dry heave if I tried so I can feel better, and yet last night I was able to word vomit every little detail about Mitch to Hayes. How I walked away from a perfectly good relationship and every little girl’s dream wedding. How Mitch invited me to watch him marry his successful, no doubt more-suited match. How I blamed Ryder for taking my RSVP response, twisting it every which way, and then planting the notion that I should attend because my presence might help the shop. All of it, right down to when he asked why I left.
I looked at Mitch and realized he didn’t make me feel how you had, Hayes.
The thought ghosts through my mind and I bolt up in bed. And then I hate myself when the room spins. But even worse is I can’t remember if I finished the thought aloud last night or if I had enough wherewithal to stop myself.
Shit. Shit. Double shit.
The refrain is constant until I remember that I didn’t finish the sentence. That I caught myself before making the monster of all mistakes.
Because that’s not why I didn’t marry Mitch. There was no comparison to Hayes then. Or Hayes now.
And yet as I lie back down to try and combat the drum beating against my temples, I can’t help but recall my first thought this morning: I wanted him to kiss me.
Was that why I walked away from Mitch? Did I subconsciously compare the way both of them made me feel and after seeing Hayes last night—after being reminded of that pulse-pounding, lower-belly ache that he made me feel with just a look my way—is that how I knew?
It’s nonsense. Utter bullshit. There’s no part of Hayes that belongs in my life.
Not his brown eyes or thick lashes.
It had to be the alcohol that made me think that.
Not his Hollywood life and glamorous parties.
It was the tree house. A step back in time to when the only things we knew about life was that it was simple and our lives revolved around each other.