Still an asshole, huh?
I wish that were the truth.
I choose the higher road. Know even in the thirty seconds I’ve been in his presence that I made the right decision. I have absolutely zero love for him, and I can’t believe I wasted six years of my life with him.
So I don’t answer his question but rather decide to let him believe whatever he wants about Hayes being here with me and how that came to be. I’m not lying per se, rather just not giving any answers.
“You always did resent him, didn’t you?” I murmur softly, figuring it to be my best plan of approach and more than aware of the sudden shift of attention over to us despite the music playing loudly.
I think back to the few times Mitch would see Hayes on television or a magazine cover and make some snide remark. Criticize him. For no other reason than because Hayes had me first. Caveman theory at its best, and Mitch’s fragile ego at its worst.
“Seems I had every right to resent him, didn’t I? I love Sarah. I really do. And yet all of her blabbing on about the ghost of you hanging around was driving me crazy so I’m here trying to give her what she’s asked of me.”
“My ghost?”
“Yeah. She says you’re still everywhere even though you’re not.”
“That’s because you moved on before the scent of my perfume even cleared the bedroom.” There’s a bite to my voice and I don’t try to hide it.
“You’re the one who left.”
“Yes. I did.” There is not an ounce of apology in my tone. Why should there be when he was the one who made it clear he didn’t care if I did? And is already married.
Silence smothers the space between us. I take a sip of my wine and look toward the door to see if Hayes is back from the restroom yet. Shift in my chair.
“If you wanted to get rid of my ghost, then maybe you should have had your own wedding, instead of ours.” I turn to look at him. Raise my eyebrows. “A little originality makes a girl feel a whole lot more secure.”
“It’s complicated.” He shuffles his feet, looks down at his beer, and then back up to me. “You know how my mom is.”
“Yes, I do.” He hasn’t changed. He never will. Maybe I thought my leaving might help him realize that while he can love his mother and want to appease her, having a wife means you put her first, and not your mom. “Let me give you an opinion from someone who has in fact walked in Sarah’s shoes. Your mom can’t control your marriage, Mitch. You gave her a good start thinking she will by letting her orchestrate this entire wedding. The funny thing is, you were so busy being Golf Boy with your buddies and not caring about the details I was planning, that you have zero clue about how identical your wedding today is to the one I had planned. For us. Surely you realize the location and the invitations were the same, but did you notice everything else? The color scheme, the linens, the flowers? All my choices. And Sarah just happily accepted all of that?”
His features shift and evolve from disbelief to anger. And I know him well enough to know that as pissed as he is, he’ll never confront his mom over it. God forbid, he ever stands up to her. Instead, he’s about to take the brunt of his anger out on me.
I guess he’s never heard the saying, “Don’t kill the messenger.”
“You don’t get to have any opinion, Saylor. You don’t get to criticize or judge or say anything other than thank you for inviting me, Mitch.”
Asshole. I bite my tongue. Make the conscious decision not to engage when I’d prefer to stand and shout and accuse and purge the lingering bitterness I feel toward him. Let everyone know the real reasons we’re not together.
“Why’d you come anyway, Saylor? Why’d you show up? To rub my face in the fact that you’re dating the big Hollywood star?”
And if I didn’t know that bugged him, the disdain in his voice says it all. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that, Mitch? Why’d you invite me? Because I know you say it was Sarah who did, but a little part deep down within you wanted me to show up here to see exactly what I could have had. So you could rub my nose in it?”
I don’t answer his question at all, but I don’t care because it feels good to say some of what I think out loud. Words I’ve wanted to ask since I opened the envelope with the invitation.
He doesn’t answer my question, either. And I’m okay with that and with the awkward silence that settles around us as we both figure our next step in dismantling a fence that will never stand again.
“It’s always been him, hasn’t it?” Yes. It has. I don’t utter the words, just keep my eyes fixated on my fingers running up and down the stem of my wine glass when he continues speaking. “He’s been the one you wanted even after he hurt you and walked away. I was the one who picked up the pieces after your parents died. Not him. But what? The whole time we were together, you were waiting for him, weren’t you? Wanting him. Thinking I could take his place. And then obviously by the looks of the two of you, he came back and the wait was over. Dump me. Pick him. He wins . . .”