by Celeste, B.
Table of Contents
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
PLAYLIST
OTHER BOOKS BY B. CELESTE
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR'S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
© Copyright 2021 B. Celeste
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Design: Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs
Editing: KBM Editing
Formatting: TRC Designs
To myself—for realizing that I was wasting time with a Hunter when I deserved a Fletcher all along.
PLAYLIST
“Not Ready to Make Nice” – The Chicks
“Good 4 U” – Olivia Rod
“Lonely” – Maria Petra
“Lose You to Love Me” – Selena Gomez
“Rainbow” – Kacey Musgraves
“I Don’t Know About You” – Chris Lane
“Breath” – Breaking Benjamin
“Speechless” – Dan + Shay
“Love Again” – Dua Lipa
“Forever and Always (Piano Edition)” – Taylor Swift
OTHER BOOKS BY B. CELESTE
The Truth about Heartbreak
The Truth about Tomorrow
The Truth about Us
Underneath the Sycamore Tree
Where the Little Birds Go
Where the Little Birds Are
Into the Clear Water
Color Me Pretty
Tell Me When It’s Over
Dare You to Hate Me
Tell Me Why It's Wrong
PROLOGUE
BEFORE
The scratchiness of short blond stubble against my palm leaves the dread in my chest that much heavier as I avoid looking into the deep blue eyes set on my face. My hand falls from the squared jaw down to the toned pectorals covered by a wrinkle free uniform that shows off the body sculpted by determination that I’ve spent a long time admiring. Under my shaky palm is a thumping heartbeat I used to love drifting off to sleep listening to every night since I was nineteen.
People say the eyes speak a thousand words—that they’re the window to your soul. And his are pure good, full of the admiration that I’ve grown attached to since the day we met. The words they silently spoke in the past told me everything I’d ever wanted to hear with a single look.
Which is why this moment crushes the splintered pieces of my heart that I’ve barely mended together since the first argument we’d shared which was quickly followed by a second, third, and fourth one. Those broken pieces grew bigger, deeper, slicing into the beating organ for him not trying even a fraction as much as I did to make this work.
Given up on.
Wasted.
Unwanted.
Suppose I had a tattoo for every time a fragment of my heart was taken from me by something somebody said that made me feel unworthy. Every negative word in the dictionary would cover me—permanently mark me with reminders of time wasted on people who I should have never trusted to begin with.
“One day,” I tell him, choking down the hoarseness of my voice and reaching up to cup the face I’ve loved touching for years, “I’m going to find someone who loves and admires me like you do.”
Throat bobbing, I let my palm slide off his face, the one that people always say looks like it belongs to the love child of young George Clooney and Pierce Brosnan. Taking a deep breath, I wiggle the cold piece of gold off my finger that no longer holds any weight or warmth since the day a strange man showed up to the house we’d shared and handed me papers that would change my life forever.
“Except they’re actually going to mean it,” I whisper.
If I were stronger, I’d tell him that he’d regret his choice. I’d hold my head up high, look him straight in the eyes, and say, “I’ll make you miss me, Hunter Cross.”
But I’m not strong.
I pass him the ring, then take a step back.
Then another.
His lips part…
But he says nothing. He doesn’t fight or apologize or beg me to stay the way I’m silently praying he will, and I should know then and there that this was nothing like I thought it was.
I don’t let the tears free until I’m far away from the man who looks far too good in his green uniform, knowing this is better for both of us.
One day, I’ll even believe it.
CHAPTER ONE
AFTER
The door clicking closed allows the smallest exhale of a shuttered breath to release from my tight lungs. It’s been six months since my last anxiety attack, prompted by empty promises that resurfaced at the worst time possible.
Ever since I accepted my best friend’s offer to go to mediative yoga classes with her, the episodes come and go far less than they used to. I’ve barely even needed my medication, which is a nice break from the hazy numbness I usually feel after swallowing one of the pills.
But every now and again, it takes the slightest thing to trigger the tremble of my hands, and palpitations in my chest. It’s better than waking up in the dead of night sweating like I ran a marathon with tears running down my face for no real reason, though.
My doctor told me it’d get better with time, but I’m 32 and still fighting periods of near hyperventilation in the middle of my workday, which would undoubtedly traumatize my classroom full of fifth graders.
Before I can even dig into my lunch, there are two swift knocks at the door before it opens and a head full of tight black curls pops inside. “Is this why you told everyone not to do anything in the staff lounge?” Sonia asks, walking in and closing the door behind her. “You okay, birthday girl?”
Lips twitching, I force them upward and give a single nod in false confirmation, hoping she doesn’t see the red rimming my otherwise hazel green eyes. “I figured I’d get some work done while I had the free time. You know how the kids are once they get back in from recess.”
I know Sonia well enough by now to understand that the gleam in her brown eyes is a mixture of sympathy and pity. Not a great combo to get from anyone, least of all the other fifth grade teacher that I work with more than anyone else in the school. “Is it because of…?”
She lets her voice fade as her plucked brows arch, guessing exactly what the problem is without saying the words.
I’m more grateful than she can know for that.
Clearing my throat, I set down my plastic fork and give the woman blessed with mixed Mediterranean and Cuban genetics a wavering smile. “It’s always harder on my birthday. I know it’s been long enough by now, but sometimes I can’t help but wonder if I made the right decision.”
My parents both told me they were worried I was rushing into marriage with Hunter. I thought I knew better at nineteen. Hunter Cross was everything to me. My first boyfriend, my first kiss, and my first everything else. He’d told me he loved me, and I felt it with every fiber of my being. I don’t think he lied about his feelings—I just think that love slowly unraveled the longer his deployment kept us separated until there was nothing left but a loose, shredded string that stopped holding us together.
“I thought I’d be settled down by now,” I admit, hearing the crack in my tone. At 32, I just moved into my very first house—a small, two-story Cape Cod with an open floorplan, three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a fenced-in backyard for a dog or kids that I don’t even have. The neighbors are far closer than I would have liked in the small residential neighborhood, but I’d been looking for months with no luck finding anything on the market that worked for my budget, so I’d settled for the cute blue, recently renovated home in Stanton Springs, New York.
It’s a reasonable fifteen-minute commute to work, leaving plenty of time to listen to music or one of the many audiobooks I always have downloaded on my phone to decompress. Even if I have to flick them off sometimes when the romance leaves a bigger hole in my chest than the one already there.
“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?” Sonia guesses, her lips curling up partially.
I flush. “Sorry. It’s been a long morning.”
She waves me off. “I was just saying that Anton makes delicious cakes for everyone’s birthdays, so you really missed out. He usually asks what people’s favorites are and then whips it up like he’s a Master Chef or something.”
It sounds more like she’s upset she missed out on cake than anything, but I can’t be upset with her. We’re not exactly friends, but we’re a step above coworkers. Friendly acquaintances? Two people who can vent to each other when life becomes too much? Sonia knows about my past. Not all the details, but enough.
“I’ve been watching what I’m eating anyway,” I lie, thinking about the lonesome cupcake I bought for myself at a bakery I spend a little too much of my paycheck at every week.
It was red velvet with a cheesecake filling and buttercream frosting—my favorite. And I’m sure Mom and Dad will show up at my place later with more baked goods, so I’m not celebrating alone.
My coworker reaches into the bag I only now just see resting in her lap and pulls something out. She passes me a card-shaped envelope and smiles when I accept it with hesitation. “We all signed it. It’s nothing much, but we know you just bought a house so…”
Throat bobbing as I open the white envelope and read the front of the card, I have to fight off the tears that form when I peel it open and see the gift card inside along with well over twenty signatures of other teachers and faculty in the building.
“I don’t…” I shake my head, touching the $200 gift card to a home goods store that I’d once admitted to Sonia I loved shopping at. “I don’t know what to say.”
She stands, draping her burnt orange bag over her shoulder. It’s an expensive one—Coach, based on the little emblems covering the strap. My coworkers’ love for brand-name bags is the same as mine for baked, sugary goods. I know she’s always looking at sales online whenever I pass by her in the teacher’s lounge and even offered to get me one when there was a buy-one-get-one-half-off sale a week or two ago. “Just say thank you and promise me that you’ll buy pretty things for your new place with that. You’re a hard worker, Stevie. If anyone deserves this, it’s you.”
I hide the lone tear that escapes the duct and bat my lashes to stop others from following suit. In a watery tone, I say, “Thank you. When my place is all set, I’ll invite you over to see it if you’d like.”
Nobody besides family and my best friend, Vickie, has been over to my place yet, so the offer surprises even me, but it’s genuine.
I feel a hand on my shoulder, but not another word is spoken between us.
When she opens the door, I blurt, “He sent me a card too.”
It’s what triggered the attack she walked in on, the one I’d forced down after opening my purse and going through the mail I’d snatched from my P.O. box on the way to work because I’d forgotten to check it for a few days.
In the mixture of bills and junk mail was a blue envelope with my name and box number in handwriting I recognized instantly, even before my eyes traveled to the sender’s information.
“Your ex-husband?” she asks quietly.
I nod, feeling the sting of tears threaten to leak down my face.
“Oh, Stevie…”
I wave my hand in the air. “It’s been years,” I say aloud, but I’m not sure if that’s a reminder for her or me. Not knowing what else to say, I sit there and stare at the untouched salad while my coworker shifts where she stands until she decides that being left alone is what’s best for me right now. She’d told me during one of our many teacher conferences toward the end of summer that she didn’t do well with crying, which is fair.
I don’t do well with people seeing me cry.
My eyes go to the card sticking out from under a pile of papers on my desk, the first name the only thing visible, taunting me. Reminding me of what was and what’s no more.
Two and a half years without Hunter shouldn’t hurt so much, but the simple words he’d written in the card brought back every single good memory we’d shared for the better part of the last decade and broke my heart all over again.
Happy birthday, smalls.
Love always, H.
CHAPTER TWO
I never imagined my dream wedding when I was little like some girls do. I didn’t think about what my dress would look like or what kind of flowers my bridesmaids would be holding, or what type of location I’d choose the event to be held at. Truthfully, none of that ever crossed my mind until I met Hunter.
Then it was a whirlwind of emotions from the day he said “hello” in the high school hallway, to the first time he asked me to the Dairy Shack for ice cream for our first date, to the first kiss we shared on the front porch of my father’s house that my dad broke up by flickering the porch light in warning.
Maybe the rush of heavy, all-consuming feelings is the reason why we’d decided to make it official after being together for four years. I was nineteen and finishing my freshman year of college. He was twenty in the Army and wanted to have something to come home to.
And that was me.
He’d wanted me.
I never quite understood what about me grabbed his attention. As a teenager, I was the same short height I am now, barely 5’1”, and leaner than most girls. Considering both of my parents’ families originated from Ireland, my skin was on the paler side, and rarely tanned in the summers, even now. My limbs were long and lanky, my brown hair, which was—and still is—a shade darker than my all-time favorite death by chocolate ice cream, had been pin-straight naturally, barely kissing my shoulders, and I’d had hideous bangs that were in style back then. Plus, I was introverted by nature. Nothing about me particularly stood out, but for some reason, he’d still noticed. Out of all the girls he could have chosen to shoot his shot with, he’d picked me.
Looking back now, all this time later, I don’t know if I would have done anything differently, even knowing the outcome. Because we were happy once upon a time. In love. Obsessed with each other. I remember how hard it was to keep my hands off him after we’d progressed to that point and thinking that it would never end, that we’d be insatiable.
Everyone said the honeymoon phase would end eventually, but for us it seemed to go on and on even when he was deployed and would be gone for long per
iods.
He’d send letters. Call. FaceTime.
I’d send care packages with all of his favorite things.
We made it work despite people’s doubts.
That’s why I’m still confused about where it went wrong. We went from sharing everything with each other—secrets, dreams, worries, fears, to sharing ourselves with others.
At least one of us has.
Thirty months of being apart and twelve of them being officially divorced left my ex-husband wide open to be with whomever he wanted. Because I know how he works after any argument, any fight. He’d need physical touch—a reminder that we were there, alive, human, and flawed, but ready to heal.
I needed that too, the intimacy to tell me I was still alive even if I wasn’t living, but I couldn’t put myself in the position to feel anybody else’s callused hands on me when all I’d wanted were his. When did we stop touching each other? Needing that mutual connection?
One day it was just…gone.
Vanished.
Never to be seen again.
When you grow up believing that true love exists, you don’t think about the possibility of it being the very thing that destroys you—the thing that leaves you vulnerable. As little girls, we watch movies and read books about happily ever after, thinking everything falls into place easily after the wedding.
We’re not taught reality.
Because if those movies shared a shred of the truth of what could happen even after the credits roll, I wouldn’t be standing in my front yard covered in overgrown grass, staring at the weeds mixed into the flower beds that have white and purple calla lilies planted in them remembering when my former mother-in-law suggested white rose and calla lily bouquets for the wedding party. I hadn’t fallen in love with the idea like she and Hunter had, but I’d agreed to it to make them happy.
I add digging up the flower garden and replanting it with something new to the growing list of to-dos that never ends because the last thing I want to come home to every day are the flowers I held while saying my vows.
