Once upon a time, I thought it was, but those days are far and long away from me now. Still, the memory of music blaring as Fletch and I shot down Highway 90 haunts me.
I thought he'd love me forever. Or at least love me back as hard as I loved him.
"Ellie," Fletch had said. "Turn this song up." He rolled down the windows, and the wind whipped my hair across my face. I began singing at the top of my lungs, over the roar of the wind whooshing past.
We flew along the never-ending freeway, the lone car on the vacant expanse. It had been a week since we fled Harker, leaving behind the certainty of our lives.
Maybe it was the high of doing something so spontaneous, but in that moment I felt invincible.
Fletch reached across the console separating us and took my hand. He gave it a soft squeeze.
"I love you, Ellie Jacobs."
My face turned toward him, and I stared at his profile for a long time before speaking. It was in that moment that I knew nothing could tear Fletch and me apart.
How wrong I was.
Those moments, those little slices of heaven taught me love means nothing. It's just a state of heightened emotions. Emotions I've long since buried and left for dead.
I wiggle out of my jeans and pull my blouse over my head. While wearing just my panties and tank top, I select a sundress and sweater from my things. Brady gave me a heads up on the expected dress code for the weekend. No jeans; sundresses for the daytime and evening; formal wedding attire. I take the only gown I own out of my suitcase and hang it in the closet. It appears to be wrinkle-free. And if it isn't, I'm sure someone around here can steam it for me.
My phone dings, and I pick it up. A text from Michael.
Missing you, but have a great time. Wish I were there.
With a sigh, I toss my phone on the bed. I'm kind of happy he's not. The one time he met Brady, Michael called him immature and spoiled. Which, if I'm honest, is mostly true. But still, Brady is one of my closest friends. He's the one I cried to after everything went down with Fletch. Not Sarah or Libby, but Brady. Because I knew he'd get it.
Fletch didn't just leave me behind, he left all of us. In those early days, Brady called daily to check in on me, but he said it was because he couldn't get through to Fletch. I didn't have the heart to tell him I'd stopped trying.
And I definitely never told him I was the reason Fletch chose GroundFloor over us. No, that was a truth I couldn't face. Still can't.
I slip the sundress over my head and pull on my cotton cardigan. I check my reflection. My brown hair is sleek and shiny despite the earlier humidity, and my make-up minimal. I look ready for an upscale beach bonfire. Like I’m trying, but not trying too hard.
Outside, the light of the fire illuminates the sky. There must be at least a fifty shadowy people out there. Where are they all staying? This house is large, but I doubt it can house all the wedding attendees.
I’m procrastinating. I know I am, and yet, I can’t stop myself. Every fiber of my body screams for me to leave. Make an excuse, and get the hell out of here. But my heart is saying something else. Something I don’t want to hear: stay. Stay and see what happens.
I cast another glance out the window. Fletch is out there somewhere. It’s time to face him…again.
I leave the safety of my room and walk back to the main floor. The man called "Wilson" stands in the foyer, stiff and poised.
"Everyone is on the beach, Miss Ellie," he says in a clipped voice as he motions to the back of the house. "On through the main room doors. The fire will be visible from there."
My stomach suddenly doesn't feel well. Facing Fletch is one thing; facing the entire group another. Actually, if I’m totally honest, it’s Calista I don’t want to see.
Why did I agree to come? Only Brady and I are close. Whenever he comes into Boston and I'm home, we grab lunch or dinner. We've had numerous brainstorming ideas for his business, and he likes to send me the latest products for feedback. I'm his focus group of one.
But the rest of them? Most I haven’t spoken to in years. Like Fletch, they faded out of my life. Brady, however, is more or less my best friend. I even know the story of how he met Sophie, something Fletch probably doesn't. Brady needed a designer, and Calista recommended her friend Sophie. That was six months ago.
Six months ago. That is how fast this wedding is happening.
Like I said, something doesn't feel right.
I kick off my shoes, and the soft sand tickles the bottoms of my feet. I dig my toes in deeper, allowing the cool sand to massage me.
The night air smells of smoke and sea salt. Over the roar of the ocean, I can make out bits and pieces of conversation.
The area around the bonfire is crowded, and it takes me a minute to spot anyone I know. Of course, it's Calista. She's backlit by the fire. Her dark curls are pulled into a loose, messy bun that makes her look even more beautiful than she is. From the look of it, she's lost weight, too. Gone is the roundness of youth, replaced with sharp angles.
"Ellie," she calls. Her voice drips with sweetness. "Come over here." I glance around, and the rest of the group is sprawled across Adirondack chairs. Except for Fletch. He's sitting on the sand wearing loose linen pants and a relaxed button up shirt. He looks a little like Brady.
My legs wobble as I dutifully head over to the group. Paige reaches up, grabs my hand, and pulls me down to my knees. "Hey, Ellie!" She's cut her hair into a cute bob, and unlike in high school, is actually wearing clothes that cover her. Huh. Some things do change.
Brady tussles my hair. "Hey, kid. Long time no see."
Sophie sits on his lap, her arm draped over his shoulder. We've met a few times, and she's always been nice, if distant - which I assume is just the French way. "Hi, Sophie," I say. "Looks like you have a beautiful weekend planned."
"I hope so," she says in her French accent that all the guys probably find sexy. "My parents and all my friends and family from France have flown over. It must be good for them, no?"
I crinkle my brow. Shouldn't the wedding be about the bride and groom, not friends from France. "Well, it sounds lovely," I answer.
Fletch floats into the periphery of my vision. He's lazily dragging his hand through the sand. And, as luck would have it, the only vacant spot is next to him.
It’s almost as if someone planned it. And I wouldn’t put it past Brady.
"Have a seat and stay awhile," he says, pushing me gently toward Fletch.
That nasty slightly sick feeling returns, but I nestle down into the soft sand near Fletch's feet. He tucks them up, giving me more room.
"So, Ellie, what have you been up to?" Calista says.
She can't be serious. She knows what I've been doing.
How bitchy do I want to be? I cock my head, and study Calista. Two can play this game. "Well, after I saw you in San Francisco, I closed numerous jobs, traveled around the world, and have been busting my ass working."
"You were in San Francisco?" Fletch says.
I'm not surprised that Calista failed to tell him we ran into each other. "Yes, on a business trip."
"Why didn't you…"
I glare at him. Of course he knows why I didn't contact him.
My hands shake, and I tuck them underneath me. "Ellie, if you had called, I would have made time for you."
We both know it's a lie. Fletch ceased being able to make time for me the day he sat in his dad's desk chair.
At the time, he looked like a little boy playing make-believe. "Tell me what to do, Elle," he said. "Tell me how I'm supposed to run all this." His hands swept wide.
"You put on your big boy undies and get the job done. Or you walk away from it all."
Confusion clouded his green eyes.
"Come back to Boston with me. We'll sort it out."
Fletch came around the desk and hugged me. “We’ll make this work, Elle. I know we can.”
We didn't sort anything out that week in Boston. He clung to me like I was the only thing keepi
ng his head above water.
At the end of the week, he was supposed to leave my apartment for a few days and come back to me after he finished wrapping up his dad’s estate. We were going to have a life together. He’d take a leave from Stanford until I graduated, then we’d move back to San Francisco. We had a plan.
Instead, I never saw him again. Unless you count pictures. Then I've seen him plenty.
I clench my jaw and pray the tears don't come. "Oh, I did call. I guess you never got the message," I say. "Or you were just too busy for me?"
"Elle." He pleads. His hand juts out and touches my arm. Through the thin material of my cardigan, I can feel the heat of his hand.
Brady clears his throat. "So, tomorrow. Golf and the spa. Is that the plan, Soph?"
She lowers her long lashes. "Of course. It's written on the agenda."
I study the two of them and wonder how they, the two most opposite people, could fall in love. Brady's never been a planner, preferring spontaneity. Sophie, however, seems to have everything planned down to the last second. I would think being with someone your polar opposite would be maddening.
Then again, being with someone too much like yourself is heartbreaking.
Maybe Brady is onto something.
Chapter Five
The smell of salt and seaweed surrounds us, and clings to our clothes and hair. I inhale deeply, taking it all in – the smell of the ocean combined with the smoke of the bonfire. It smells like romance and fun.
This beach is so different from Harker's wild California coast. Where there once were dangerous cliffs and rocks, we now lounge in sugar soft dunes among tufts of beachgrass.
Reid lazily slumps backward. He already looks drunk or stoned, and it occurs to me that it’s quite possible I’ve never seen him totally sober. Reid has, in my opinion, a substance abuse problem, but no one ever mentions it or calls him out on it. It’s like we’re all keeping quiet, so we don’t offend him.
He runs his hand through his shaggy hair, exposing the tattoos that cover both of his muscular forearms. He's definitely cute in a pseudo-punk, alcoholic way.
"Anyone have weed?" Reid asks.
A nervous titter goes around the group.
Paige huffs and crosses her arms. "Really, Reid? Really? I thought-"
Reid shoots her a nasty look, and Paige shakes her head in disappointment. Though they broke up years ago, the tension between Reid and Paige is palpable. Something is going on between the two of them, only they don’t seem to realize it.
Paige reaches out and lays her hand on Reid’s arm, and he doesn’t pull away. He’s too busy telling Brady about his latest exploits. Something about girls sneaking backstage. Honestly, I have zero interest in listening to him.
Reid is on his way to becoming a successful musician, having had two songs hit the iTunes top ten. While he doesn't grace as many magazine covers as Fletch, he's still considered a heartthrob.
Last year, Brady and I caught one of Reid’s shows at a smallish venue not too far from Harvard. The number of teen girls in the audience was a bit unbelievable. All the screaming and freaking out had Brady and me in hysterics. As Brady said, it was good to see Reid's hard-earned Harker education being put to good use.
But there’s no shrieking or freaking out today. No, Paige looks on the verge of tears. She keeps batting her eyes and pulling down her lower lids. She’s so different than she was five years ago when all she cared about was Reid, sex, and having fun. She seems sadder and more mature. I guess the maturity part is supposed to happen as you get older. I, however, feel like a seventeen-year-old trapped in a twenty-three-year-old’s body most days.
Despite her tears, Paige seems to be getting herself together. She’s in her first year of law school at UCLA after graduating with honors from USC. I’ll admit, when Brady told me, I burst out laughing. I mean, I like Paige and everything, but she's more of a bikini and fun girl, not a serious law student. She’s one-hundred percent a Southern California party girl.
Sophie draws her fingertips up and down Brady's arm. "Bray-dee," she says all French and sexy. "You know how I feel about this."
"It's just for tonight." His voice has a bit of desperation to it, and it bothers me. I’m not sure why, but it does.
"Tonight only," she admonishes, wagging her finger. "But no more. Okay?" She says okay funny. Like the word sticks to her tongue.
My ears must not have heard correctly. Did Sophie just tell Brady to not light up? What the hell? And he's okay with it? What is happening to my friends?
My eyes flick to Fletch, but he seems oblivious of Sophie’s behavior. In his hand, he holds a baggie. "Wedding present for the groom." He chucks it at Brady, who catches it. "Pure Humboldt Blue," he says. "Your favorite."
Brady opens the bag and inhales deeply. "Pure heaven is more like it."
Fletch laughs, wrapping me up in the sound of his baritone. "Well, enjoy,” he says. “It's all I have."
Brady takes the weed and the wrappers Fletch has so kindly supplied, and quickly rolls a joint. He lights the end and inhales.
"That is good shit," he says on his exhale. "Thanks, buddy."
Fletch laughs. "No problem."
Reid stretches out his hand. "No fair hoarding the goods."
The joint makes its way around the group. Unlike everyone else, I've never smoked weed. So when the joint is passed to me, I politely decline. Sophie does the same.
"Where's the cooler?" I ask. Everyone around me has beers, and I'm in desperate need of liquid courage.
Sophie shudders. "Cooler? Oh no no no. There is a bar. It is over there." She points to the far side of the bonfire. I squint and barely recognize the outline of an actual bar. Nice.
"Anyone need drinks?" I ask.
To my surprise, Fletch jumps up. "I'll come with you."
My heart flips. Or does a headstand or something. Whatever it is, it isn’t doing its job of pumping blood through my body because my extremities have gone numb.
We take the drink orders: water for Sophie, who claims she doesn't want to be bloated for the big day; beer for the rest of us.
As Fletch and I trudge across the sand, my bravery surges. "You don't have to be nice to me. I mean you do, for Brady's sake, but not for mine. I get it."
"I'm not being nice," Fletch says. "I needed a drink."
The fire casts weird shadows across his face, and I can't read his expression.
But why is that surprising? I can't read anything about Fletch anymore.
"All I'm saying is…that conversation we started to have in the car. We don't need to have it. I understand your work is important to you."
Fletch shakes his head. "It's not that. It's just, so much time has passed. You know? I don’t know where to start."
My heart seizes. Too much time.
In my wildest dreams, Fletch and I would be alone on the beach. He'd wrap his arms around me, and I'd nuzzle into his chest. He'd kiss my neck and tell me he's sorry for walking out of my life.
And I'd forgive him.
It's funny, how the first thing you forget about a person is the sound of their voice. Hearing Fletch speak brings back a flood of memories.
I love you, he promised.
Don't ever leave me, he begged.
I sigh. Dreams are dreams for a reason.
"A reporter came to my house before I left," I say. "He wanted to talk about you." We're walking side-by-side. Our fingertips could touch.
Fletch pulls up short and pivots toward me. His hand brushes mine, and heat flares up my arm. "What did he ask?"
"Nothing much. I was in a hurry to get to the airport. My car wasn't working, and I was flustered."
"It's probably that stupid Business Today story." He nods as if trying to reassure himself. "They've been contacting anyone and everyone I've ever come in contact with. Reid said they called him last week." Fletch takes a deep breath. "They say they want to get to know the real me. The boy behind a multi-billion dollar company."
&
nbsp; He starts walking briskly toward the bar. "Yeah," he says like he's trying to convince himself. "That's all it is. They just want to corroborate everyone else's story."
“What did Reid tell them?” I doubt Reid remembers given his chronic stoned state.
“That they should talk to you.” Fletch quickens his pace.
“Awesome. So I should expect more reporters hounding me?”
Fletch nods his head. “I’m sorry, Ellie. I’ve tried to keep them away from you.”
“Are you afraid of what I might say?”
In the moonlight, Fletch’s face drains of color. “Sometimes.”
“You don’t trust me to keep your secrets, do you?”
“It’s not that, Ellie.”
We belly up to the bar. Standing next to him, I realize how much he's bulked up since I last saw him. Gone is the lanky Fletch, and hello muscles. I wonder if I look different to him. I mean, I have highlights now, but other than that, I think I look the same.
“Then what is it?” I ask.
Fletch drums his fingers on the bar top. “I need to keep my personal life private.”
"Why don't you just talk to them? Spare the rest of us."
"I have. Numerous times." He places his palms down on the bar top. "They want to dig up something scandalous."
"I see."
Now that I think about it, there's never really been anything of substance written about Fletch and me. Granted, I've never spoken to reporters, but whenever I'm mentioned - if I'm mentioned at all - it's always as the friend who stood by Fletch's side at his dad's funeral. There was initially a lot of interest in me – as the girl whose apartment Fletch hid out at during the days immediately after the funeral.
I was, at the time, the girl who could have derailed Fletch's rise to CEO dominance.
But romantically, it's Calista they focused on. It's Calista who talked to the press and was presented as Fletch's "close" friend. It's Calista who everyone wanted to know about.
But me? There's never much more than a passing mention, and yet in the early days, reporters were constantly circling. Looking for any hint of gossip they could find. They hounded me, but I kept my lips sealed, happy to let Calista have the limelight she so desired.
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