Reverse (Bittersweet Symphony Duet #2)

SEVENTY “like i never even loved you”

SEVENTY

“like i never even loved you”

Today Kid, EL ROMA

Natalie

I ’m drunk. And not in the giggly, cute, adorably passable type of way. As it is, I’m close to sloppy, and gauging from the looks being slung my way by my unimpressed bartender Jerry, in danger of possible arrest.

Little does Jerry know I’m already locked in a Mexican prison, even if it is five-star.

No matter how many bumper sticker slogans I’ve recited to myself today, I lost the battle. So, I dove headfirst into the top-shelf tequila that I’ve been swimming in since Holly left our cabana to prep for the night out.

All thoughts of my victory in becoming Editor in Chief of Speak tarnish as my past and present—which pales in comparison—collide. It all brings me back to the same damning conclusion—the future is now.

After endless months of burying my head in the sand at work, and hiding my raging heartache behind my career, it’s reared its ugly head. Remorse has its wicked way with me and the itch to go back and seek refuge in a packed schedule has me looking up early flights home.

You cannot live to work, Natalie.

It’s the remembrance of Easton’s headlines that keep me parked on my stool at the poolside lounge, adjacent to the resort lobby.

At least in Mexico, I’m safe from continuous updates regarding the new love interest of the world’s most promising new rock star. Here, I don’t have to avoid them as if they don’t exist and press through the rest of my day, pretending I didn’t soak in every line like the rest of his starry-eyed fans. Because that’s all I am now, a spectator, a fan. His past, and maybe for him, still considered a stain.

Even though, technically , I was his first fan and his first wife . No one but me will ever get to claim that title, even if he’s intent on replacing me sometime in the future.

It’s an immature thought, but a valid claim and win, nevertheless.

“AHA!” I shout, and Jerry jumps back in fright, managing to keep a grip on the glass before it slips from his hand. “Whaddaya know, Jerry,” I muse, twirling my colorful drink umbrella between pinched fingers. “I just caught a glimpse of the bright side. Things may be looking up for me.”

He gives me a dead stare as he continues drying his glass. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” I mumble, sucking on the ice from my last drained margarita, attempting to ingest more tequila.

The downside of not catching an early plane home? Watching my best friends fall in love at a time when it’s the most heart-wrenching to witness.

“I have so much to be thankful for, a lot, really,” I reiterate to myself and to Jerry, who motions to my untouched complimentary appetizer in blatant suggestion.

Ironically, even as I continually try to count my blessings, I can’t find one fuck to give about the future that awaits me back in Austin. Not since the tranquil Mexican waters and Senor Tequila smacked me with a good dose of vitamin truth.

I knew what was expected of me, so I stepped up, took control of my emotions, myself, and my life, and let it fuel me. I did what I do best, I compartmentalized my pain and made and attained new goals. A faint, but new set of abs included.

I’ve since met those goals, and now . . . my future will consist of more of the same, and it’s blindsiding.

“Jerrryyy,” I drag out his name, a clear solicitation for a pinch more of the numbing juice.

“No,” he belts in reply without so much as a glance my way, the hospitality portion of his demeanor long gone.

“Fine,” I slouch into my stool and close my eyes, listening to the sounds around me—the fountain gurgling in the nearby pool, and just beyond, the faint but distinct lapping of ocean waves which lulls me into a happier place.

“I, Elliot Easton Crowne . . . Take you, Natalie Renee Butler . . . To be my lawfully wedded wife . . .” he declares reverently, a glimmer of love resting on his lash line as he takes the ring from Joel and turns back to me. His warmth engulfs me wholly as he pushes the promise onto my finger.

“Love is patient,” I recite. “Love is kind.”

“Love is not boastful,” he murmurs, “nor does it insist on its own way.”

“Love is not self-seeking,” I say, voice shaking with the love I feel as I push the band on his finger.

“Or easily angered,” he squeezes my fingers, and I feel the implication of it—a second promise.

“Love keeps no records of wrongdoings,” I recite back when prompted. Just as we’re pronounced, he whispers my name in awe.

“Natalie . . .”

“Ha!” I exclaim at the faint sound of my name, an echo of the most defining moment of my life by the velvet voice that continually haunts me. Jerry glances over at me, brows lifting to his hairline to let me know I’m still cut off. Feeling the impact of that whisper, I briefly wonder how I managed such a clear audible memory and giggle maniacally as I squint at my empty margarita schooner. It’s apparent I need to steer clear of tequila . . . and maybe Jerry until the end of my Mexication.

When I feel the prickling sensation of a presence behind me, I begin to rattle on my barstool and realize both sets of Jerry’s eyes are still on me as the silky voice repeats my name.

“Humor me, okay, Jerry?” I straighten on my stool as much as possible as the hairs on the back of my neck start to rise at an alarming rate. “Just for shits and giggles. Is it the tequila, or is there someone behind me? Say . . . yea tall,” I position my hand well above my head, “resembling a criminally good-looking, but very broody rock star?”

“It’s Jerod ,” he says, “and yes.”

“Yes, it’s the tequila?”

“Yes, there’s a rock star behind you.”

Turning sideways on my stool, I’m met with widening hazel eyes and get lost in them as easily as I did when I first became acquainted with them so many moons ago. Easton Crowne gapes back at me, sporting a deep tan, wearing board shorts and a form-fitting V-neck. Wayfarers rest on top of his thick, black hair, which now hangs a few inches from his shoulders. He’s grown even more into his impressive physique than the last time I saw him. Looking impossibly fit, he stands before me every bit the rock god he’s become.

In my tequila haze, I reach out and poke his chest as he gawks back at me, seemingly just as confused as I am before I finally speak up.

“Easton,” I croak out, vision blurring as elation slams into me. “You’re in . . . M-Mex . . . you’re really here ?” I reach out to cup his jaw, and his eyes close at the contact before he utters a low curse.

“Jesus, Natalie. You’re fucking wasted.”

“Meixcation,” I start to tequila-splain. “Dad sent me here for the paper.”

“You’re fucking kidding me, right?” He snaps, shaking his head while simultaneously freeing himself of my touch.

“No. I mean, yes. He gave me the paper and sent me here to celebrate! Been here a few, t-two days . . . Doyouwanna m-margarita?” I stumble over my words. “Jerry makes them so good you can conjure a daydream into reality poolside .”

“Jerod,” Jerry corrects behind me.

“You overserved a little, didn’t you, man?” Easton scolds Jerry as I greedily take him in, hands moving on their own accord, palming his chest.

“She was cut off an hour ago,” Jerry explains, “I’ve been trying to get her to eat or call someone. I even offered to have a bellman escort her to her room, but she says it’s haunted by Prince Phillip .”

“The fuck?” Easton frowns. “Natalie, what—”

“Damon will come,” I tell the apparition I’m pawing.

Easton’s eyes lower as he edges further away to skirt my touch.

“So, you’re here with Damon ?”

“Yes. God, yes. It’s wonderful. He’s so in love,” I explain. “Both of them, Holly too.”

Easton tilts his head, eyes assessing. “Let’s get you to your room.”

“Are you . . . you come . . . for . . . to see me ?”

He pauses at my question before shaking his head. “My girlfriend is checking us in while I scope out the place.” He scratches the back of his neck, raking his lower lip before speaking. “Do you want to meet her?”

A sobering lightning bolt shoots straight into my chest, frying my hopeful insides as I realize just how fucking drunk and delusional I currently am. This is no apparition standing in front of me. It’s my ex-husband, who is here with another woman. A woman who knows what it feels like to take his offered hand, who gets to soak in his warmth, who might even be lucky enough to gain the rare looks in his eyes I once thought solely belonged to me.

Another woman who gets to know him intimately, in the way I was just with him mere minutes ago while wrapped in my blissful memory. Lightning threatens again, hovering, lingering—as does Easton’s question.

“Do I want to—,” I manage to stand on shaky legs and end up chest to chest with Easton. His nostrils flare as I try not to inhale and fail. He takes a step back as I grip the bar blindly behind me to correct my balance before jutting my chin. “Do I want to meet your girlfriend?” I force myself to choke out. “No, thank you, Easton. Honestly, I’d rather go for a slow dive to the bottom of the fucking sea.”

Confident I got my message across, I march straight through the patio bar and down the walkway toward the ocean, dead set on seeing my declaration through.