by Ember Leigh
My body shakes in silent laughter. I can envision her perfectly, on the couch in her favorite gray sweat suit, slapping her knee right as she says “blabbin’.” Most Sundays, she’s sitting on the porch and watching the wildlife and occasionally shouting directives at my dad that he almost always ignores as he mows the lawn or putters around in the garage.
“Fine. I’ll accept the twenty-four-hour promise of silence.” I draw a deep breath, looking to Weston for some sign of encouragement before I spill the beans. He’s not facing me, instead tugging his shirt over his head. “I got a job offer while I was down here, Gram. From the resort. They want me to be their official wedding photographer.”
The piercing hoot from my grandma’s end is so loud I pull the phone away from my ear. Weston twists to look at me, an eyebrow arching.
“Iiiiiiiii knew it!” Gram shouts.
“Oh my god,” I say, because my ear drum might be bleeding.
Weston jerks his thumb toward his backpack on the floor. “I’m gonna pack, okay?”
My mouth parts as my world splits in two. A ravine opens up inside of me—my home and past whispering in my ear, with my future and possibly greatest love story walking away from me. I must give something like an affirmative look, because Weston gives me a thumbs up and begins rummaging in his long backpack. I am devoid of air or thoughts while my grandmother celebrates my job offer.
“I think I’ll crack open a beer,” she’s saying, and then dissolves into a fit of smoker’s cough. “Are you serious, Nova? Is my granddaughter about to be an official resort photographer?”
I force a laugh. Weston’s move was the least funny and relieving thing he could have done. Was there a clearer way of saying “I’m not going with you”? Maybe I was a fool for thinking he’d seriously consider it. But I feel like he just told me his answer. “I really want to accept the job, Gram. But—”
“But what? I’m about to open this beer, so if you tell me there’s a reason to say no, I better hear it now.”
I bite my lip as all sorts of emotion wells up inside me. “There’s no reason to say no. They’d be paying me a little bit more than I make at the senior portrait agency. I’d have a room and meals included here at the resort, so no rent. And, well, I’d be living on Aruba.”
“Living on Aruba,” my grandmother says with a sigh, right as I hear the crrrack of the beer can opening. “Lord almighty. I never thought I’d hear you say those words.”
I swallow hard, watching Weston as he empties the contents of his bag on the bed nearby. He rifles through clothes and begins folding things into small piles. “Does it sound crazy?”
“Of course it does! Don’t mean you shouldn’t do it.”
“I don’t want to leave you,” I admit. “But with this salary, I can still send money back to you.”
Gram lets out a long, raggedy sigh. “Nova, sweets, I’m not your responsibility. If I’m anyone’s responsibility, it’s your father’s. But even not his. I’m the only one who can look after me, even if I don’t have a damn cent to my name. And you know what would make me feel poorer than ever? If I kept my granddaughter from living the crazy life she was meant to live.”
Tears are welling up in my eyes as I listen to her. She’s right. And she’s saying the words that I so desperately needed to hear. The words that I believe on the inside, down below all the layers of loyalty and submission and small thinking.
“Thank you,” I manage to say. “Because I wouldn’t accept it if you didn’t think—”
“Don’t even say that! I don’t want to figure into this decision at all. You just promise me you’ll make those crazy brides look good, you send me a picture of yourself every day, and you find yourself some incredible stories that you can’t tell anyone about when you come home for Christmas. Unless it’s me. You can tell me the stories.”
Her excitement makes me incredibly warm and fuzzy. But watching Weston actively pack his things is like cold water down my back. This was supposed to be exciting for both of us. But right now, I’m the only one left standing.
“I haven’t signed any papers yet, Gram,” I go on, trying to swallow the strange, acid swirl rising in my throat, “but I’ll let you know tomorrow morning what the next step is. And don’t tell my dad!”
“I promise, sweet cakes. Keep me updated. And now, I’m gonna get drunk for no apparent reason, according to your father, at least. Because I won’t be telling him why I’m celebrating!”
“Not for twenty-four hours, at least,” I say, forcing another laugh as my gram whoops with more laughter.
After promising to call her tomorrow with more updates, I hang up, and I’m left in the thick, echoing silence of Weston’s hut. I watch as he wordlessly piles up underwear, swim shorts, sandals.
“So you’re leaving tomorrow.” Really, the statement is a test. Questioning this version of reality I don’t want to be true.
Weston twists to look at me. “Of course. I have a plane ticket.”
“So do I. But plane tickets can be changed.”
There’s another long, unnerving silence that makes me painfully aware of how naked I am. I push off the bed and hunt down my sundress and panties that we discarded earlier in our haste to make love. No, to fuck. Because that’s all we’ve been doing here. It’s been nothing more than simple, basic sex.
My hands form fists as I attempt to make that thought true inside of me. It’s hopeless. Nothing has been simple or basic with Weston. Least of all the sex. I can’t act like I haven’t fallen head over heels for this man—especially with myself.
“You know, the job offer included you in there,” I remind him.
“I know,” he says.
“This doesn’t just affect me.”
He shakes his head, avoiding my gaze as he turns the backpack upside down one last time, a few last items tumbling out. “Maybe it does. The only person who is truly invested in this offer is you.”
I blink rapidly as I pull on my finally located dress. The thin layer of fabric bolsters me, but only slightly. “What does that mean?”
“You’re the only one looking to change their life,” Weston says, louder this time, like I’d also told him to speak up in addition to clarify himself.
“But…I thought…” I can’t even find the words to follow up with.
“You thought what?”
“I thought you liked doing that sort of thing. Being artistic, social, and getting paid for it.” I press the tip of my middle finger to my forehead, trying to organize my thoughts. But it doesn’t work. There has been an explosion inside my brain, and I might never clean up the mess. “The contract is for two employees. If you don’t sign with me, then you’ll be leaving me high and dry.”
“Oh, so this is just so you can get the job,” Weston says, turning toward me. There’s an edge in his voice and a fire in his eyes, neither of which I’ve experienced before. I can’t tell if we’re about to fight or fuck again. “Be honest, at least. You just want to use me to get to this job.”
My mouth parts again and I sputter, trying to find the right words with which to cut him like he cut me. But nothing comes. Nothing, except, “You’re so wrong.”
“Am I?”
“Yes! Listen, I get this is a big leap. But isn’t that what you love doing? Taking leaps?”
“Leaps to places where I want to land,” Weston clarifies. “And I’m sorry, but Aruba just isn’t where I want to land.”
I swallow the knot that has cropped up in my throat, like a malignant tumor. “Then where do you want to land?”
He’s quiet, the sizzling kind of pause that promises an answer I’m not going to like. When he finally speaks, so much time has passed that I wonder if I even asked the question. “Far away from here.”
“So just anywhere that I’m not,” I spit.
“Why are you trying to make this about you?” Weston shoots back. Now I know where this dangerous energy was heading: toward fight territory. “I have my own life, you know. What
you’re asking me to do is insane.”
“How is it more insane than asking me to just pack up and go to Thailand?” I ask, my voice barely passing my lips. “Or is it only okay to ask me to uproot everything?”
His mouth turns into a thin line as he shakes his head. “See, that’s your problem. You have roots to begin with.”
His words hang in the air like an admonishment, and I can’t figure out why. Everything inside me is sad and breaking and heavy. I’m getting my answer in sharp, painful bursts, over and over again. While I’m reeling, trying to find which was is up—and forward—Weston moves a pile of clothes to the side of the bed. Glittering jade catches my eye.
My mouth parts as I recognize the delicate, possibly ancient necklace. I reach out for it. “Did you take this?”
Weston barely glances at me. “What are you talking about?”
“How did you find this in my room?”
“I didn’t find that in your room,” Weston snaps. “It’s mine.”
I blink about a hundred times, trying to process this information. “Are you serious?”
“Why would I lie about that?”
I turn it over in my hands, already noticing small differences from my own. First of all, this necklace doesn’t look like it’s been traveling the world for years stuffed unceremoniously into the front pocket of a backpack. It looks fresher, sturdier somehow. There aren’t the same well-worn nicks in some of the stones. I set it down, a strange lump forming in my throat.
If there’s ever a time not to cry, it’s right now. Weston and I are actively breaking up. He’s choosing to stay his course, even though I’ve chosen to take a leap and build something in Aruba—preferably with him. And of course, this had to be the exact moment my sign from the heavens showed up.
So help me God, I will not cry because of this necklace.
“I have the same one,” I say, fortifying my voice so he won’t catch the waver there. I set it back down, forcing myself to look at anything other than him as he continues to pack up his life. Searching for something inside the hut that will reinforce the idea that the necklace means nothing. “That’s really weird you have it, too.”
He picks it up, turning it over in his hands as the silence creates a rift between us. It shouldn’t mean anything. The fact that the most amazing, beautiful, inspired man in the world carries the same good luck charm I do shouldn’t mean anything. It shouldn’t feel like a sign, the same type of sign that Amelia got from Rhys’s tie, but fuck, it does.
This is my sign.
If it’s my sign, then I need to follow it. Even at the expense of my sanity. Even if it makes me look like a fool.
Because I didn’t come this far only to keep doing the same old thing. If I can accept a crazy job offer, then I can admit the craziest thing inside my heart. Bolstered by tropical air and the intoxicating power of potential soul mates, I draw a deep breath. “Weston.”
“Nova.”
I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Weston looks at me expectantly. I almost decide against it, and then I blurt out, “I think I’m in love with you. Like, for real. And I want you to stay. Will you stay with me?”
There. I asked it, point-blank. I looked down the barrel of the gun—the firearm of my future, let’s say—and faced my fears. The space between my ears is throbbing as I await a response. I’m giving Weston the power to mold my future, to break my heart, to do any damn thing he wants with me.
He watches me for what feels like an eternity, his face a neutral mask. He didn’t even flinch at the words. Didn’t soften a bit. And with each eternal second that ticks onward, another sliver of my heart flakes off and floats to the ground.
Finally, he yanks his attention back to his bag. He scoops up the necklace and shoves it back into the cloth bag, burying it deep inside the backpack.
“You don’t even know me, Nova. You can’t be in love with me.”
My throat turns into a vice, and tears fill my eyes. He’s good at giving me answers without saying yes or no.
“How do I not know you? We’ve been up each other’s butts for the past week. We’ve been traveling together for years—”
“You don’t know me,” Weston repeats, more firmly. “If you knew me, you wouldn’t be asking me to stay.”
His words just add to the cyclone of hurt inside me. Tears leak from my eyes, and I hurry to wipe them away. I don’t know where to go from here. I’ve laid everything bare, and he’s given me nothing in return. Nothing except rejection.
“Okay. Yeah. I guess when you said you wanted to stay with me, I took it the wrong way,” I say bitterly.
Weston says nothing. And since I’m now fluent in his silences, I take it for what it means: This is over.
I swallow another knot in my throat, trying to focus on the room around me. One foot in front of the other. There’s nothing else to say.
So I’ll leave.
Each step toward his door feels like a mistake, but there’s no way to fix it. I’m walking away from the best man I’ve ever met, the most explosive love story I’ve ever lived, and the clearest sign I’ve ever received.
Except the sign wasn’t the same as Amelia’s. The sign didn’t point toward a magical-ever-after that would unfurl like the outrageous bud of a peony.
The sign led to heartbreak. The magic is gone.
Weston is leaving, I’m staying, and this painfully important and consuming thing we discovered between us has flatlined.
Chapter 28
NOVA
I awake with a jolt. I have no idea what time it is, other than I’m pretty sure I’ve been in a coma for possibly several days or a year.
I grope blindly for my phone on the nightstand. I hear birds already, the morning variety, which confuses me further. I lay down to take a cry-nap after saying goodbye to Amelia and Rhys last night. They’d wanted to go drink at the bar, but I told them I needed to pack, when in reality I needed to continue licking my wounds and waiting for Weston to show up at my hut with a change of heart…or at the very least, a hard-on.
That obviously never happened, and instead I fell asleep.
I gasp when my phone comes to life. It’s eight a.m. Motherfucking eight a.m.
Thoughts cram together inside my head trying to process this information. I am as confused as if I’d woken up back in New York State. How can it be eight a.m.? That means it’s Monday morning. That means that basically everyone is gone.
And worse yet?
It means that Weston left without saying goodbye.
My eyes burn from bleariness and repressed emotion as I fumble around my hut, trying to find anything resembling clothes. Since I fell asleep waiting for Mr. McYouDon’tEvenKnowMe to show up, that means I’m still in the middle of packing. All my shit is in weird little piles in the stupidest spots, per my bizarre organizational method.
I find a bra and then leggings, but no shirt. As seconds tick on, I grow more desperate to find out if reality really is as grim as I suspect. I finally spot a sundress and throw that on overtop of the leggings, which allows my sports bra to show, but at this point, I don’t care.
The sun is blinding as I push out of my darkened tiki paradise and hurry toward the teal hut. There’s a chance he didn’t come to say goodbye because he also fell into a cry-sleep. He might have missed his flight altogether. There’s no way Weston would leave the island without saying goodbye…right?
His flight was at seven-fifty sharp that morning. If he left already, he’s been gone for at least an hour. I knock on the door, everything pulled tight and foreboding inside me.
There’s no answer. I knock again, more urgently this time, and listen closely for any sound on the other side. A groan. Rustling sheets. Even just the zip of a bag.
Because maybe he changed his flight. Maybe I remembered his flight time wrong. Maybe he decided to stay.
I knock for the third time, though my knuckles sound desperate against the wood. I wasn’t sure there was a way for a knock t
o sound desperate, but I’ve achieved it. Because each thud reminds me of my own desperate wish. My own insane dream that Weston himself inspired me to go after. The very same dream that has been slowly crumpling to the ground around me since yesterday.
I wait for a few moments, forehead pressed to the door, as the sticky, uncomfortable truth settles in the air between the crashing of the ocean waves.
I try the knob just to be sure. Or to violate Weston’s personal space if he’s actually inside, hiding from me, I guess. The knob turns. The door swing opens.
A completely empty hut awaits me. The bedsheets are rumpled. There’s still a hint of Weston’s scent in the air, which nearly brings me to my knees.
He’s gone. He fucking left.
Tears spring to my eyes, and I close the door, hurrying back to my own hut. I look around for something—anything—that he might have left me. A note. A drawing. Even just some memento from our whirlwind time together.
But he’s left me nothing to offset the ghosting, which makes it sting worse. All I have are pictures and the last wisps of my completely misplaced hopes.
What a fucking asshole. The words vibrate inside me on repeat as I crawl back into my bed. I put up a good front for a few minutes, staying angry, but then the tears come in full force and I’m crying into my pillow. Because he wasn’t just an asshole. He lied to me about wanting things to continue. By just disappearing, he was colder and more callous than I ever could have imagined. Maybe what we shared meant nothing to him. Here I was, ready to dive headfirst into the unknown for the first time in my life because of him, and he was able to walk away without so much as a goodbye.
He could have left the door open for things to continue. We could have done long-distance while I stayed here in Aruba or gone back home. While I’m disappointed that he didn’t want to jump into this opportunity with me, I still feel like we could have worked something out.
But now? He slammed the door shut on that. Showed me what he really felt about us.
