Chapter 2
Ellie
The soft sounds of my sniffles are almost drowned out by the crinkle of plastic and Talia’s enthusiastic chewing. On the screen, the couple I’d invested my hope in was imploding under a cinematic downpour. So much for my chosen rom-com; this felt more like a tragedy in a pretty dress.
“Think they made her wear white on purpose?” Talia muses around a mouthful of pretzels, gesturing with her glass toward the weeping actress who is standing under a downpour. “Seems cruel.”
They’re having a soul-crushing breakup, and she’s critiquing the costume design? I just shrug, sipping my wine to disguise the way my throat tightens. The actor’s face is a masterpiece of pained betrayal, and it hits me right in the hollow part of my chest.
I feel you, buddy. Love hurts.
“Thanks for hanging out with me,” I groan, propping my head up with my fist. The movie shifts to a sunnier scene, a stark contrast to my mood. “Tell Frank I appreciate his sacrifice, too.”
Talia laughs, the sound bright and effortless. The heartbreak on screen doesn’t touch her; how could it? She’s already living her love story, secure in the knowledge that her own leading man will text her any minute to see if we need anything.
I’m starting to think my movie picks are a form of punishment—a weekly reminder of the love story that remains stubbornly out of reach.
“He’s still waiting for his invitation, you know,” she says, her cheeks flushing a tell-tale pink.
I drain the last of my wine, the sweet tang doing little to soothe the huff of frustration that escapes me. “All you two would do is make out or get all handsy. I know your game.”
The last thing I need, on top of my own poorly chosen cinematic misery, is to be a spectator in their live-action romance. It would be a special new layer of torture.
Her giggle is all the confirmation I need. We’ve been friends for too long.
Pushing myself up from the couch, the world tilts slightly, and a giggle slips out. “Need a refill.”
“Grab more snacks!” she calls after me, already re-absorbed by the screen.
In the kitchen, I hum to myself as I shove a bag of popcorn into the microwave before tending to my empty glass.
As I pour, staring into the swirling pink liquid, the hollow feeling in my chest expands. Talia is sweet, but these bi-weekly rescues are a kindness I can’t always accept gracefully. She’s my best friend, and she worries I’m lonely.
Two years shy of thirty, and my love life is a graveyard of almosts and not-quite-rights. A few hopeful weeks here, a failed month there—nothing that ever made me feel like dismantling my carefully constructed standards.
Why is the bar so impossibly high?
Or is it just that one man in particular has been holding the standard for a decade, his silhouette blocking out all the other contenders?
The wine kisses the rim of the glass, and I jerk the bottle back, avoiding a spill.
Staring at the full glass, the metaphor is painfully clear.
My heart is just like this. One man takes up all the space, leaving no room for anyone else to even breathe.
Even though I haven’t seen him in years, he’s still there, a phantom tenant who refuses to be evicted, ruining my chances at a future with anyone else.
Sounds kind of pathetic, Ellie.
The popcorn begins its frantic crackling and thumping in the microwave. I take a careful sip of the rosé, the cool glass against my lips a fleeting comfort. It’s a shame, really. No matter how much wine I drink, I’ll never manage to drown the memory of Charles Thornton.
The man who etched his name onto my heart in permanent, elegant cursive. The same one who, against all odds, somehow still remembers I exist, even as he’s become someone important. Someone I only see in news articles and professional headshots.
A hotshot with my heart still in his back pocket with one knockout smile.
My gaze drifts, snagging on the coffee table tucked in the corner. There, propped against a vase of flowers—no doubt sent by a meticulous secretary—rests the magazine. One that I had to go out of my way to hunt down for.
His face is right there on the cover, staring back at me with a confident, slightly amused glint in his eyes.
Charles Thornton, the caption declares, One of Citrine Bay’s Top Sexy Bachelors.
Way out of my league? The league doesn’t even exist. It’s a different universe entirely.
Just thinking about him now, about the stark difference between the polished man on the cover and the boy who was once glued to my brother’s side in ripped jeans, feels like trying to grasp a dream. It’s unreal. A fiction.
The old, familiar question, worn smooth from years of handling, surfaces again. If I had just found the courage to tell him how I felt before his family whisked him off to their empire… would things be different?
The fantasy is a dangerous comfort, a single, shining moment where I rewrite our history. I’d like to think so.
A sigh deflates me, leaving me feeling emptier than before. Charles Thornton isn’t just a memory; he’s my personal curse, a beautiful plague I can’t seem to recover from.
A sharp buzz against my stomach cuts through the melancholy.
I fumble in my hoodie pocket, the motion automatic.
My screen glows with a message from an unknown number.
Normally, those are instantly banished to the digital void—my phone knows my contact list is a curated collection of fewer than ten people.
Expecting a message full of suspicious links that’ll try to encourage me to click, I pause when I see it’s the opposite.
It’s a message claiming to be the very man who’s currently on my mind. The world tilts, not from the wine, but from the sheer, impossible weight of that name on my screen.
Like a weirdly timed message, another one arrives with an invitation that doesn’t seem real.
Are my eyes playing a trick on me?
Looking over at the wine, I have to double-check that it doesn’t have any new ingredients that could induce hallucinations. It doesn’t.
“You’re missing the best part!” Talia’s voice is a distant call from a different, simpler universe. “They’re about to have an angry make-out session!”
My eyes drop back to the screen, rereading the short paragraph until the words blur. A gala. At Christmas. He needs a date he can trust, someone who isn’t “known.” I think that’s his polite, corporate-speak for “a nobody.” Me. He’s describing me.
He’s inviting me to a two-day event in a glittering world that feels as alien as the moon. It sounds less like a fantasy and more like a beautifully wrapped trap. My stomach twists.
There’s no way the Charles Thornton I’ve just been pitying myself over is lounging in some penthouse, casually texting me. The disconnect is too vast. My fingers, clumsy with a dangerous mix of wine and hope, stumble across the keyboard.
I demand proof. A picture. Now. It’s not because I’m desperate and want to cling onto something I can call my own. Of course not.
The pause that follows is agonizing. Seconds stretch into a small eternity. Then, my phone vibrates, a tiny earthquake in my palm.
When the image loads, my heart doesn’t just flutter—it slams into my throat, stealing my breath.
It’s just him. No suit, no studio lights, no artfully disheveled hair.
He’s in a simple grey t-shirt, his black hair is slightly messy, and his green eyes don’t hold the cool, calculated charm of his magazine covers.
They look… warm. A little unsure. This isn’t the hotshot bachelor.
This is the guy I remember. This is him.
My thumb hovers for only a second before I type out my reply. Yes. Without any doubt, yes.
The word is sent before the rational part of my brain can scream in protest. A cold dread washes over me, followed by a dizzying thrill. What have I done?
Now he’s going to know how deep his hooks are in me. Despite doing Owen and I dirty by disappearing right after he graduated with my brother, I can’t even pretend to be mad. Even if all of these years have passed, I should harbor some kind of grudge, shouldn’t I?
His response is immediate, a flood of details, times, and a request for my address so a car can pick me up. The professional Charles is back. As the plans solidify on the screen, a new, desperate strategy forms in my mind. Maybe… maybe this is exactly what I need.
This isn’t an event I’ll foolishly deceive myself into thinking of as a date; it’s an exorcism—a way to resolve my current problem.
I’ll go. I’ll stand by his side in that glittering gala. I’ll see the man he’s become up close, without the filter of memory or magazine pages. I’ll witness his polished life, his cool distance, the reality of the chasm between us. I’ll finally see that the boy I loved is truly, irrevocably gone.
And then, with my fantasy shredded up by the cold light of reality, I will finally, finally be able to let him go and move on.
It’s a perfect, foolproof plan.