Chapter Five #2
“What was that?” I ask myself aloud and then call Sam.
I know she knows something by that off-the-wall comment she made at El Mariachi about remembering someone, and I will get it out of her if it’s the last thing I do. Something is off.
She picks up after three rings. “Hey, Meme. What’s up?”
“Drop whatever you’re doing and get over here. I have five hours until I meet Bryan for dinner.”
There. Luring her with a steaming mug of gossip tea.
“Be there in twenty,” she shouts before hanging up, the sound of banging pans silencing.
***
S am wouldn’t budge, but now I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that something is off.
She told me that out of respect for my parents, she wasn’t going to talk about what was going on. But she did say she’d talk to my family for me and tell them that she thinks it’s time I knew.
I asked her what I should know, but she only offered me that same sorrowful smile my mom did.
Now I’m sitting at a table at Gunnar’s Hamburger Joint, a place I enjoy now and apparently used to enjoy often with Bryan. I’m fifteen minutes early and still reeling over whatever it is I’m missing from my memory that my family has chosen to hide from me.
I don’t like the deceit, and quite frankly, I’m mad.
Yes, I lost the memories, but they are still my memories. I trusted each of them to tell me everything. Everything.
Whatever is missing is serious. I can tell by the sorrow etched on their faces. And does it have anything to do with Prewitt Publishing? Or just the name Prewitt in general?
Was my therapist right? Am I writing down a memory of some sort in the form of fiction? Am I narrating what happened in Bora Bora before the jet ski accident?
I can’t believe I’m asking myself this, but is Noah Ashley Ashton—
Ashton.
Ashton Ashley.
As in the contemporary romance author Ashton Ashley that is published by Prewitt Publishing. The name I switched to make my male main character’s name. Who is an author. And whose family is in the publishing business.
“Oh, God.” I whisper His name in a disoriented plea as I piece together what’s happening in real life and unravel the fictional world I created.
One that might not have been so fictional after all.
My head is spinning like the tilt-a-whirl at the town fair, and I’m about to stand and reschedule with Bryan when he walks through the door, wearing his typical khaki pants and a tucked-in flannel shirt.
“Hi,” he says in that grating, monotone voice of his.
I’m going to have to practice an immense amount of patience with him tonight, but I will find out what happened on his end.
Because whatever it was might lead me to whatever truly went down in Bora Bora.
“Hey, Bryan. Thanks for inviting me out tonight.”
He sits down across from me, flagging down the waiter.
Once we’ve both ordered, our sweet teas are brought to us, and we’ve entered into idle chatter about his work and the hot summer weather, I steer the conversation to the topic at hand.
“So, Bryan, I’d love to know what truly happened last year.
All I know is that you left me at the altar.
I deleted all traces of you from my phone and social media, apparently. ”
Bryan closes his eyes and takes a breath, his bushy eyebrows knitting in the center as a dimple forms there. “I wasn’t ready to get married. I freaked out on the day of our wedding, and I bolted. I sent you this text message.” He holds out his phone to me, and I read the text.
Me: Esme, I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I’m not ready. Go to Bora Bora without me and enjoy yourself. I’m sorry. - Bryan
I stare at the date, which is exactly one year from today.
It would have been our anniversary. The now-familiar sense of unsettlement undulates around me.
It happens more often than I’d like, the feeling that I’ve somehow jumped through time.
There are marks of my presence in years gone by, but I have no recollection of them.
No emotional attachment to the stories told to me about my life.
“So you left me at the altar because you were scared,” I reiterate. The idea he did such a thing frustrates me, but of course, I don’t feel the pain, hurt, and betrayal I’m sure I should be experiencing.
“And though I’m a year late, I want to tell you I’m sorry in person, and I’d like to ask for your forgiveness. I was immature and selfish. There are things…” He trails off as if he’s contemplating telling me something. And his tone is different. He sounds regretful. With a tinge of hope.
“I forgive you.” The words flow easily. It’s not like I am harboring hate for his actions. And I’m glad to know his reasoning, no matter how ridiculous it sounds to me. He had six months of engagement where he could have left, but it is what it is. “Did I ever respond to your text?”
The waiter delivers our food as Bryan fidgets with the sleeves of his shirt. How is he wearing long sleeves in June? This guy is odd to me; what was the other version of me thinking, wanting to commit my life to him?
But then I remember I think I found the answer to that question I often wondered about. I was settling because my expectations were too high.
“You did send one more text. The day before you were supposed to come home.”
“Can I see it?” I ask, moving to sit on the edge of my seat.
Bryan shifts his eyes from me to his burger and then finally to his phone lying face down on the table. “I deleted it.”
“What?” My tone is loud, causing other diners to glance in our direction. I wave a hand, forcing a smile to let the onlookers know everything is fine. “I’m sorry. Do you remember what I said?”
Bryan swallows, clearly uncomfortable. I’m about to demand an answer when he finally speaks up, his voice darkening, “You said something about how you were thankful that I left you at the altar and that you’d found the love of your life because of it.”
My heart races against my rib cage, preparing to beat right out of my chest. My palms are sweaty as I slap my hands down on the table and rise from my seat. “Did I say who? Did I send any pictures?”
Bryan shakes his head, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest. “No. That was the last time I’d heard from you before your parents found out that you were in the hospital in a coma from a jet ski accident.”
I want to scream, but I clench my teeth to hold it in.
Noah must be real.
And he—he somehow stole my heart.
No wonder I feel a connection with Ashton.
He’s the last person I was with, and now, I need to know everything. I need to know who that man is to me. He must remember. He found me. He—
I start hyperventilating, and the overwhelming scent of greasy burgers stirs my stomach.
“I’ve got to go, Bryan. I’m sorry.” I stand all the way and push my chair in. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”
“Esme, wait!”
I spin on my heel. He’s on his feet with one hand reaching out to me, a hairbrained look in his eyes.
It frightens me a little, if I’m being honest. “Give me another chance, please? I promise not to repeat my previous mistake, and I will be more romantic for you. More unplanned date nights, I promise. Let me show you who I really am.”
Did I hear that correctly?
I told him he wasn’t romantic enough? Planned date nights like Ryan in my novel? My head spins, reality and fiction blurring.
Was I the cause of him running away from me?
A small part of me wonders if it would be wrong to say no. If I should give him another chance. If he will be upset if I say no.
But then I remember Ashton’s—Noah’s?—words. I owe Bryan nothing. Regardless of what I demanded of him, to use Lane’s words, he didn’t have the decency to call off the wedding until the day of.
I can’t stop the miffed laugh. “No, Bryan. Just… No.”
He clenches his fists, his eyes becoming blaring red alarms to run. A hazy image of Bryan grabbing my forearm too tightly as I tried to run resurfaces, but I don’t give the potential memory another thought.
I bolt. As I quickly walk out of the restaurant, balmy summer heat wraps around me like a blanket. I race to my truck, and once I’m inside with the door firmly shut, I scream.
I beat my hands against the steering wheel and shout at God for answers while salty tears create rivulets down my cheeks, soaking my yellow T-shirt. My parents knew. They knew I met a man in Bora Bora, and they kept this from me. From him.
And what was with that memory of Bryan? Was I—?
I gulp, knowing it’s no use to try and remember whatever that was. I don’t want answers to that.
I want answers surrounding Prewitt Publishing and Ashton and Bora Bora.
A knock at my window yanks me from my fit. Crazy Colt waves and motions for me to roll down my window. Knowing I won’t get the old man to leave me alone until I comply, I set to work manually lowering the driver’s side window. I work to keep my voice even. “What do you need, Colt?”
“I don’t need nothin’, but yer might.” He offers me his flask through the window. I huff in disbelief before rejecting it. I smell the moonshine on his breath. Maybe I should take it to make sure he doesn’t consume anymore tonight.
“No, thanks, Colt. I don’t drink while I’m upset.” I wipe at the steady flow of tears still pouring from my eyes.
“Always helps me with the pain,” he says in a forlorn voice.
It piques my interest, and I shake the fog in my head away. “What causes you pain?”
Colt’s blue eyes crinkle in the corners as he looks up at the night sky. “Losin’ yer other half, Esme. Issa pain no human escapes from.” Before I have a chance to respond, he throws back the contents in his flask and staggers off. I make a mental note to text Sheriff Hodges when I’m home.
God, protect him, I ask, even as my tears pick up once more.
Poor Colt. We all knew he was sad when Gigi died five years ago, but he’s never moved on.
Judging by what he told me tonight, I don’t think he intends to move on.
My heart hurts for him, and it hurts for me.
It hurts for all the confusing, aching loves that have existed and will exist in this messed up, fallen world.
Hey, sweetheart. It’s going to be okay. I’m here. Noah gently caresses the neural pathways in my brain.
“Shut up!’ I scream. “No you’re not! You’re fake! Ashton is real!” Silence follows.
Pulling up Ashton’s picture from Prewitt Publishing’s website, I cry harder. He looks as I pictured Noah in my story. All this time, I’ve been writing about him. About us. Hiking on Bora Bora. Jet skiing. Swimming. Painting. And so many kisses and conversations lasting early into the morning.
No wonder he wants to represent me, an insignificant, unknown author.
I mean something to that man, and I want to know exactly what it is.
I want to remember. The real. Untethered from fiction inside of my brain.
My hands shake as I type a message to Ashton. Before I can think better of it, I press send.
Me: Can we meet somewhere a little more private tomorrow? Maybe High River Catfish House in Jackson?
I want to be outside the prying eyes and listening ears of Whitney for this conversation.
Ashton Prewitt: Sure, that’s not a problem. Why the change?
Me: Because I know who you are. Who you really are.
Ashton’s response doesn’t come until I’ve stopped the crying jig and have made it back to my camper. It took everything inside me not to march to my parents’ place. But I need to talk to Ashton first. To figure out what’s real. I don’t trust my parents not to lie to me again.
And Sam. Ethan.
My heart turns to dust. This betrayal is bone deep.
I read Ashton’s latest message one more time before crawling into bed and crying myself to sleep. He knows. Whatever it is that I don’t know, he knows.
But I know one thing’s for certain.
Nikhil Ashton Prewitt is Noah Ashley Ashton.
Ashton Prewitt: I’ll see you tomorrow.