The Girl I Didn't Marry

by Annabelle Costa

  I walk over to the car, my hands so sweaty that I have to wipe them on my black skirt. As I get closer, I see the dark hair of the male driver of the vehicle, and I’m now nearly certain that it’s Nick. All of my relatives are blond, after all.

  It turns out that I’m right. It’s Nick in the car. But he’s not alone.

  When I get about two feet away from the vehicle, I can see clearly what’s going on inside there. Nick’s with someone in the car. No, not just with someone. He’s making out with someone. And not just someone. It’s Chrissy.

  I remember how furious I’d been when Nick showed up for prom with Chrissy as his date. This is so much worse. There’s no room for misunderstanding here—it’s not like he thinks it’s me he’s kissing. He’s making out with my former best friend at my father’s funeral.

  The anger I felt with Nick when he refused to have anything to do with me after his accident all comes rushing back to me. I was willing to forgive him when I thought he was doing it because he was ashamed and afraid. But it’s clear that Nick has no lack of confidence when it comes to the opposite sex. And it’s also clear he has no intention of sincerely apologizing for what he did. Did he really think he was going to make amends by having a make-out session at my father’s funeral?

  I’m so mad, I want to key his car.

  Instead, I bang on the window with the palm of my hand. It takes a second for him to disentangle himself from Chrissy, and he lifts his head to see who’s banging on his car. He looks pissed off until he sees my face, then his dark eyes go wide.

  I have to admit, the photos of Nick didn’t do him justice. He’s really, really good looking, and the impact of it is multiplied after being away from him for so long. When he lays his eyes on me, my knees get weak for an instant and some of my anger melts away. Then I see Chrissy fiddling with her partially unbuttoned blouse and the anger returns full force.

  The driver’s side window of the car slides open, and Nick’s dark eyes grow in intensity. He’s staring at me like he can’t believe I’m standing here. “Jessie?”

  I plant one hand on either hip as I glare at him. “Thanks for coming to my father’s funeral. Glad you saw fit to bring a date.”

  Nick glances back at Chrissy, his face blanching. “No, that wasn’t… I mean, we were just…”

  Chrissy offers him no help, and I’m not surprised. I know Chrissy’s game. She won’t admit it, but she’s always had a little crush on Nick. In retrospect, I wonder if that’s why she didn’t clue me in on the fact that she was bringing him to prom for me. Maybe she believed that he’d take one look at her in that red dress and decide to stick with her. It wasn’t a terrible bet.

  “I don’t care what you were doing,” I tell him. “As far as I’m concerned, you can go right on doing it. You’re not welcome at the funeral. Neither one of you.”

  Nick’s mouth falls open. “Jessie, I’m sorry…”

  “Sorry for what?” I snap at him. “Sorry for making out with a girl in the parking lot of my father’s funeral? Sorry for refusing to see me again after you fucked me? Sorry for not calling me once the last ten years?”

  He lowers his eyes to stare down at his lap. “You don’t understand.”

  “I do understand!” I’m so angry now that my hands are shaking. “You think I didn’t know that you weren’t going to get better? That you weren’t going to walk again? I knew. I told you that I knew. You heard me that day I came to your house, didn’t you?”

  He doesn’t answer and I know the answer is yes.

  “You know why I came there that day, Nick?” I take a deep breath. I’ve never told anyone before what I believed to be true that day. Not one soul. “I came there because your goddamn condom broke and my period was one month late.”

  Nick’s eyes widen. His gaze drops to my belly, as if any clue would lie there all these years later. “Jessie,” he gasps, “you… were you…?”

  The words hang between us.

  “I wasn’t pregnant,” I say to put him out of his misery. “Not that you gave a shit back then.”

  “Jessie…” He looks like he’s struggling to get the words out. He’s still in the car, which is probably because it’s hard for him to get out. He’s not even trying to get out of the car though, which makes me realize that nothing has really changed. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  “Save it,” I snap at him. “Why don’t you go home and fuck my friend?”

  I spin on my heels and march away from the BMW. My hands are still shaking, and I don’t feel good at all about what just happened. I’d imagined my reunion with Nick in so many ways, but I never imagined it like that. After everything he did to me, how could he have kissed Chrissy at my father’s funeral?

  I’m glad that I accepted Seth’s proposal. If I ever had any doubts about marrying the man, they’ve now vanished.

  I never want to see Nick Moretti ever again.

  Nick

  Shit.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  Of all the ways I’d ever imagined seeing Jessie again after all these years, I’d never imagined it like that. Of course, it was my own goddamn fault. How could I have sat in the parking lot of the church kissing Chrissy? What the hell is wrong with me?

  The worst part is how beautiful Jessie looked. Exactly like I remember her. No, better. It made me chest hurt just looking at her. And it made my chest hurt even more when I saw how angry she was with me.

  I can’t believe she thought she was pregnant with my kid, and I turned her away. I really fucked up. No wonder she hates me.

  “Nick.” I feel Chrissy’s hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”

  Any lust I’d been feeling a few minutes ago has completely vanished. I just feel sick when I think about what I’d been doing. I’ve been so dumb.

  “I gotta go talk to her.” Enough of my own stupid vanity—I’ve gotta go make this right. The only way I’m going to be able to talk to Jessie is if I get in my wheelchair and go into that church, so that’s what I’m gonna do. I swing the car door open, and start to reach in the back to get my chair, but I can’t do it with Chrissy in the way. She’s gotta move so I can get my chair out. “Lemme get my chair, Chrissy.”

  Chrissy looks sad. “I think you should leave her alone right now, Nick.”

  What? I don’t get her. I know she’s that not into me, because she’s got a boyfriend of her own, so that’s not her motivation. Why is she telling me not to go after the girl I love?

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I say. “You’re the one who convinced me to come here in the first place! You were the one trying to get me out of the car before!”

  “Look,” she says, “Jess is really angry right now. What’re you gonna do—start bugging her at her dad’s funeral? This isn’t the time. She needs space.”

  I shake my head.

  “She needs space for now,” she adds. “I mean, look what you did to her.”

  Okay, she’s got a point. I sigh and lean my head back against the headrest. “Okay, I’ll give her space. For now.”

  For now.

  But eventually, one way or another, I’m going to win her back.

  Dear readers,

  I know everyone loves a happy ending, so please don’t hate me.

  When I envisioned Nick and Jessie’s story, I had intended it all to be one book. But as I kept writing, I realized that I had way too much to say and that it was either going to be a War and Peace sized novel, or else I’d have to split it into two separate stories.

  Although you’ve now come to the end of the book, I hope you’re not disappointed that Nick and Jessie haven’t yet gotten their happily ever after. If so, I promise that Book 2, The Girl I Didn’t Kill For, will be out very, very shortly and will deliver for you.

  In the meantime, please drop me a line to tell me if you loved or hated the story! My email address is razberripie@gmail.com. I always love to hear from readers! If you did enjoy this book and can take the time to leave a brief review on
Amazon, I’d be forever grateful.

  Check out my website http://annabellecosta.blogspot.com/ for updates on my releases and to subscribe to my mailing list. Also, please follow me on Twitter (https://twitter.com/annabellecosta5) and/or like me on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/Annabelle-Costa-894496980704700/).

  XXO,

  Annabelle

  P.S. Keep reading for a preview of Book 2 in the series, The Girl I Didn’t Kill For….

  Acknowledgements

  I used to think that I could put out a book without any input from other people. I figured whatever I wrote the first time around was good enough and the purpose of sending it to other people was essentially for them to tell me it was great and make me feel good, or else tell me it was awful and destroy my confidence.

  Since then, I’ve realized how important it is to have critique partners (a term I recently learned!). I am intensely grateful to the other writers who looked through this book in its early stages and told me what was good and what sucked. This list includes J. Giresi, J. Saman, Molly Mirren, J. Giresi, and Kate Forest. Thank you thank you thank you. You can tell how grateful I am by the lack of commas in that sentence.

  THE GIRL I DIDN’T KILL FOR

  The cops have come to arrest me.

  I know it’s them the second I hear that knock on the door. Cops have a knock I’d know in my sleep. That solid firm knock that you can hear anywhere in the apartment—they don’t bother with the doorbell. I heard that knock many times before. I heard it when they took my father away. I heard it more times than I can count on my hands each time my brother Tony got busted.

  But I never thought it would ever be me.

  There’s two of them standing at the door—a man and a woman. The man’s got a pair of cuffs on his belt and it makes me sick.

  “Nicolas Moretti?” the male cop asks me.

  “That’s me,” I say. I’m playing it cool—acting like I’m not scared as shit. This is actually happening. These cops are taking me to jail. It’s not a summons, which I got a bunch of times before—I’m going to jail. Jail.

  “Mr. Moretti, we have a warrant for your arrest,” the male cop says.

  This is the part where they’re supposed to cuff me and take me away in front of all my neighbors. Except the two of them just stare at me dumbly like they’re not sure what they’re supposed to do. You’d think when they came to arrest Nick Moretti, they’d have come better prepared. It’s not like they don’t know who I am—I’d bet every cop in the city knows my name.

  The male cop—his badge I can now see reads O’Neil—pulls the cuffs off his belt. And that’s when I really start shitting my pants. They’re going to cuff me. They’re really doing this.

  But O’Neil hesitates. He looks at the female cop, Conti, and she looks equally baffled. They should be reading me my rights now, although come to think of it, they didn’t read Pop his rights when they busted him either. They got to do it before they question you though. I know that much. But the confusion of how to arrest me has thrown them off.

  “You don’t gotta cuff me,” I tell them. My Brooklyn accent is slipping out because I’m nervous. I lost it during all those years in college and when I went to Harvard Business School. I worked hard not to sound like some two-bit street gangster. But when I’m stressed or anxious, it comes back like it was never gone in the first place. I hate it. I don’t want to sound like a thug—I want to sound like what I am, which is one of the most successful businessmen in the city. A guy who they’d allow the dignity of not being forced out of his home in shackles.

  “We do,” Conti tells me, although she sounds apologetic. She’s young, maybe early twenties, and she’d be pretty if her hair weren’t pulled back in the most severe bun I ever seen. Not as pretty as Jessie though. Nobody is.

  I swallow a lump in my throat as I realize I can’t talk them out of this. They got their orders. Still, I give one last appeal: “But if you do, I won’t be able to…”

  They look down at me, acknowledging the situation—the fact that I’m sitting in a wheelchair. I can’t walk, and if they cuff my wrists, that’s it. I won’t be able to move. The thought of it makes me sick.

  “We gotta,” O’Neil tells me.

  I take deep breaths, trying not to panic. I pull off the tie that’s hanging loose around my neck and suddenly feels like it’s choking me—they won’t let me keep a tie in a jail cell anyway. It doesn’t help me now that I’m wearing an expensive shirt and pants, and shoes that cost more than the shirt and the pants put together. It doesn’t matter when they’re busting me for Murder One.

  “I need stuff if you’re going to take me,” I tell them. “Medical stuff. Okay?”

  O’Neil nods and Conti looks embarrassed. I can see they’re trying to figure out if they should trust me to get the stuff on my own or if they should go with me. Do they think I’m going to grab some gun I got hidden away and start shooting at them? Yeah, I got a gun hidden away—two, actually. But I’m not dumb enough to start shooting at some cops. I’m Nick Moretti, not some loser on the street selling crack.

  Or maybe they think I’m going to make a getaway. I’m in an apartment on the thirty-second story. Do they think I’m going to jump out the window and fly away to a Caribbean island? I’m in a goddamn wheelchair—even getting out the window if I were on the first floor would be an impossible challenge. All I want is to get my pills and shit out of the bathroom in privacy, but it’s getting obvious I won’t even get that.

  O’Neil follows me to the bathroom down the hallway. It isn’t going to take long because I already got a month’s worth of extra supplies stuffed into a duffel bag under the bathroom sink. Sometimes I gotta go fast, so I’ve got it all packed. It wouldn’t work to be rushing on some trip and discover that I forgot one of my medications.

  O’Neil eyes the bag with suspicion. “I got to check that out.”

  I don’t want him to, but not because I got a gun or drugs in there. I don’t want him rifling through my bottles of pills. Maybe I’m in a wheelchair, but I try to project to the world that I’m a tough guy. A tough guy doesn’t take five medications. He doesn’t need a bunch of catheters whenever he goes on a trip.

  But I can’t say no to a cop, so I thrust the bag in his direction. “Be my guest, Officer.”

  He gives it a cursory look while I stare down at my hands. I don’t want to be cuffed. Christ, it’s bad enough they’re doing this to me. Soon as I get to the cell, I’m going to ask to call my lawyer. I’ll be back home in an hour—not even long enough to use the contents of this bag. I’ll make these assholes sorry they did this to me.

  “It’s fine,” O’Neil says, handing me back my bag.

  And then we’re back in the living room and it’s the moment of truth. O’Neil gets out the cuffs and my heart is slamming so hard in my chest, I think I could drop dead of a heart attack. No. Fuck no.

  “Hold out your hands, Mr. Moretti,” O’Neil says.

  “Don’t do this,” I appeal to them one last time.

  O’Neil shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

  I do as they say. I hold out my hands, and O’Neil snaps the cuffs into place. He makes them loose, but they still bite into my wrists. My brother Tony says he’s still got a place on the back of his left hand that he can’t feel on account of his handcuffs being too tight once. But Tony was a thug and pissed off the cops. I’m no thug. I’m one of the most important men in the whole goddamn city. And now the cops wheeling me out of my apartment building with cuffs on my hands will be all over the front page of The New York Post tomorrow morning.

  I rest my hands in my lap, on top of the duffel bag. A sweat breaks out on my forehead, and I try to calm myself down. But it’s hard. The cops will have to push me down to their car, and they’re going to have to lift me inside. And the media sharks downstairs will get it all on tape.

  “How do we push the chair?” Conti asks me.

  “The handles are folded down,” I tell her.

  I
didn’t want handles on my chair, but there are rare times when they’re necessary. Like now. When my hands are cuffed and the cops need to push me to their car.

  I feel myself moving—Conti is pushing me. This is really happening. I’m really going to be booked on a Murder One charge. I’m going to sit in a jail cell just like my brother did and my father did. I got the best lawyer in the city, but I’m not sure if even he can get me out of this one. The evidence is damning.

  And the worst part?

  I’m innocent.

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