Chapter 4
Up In Smoke
? I Sit In Parks - Kelsea Ballerini
Angelina
Everything is gone.
Tyler’s shoes are missing from the welcome mat, and half the walk-in closet has been cleared out. Even his dog, Luna, who’d normally greet me at the door, is nowhere to be found. It’s like she never existed.
The emptiness only grows as I travel farther into the house.
The office we’d planned to convert into a nursery is the final straw that breaks me. I press my back to the wall beside the door and sink to the floor, burying my face in my hands. I let reality sweep me out with the tide.
Movement in the hallway draws my attention, and it’s followed by a voice. “Angel? You in here? You forgot your”—he pauses in the doorway—“dress.”
Griffin drops the garment bag containing my wedding gown onto the floor and sinks to his knees. “What’s wrong? Are you—laughing?”
A tear cascades down my cheek between heaving breaths. “I’m sorry. This is just so ridiculous.” I choke out the words through uncontrollable laughter. “He’s just—poof—gone. Like he was never here at all. And you—you’re here. You’re here, and you’re my husband.”
“Take a deep breath, darlin’. I think you’re losing it.”
“It’s just so… stupid.”
Griffin slides beside me and drapes his arm around my shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. My expression sobers as I glance up at him. There’s something so earnest in his eyes.
“You’re allowed to be sad, you know.”
Scanning the room, I swallow against the tightness gripping my throat. “I thought I had it all figured out. The house, the job, the husband. We even started trying for a baby.”
Griffin tenses at my side, but he doesn’t speak.
I chew on the inside of my cheek, pointing to the side of the room opposite the picture windows.
“That’s where the crib was going to go. And over there, a matching rocking chair in the corner for late-night feedings.
I even started knitting a baby blanket. I’m not very good at it, but I figured I had time to learn. ”
He pulls me tighter against him, running his fingers through my hair in soothing strokes. My instincts are screaming at me to push him away, but it feels too good—right—being held like this.
“You can still have all of it,” he murmurs.
I shake my head, tugging my sleeves over my hands. “I don’t think it’s in the cards for me.”
It’s not like I’m going to magically meet someone and fall in love overnight. It takes time to grow that kind of connection, and by then, it’ll be too late. I’m a ticking time bomb. Perimenopause is a very real threat at my age, though I’d like to think I still have a few years before that happens.
Several minutes pass until I find the wherewithal to stand and dust off my jeans. There’s no use dwelling on what-might’ve-beens.
I bend to pick up the discarded garment bag with the gown I spent months searching for. It seems silly now. I got married in a feathered robe after one too many margaritas. And the man I married, in one night, made me feel more than Tyler did in three years.
What a joke.
I ball the fabric up in my arms and rush to the kitchen in search of a lighter. If Tyler wants to strike a match on our relationship, I might as well help him.
“Please tell me he didn’t take the fucking lighter, too,” I mutter as I rifle through the junk drawer. Several pens, an unopened toothbrush, and a bottle opener fall to the floor in the melee. My eyes catch on a row of photos taken in one of those mall kiosks many moons ago.
I barely recognize the woman staring back at me, but I still remember that day. Jess had just graduated from nursing school, and she wanted to celebrate in the most mundane way imaginable—a trip to the mall for sesame chicken from the food court.
I take the photo strip out of the drawer and secure it to the fridge with a heart-shaped magnet Emmy made with her stepmom, Olivia.
I never forgot Jess—not for one single day—but somewhere along the way I lost the vibrant woman beside her in the photos.
I wish I could call her now. She’s the first person I’d want to tell about the Vegas fiasco.
She’d squeal and kick her feet. She always wanted us to be sisters, if not by blood, then by marriage.
She’d be thrilled to know she finally got her way, but she’s not here, and I can’t run to her for advice anymore.
I return to the drawer and find a box of matches.
Close enough.
After gathering up the gown, I stride past Griffin through the sliding doors to the backyard, headed straight toward the fire pit.
I’m vaguely aware of him following me outside, but I’m operating in a fugue state.
I drop the garment bag into the pit and strike a match.
It sparks but quickly dies. I toss it into the pit and try another.
When that fizzles out, too, I let out a frustrated growl.
Griffin’s large palm cradles mine, and in a gentle voice, he says, “Let me.”
He takes the box of matches from me, and the first strike does the trick, because of course it does. Griffin Hayes can do no wrong. He holds the lit match between us. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
I nod. “Let it burn.”
Griffin doesn’t hesitate. He simply drops the matchstick, takes one slow step back, and crosses his arms over his chest.
The fabric catches, and the flame spreads like wildfire.
I exhale a breath as I watch my future go up in flames.
It’s cathartic, in a way. I’m closing the book on this chapter of my life so I can move on to the next.
The chapter where I embrace being the cool aunt who eloped in Vegas that one time.
I’ll make more memories to add to my lore, and someday, when I’m old and fabulously grey, I’ll pass down photos from mall kiosks and a handful of journals filled with similar stories.
It’ll be fine.
I’ll be fine.
Griffin
I stay by Angelina’s side until all that’s left is a pile of ash. Even then, I can’t bring myself to walk away. Something feels off, and it’s impossible to shake.
“Anything else you want to burn while we’re at it?” I ask.
“There’s nothing left.”
Her voice is devoid of emotion, and I’m still waiting for her to break. Sure, she’s been a bit impulsive, but she hasn’t cried or screamed. She hasn’t even asked for an annulment yet, and I’m sure as shit not about to bring it up.
I toy with the engagement ring in my pocket, content to leave it right where it is until she realizes it’s missing. Tossing it off the balcony onto the Las Vegas strip had been tempting, but when her hand pressed against my spine and she leaned into me, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
“What does it say about me that I’m not more upset?” she asks. “Shouldn’t I be sobbing into a pint of ice cream while belting out a Celine Dion power ballad?”
I wrap my arm around her waist and draw her into me. When she doesn’t pull away, I mentally fist pump. “It tells me that you’re strong as hell. That you know your worth and refuse to settle for less than what you deserve.”
“I don’t know about that. Two days ago, I was more than ready to settle for a man who clearly didn’t want me. It’s not strength so much as resignation.”
“Two things can be true. You can know you deserve better and still resign yourself to the fact that your life just fundamentally changed overnight. You can still love him and hate the way he hurt you. It’s okay to feel conflicted.”
When she doesn’t respond right away, I let the silence drag on, waiting for the other shoe to drop—for her to come to terms with how her wedding day played out and realize she shackled herself to the consolation prize. She doesn’t do any of that.
I silently trail behind her into the house and sit on the opposite side of the sofa. This is it. This is where we have the talk.
“He went to Mexico,” she says.
Wrong again.
“I know.”
“I didn’t want to go to Mexico.”
“I know that, too.” I cross my ankle over my knee and sink back into the cushions. “What do you want, Angel?”
She places a throw pillow on her lap and braids the tassel.
Her eyes lose focus as she absently works at the threads over and over again.
“I want revenge. I want to make him feel like he made the biggest mistake of his life. I want him to come crawling back just so I can watch his face when he realizes I’m gone for good. ”
I lean forward and hold out my palm. “Give me your phone.”
Her face pulls into an adorable frown. “Why?”
“Just trust me.”
“Last time I did that, I ended up in a Las Vegas wedding chapel.”
“That’s not how I remember it.”
“Potato, potato.”
“I fucking love potatoes. Doesn’t change the fact that getting hitched was your idea.” I pull my hair into a low bun and secure it with the hair tie I keep on my wrist. “What was it you said? Oh. Right. ‘Fuck it. Let’s get married. I can’t let this entire trip go to waste.’”
She pulls her phone from her pocket and passes it to me. “The password is Jess’s birthday.”
She stares at me, dumbfounded, as I type in the numbers 0819 before she can finish. “How did you—”
“It’s the same as mine. August 19th. It also happens to be National Potato Day.”
I smile when I notice the photo she’s set as her home screen. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she doesn’t want to end this. But I’m not willing to risk losing her, and there’s one surefire way to ensure this marriage lasts more than twenty-four hours.
It’s time to tell the world Angelina Rossi is mine.
I scroll through hundreds of photos from the best night of my life.
A lot of them are hazy and out of focus, but they have a certain artistic appeal.
I select a few the chapel employees took.
There’s a close-up of our hands as Angie slides my wedding band onto my finger, and another where we’re lost in the kiss.
That moment is seared into my brain—I could relive it over and over until the end of time.