Chapter Twelve #2
I take a sip of my lemon water before asking, “Why didn’t you come with him a year ago? Don’t the two of you do practically everything together?”
A grimace paints Ashton’s face, and he looks away, taking a drink of his water. I don’t pressure him. I wait quietly until he turns back to me, sets down his cup, and sighs. “Noah wasn’t the only Prewitt to fall into a whirlwind romance last year.”
The way he spoke of passionate love only two days ago races into my mind. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair, he knits his brows. “Not really, though Branda says it would do me good to tell someone. I haven’t even told my family anything outside of the obvious—that Georgiana and I broke up.”
Georgiana. I store the name away to social stalk later. “Branda’s right, you know. Lord knows I’ve dumped my mess on you. Now’s your chance for your emotional vomiting payback while you await my ocean-centered payback.”
Ashton laughs, letting his hands fall to this lap. He’s quiet for a moment before he meets my eyes. “Georgiana Beaufort spun into my life like the hurricane she’s named after.” He pauses, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “She’s the epitome of a Southern belle. Ever seen Hart of Dixie? ”
“I love that show!”
“Georgiana is the equivalent to season one Lemon Breeland.”
“And you are just sweet ole George Tucker, aren’t you?” I snort. But then I remember there is heartache at the end of this story. “No. You’re not George Tucker. You’re Lavon Hayes.”
Ashton folds his hands on top of the table, his thumbs moving circles around each other.
“Something like that. I almost wish Georgiana had a secret man lying in wait for her. Instead, she ghosted me after three months together. Happened while my brother was here. Georgiana didn’t want me to come here without her.
I told her I loved her one night, she said it back, and the next morning, I never heard from her again. ”
His eyes are distant, and I can tell there’s more to the story, but I don’t want to push him further and sour his time here.
I reach for his hands and take them between mine. The action is affectionate, but not romantic. Over the past couple of days, Ashton has come to feel like a best friend. A brother.
But you have a brother, my mind helpfully reminds me. One you’re not speaking with right now.
I ignore it, choosing to focus on Ashton right now. “It’s for the best, right?” He nods as if he’s unsure, but I continue talking. “You’re in Bora Bora right now. Let’s forget about hurricanes and enjoy this paradise while we’re here hunting your brother.”
Snickering at my phrasing, a glow rushes back to Ashton’s face, and I pull my hands away. “Feels like we’re hunting him down, huh?”
Our food arrives, and I rush to try the mango fish tacos.
Once I get past the burning sensation from the heat, an explosion of flavor covers my tongue.
Suddenly, I’m back on the deck, eating similar tacos with a man who looks like Ashton but isn’t him.
Noah is laughing, but I’m sitting cross-armed and staring him down, trying not to show any hint of excitement.
But I feel them. The emotions at that moment—nervous yet comfortable, thrilling excitement, longing, and confusion—flooded my heart.
“Oh.” I gasp through a mouthful of food. I chew quickly and swallow as a single tear runs down my cheek.
“It’s that good?” Ashton raises a single brow, holding some kind of sandwich to his face as if he was about to bite into it, but then he saw me.
“Another memory.”
We finish our meal and meander back to our bungalow, but Ashton is spent and retires for the evening while I go for a walk under the setting sun.
Everything about this place feels familiar, like there’s something lingering below the surface of my mind that I can’t quite grasp.
It’s a haze, and when I attempt to grab the fleeting fog, it dissipates between my fingers, vanishing.
It’s frustrating.
I kick the sand and stare out onto the beach, listening to the soft waves break against the shore. I’ve searched the faces of the beachgoers, and none of them resemble Ashton. Some sinking feeling within me says I’m wasting my time, that Noah’s not here. But can I trust my intuition?
Groaning, I continue walking up the beach and back to the boardwalk. God, please? I plead. Help me remember. Give me a sign. Anything. Tell me if I’m on the right path or the wrong—
“Ah!” I scream as my sandal snags on a loose board, and I plummet toward the boardwalk. I break my fall with my hands, but the texture of the splinters beneath my bare thighs are like little lightning strikes to my memory, conjuring a starry sky, guttural screams, and blood. Lots of blood.
And just as quickly as the images appear in my head, they’re gone again.
“GOD! WHY?” I holler, uncaring if anyone hears me.
I ball my fist as I stand, breathing deeply to calm myself.
Then hot tears of anger roll down my face as I clutch the cross necklace.
What am I doing here? Noah isn’t here. I don’t know how I know that, but I do.
I watch as a couple walks into a bungalow, realizing it’s number twenty-one.
The one I stayed in. With Noah.
My heart speeds up as I realize I’m in the area where Noah and I were attacked.
Something otherworldly comes over me, and I frantically search the boardwalk, looking for any traces of blood or nicks in the wood possibly caused by a knife.
Hitting my knees, I pull at my hair as I scrape at the boardwalk, looking for something .
Anything . And I don’t stop crawling around like a madwoman until Ashton’s at my side, lifting me to my feet, and pulling me into a tight embrace as I sob in his arms. “It’s unfair, Ashton. It’s unfair.”
“I know, Esme.”
***
L ater that night, after I calmed down and collected myself, apologizing profusely to Ashton who insisted it’s a plenty normal reaction to have, I pull up and stare at Sam’s contact, my finger hovering over the “call” button.
Fortifying my walls and mustering my willpower, I press the button on the screen.
Within one ring, a sniffling Sam picks up the phone. “Esme,” she cries, drawing out the “me” sound of my name. “I don’t know what to do.”
Alarm rings through me, and I straighten up in bed, pulling the soft, downy white blankets over my legs. “Sam? What happened? Are you okay?” A million possibilities pass through my mind, all past transgressions on her end forgotten.
I hear Ethan in the background, telling Sam he’s going to get her a glass of water. Then, Sam says, “Esme! They are talking about canceling Shakin’ Up the ‘Speare!”
My heart drops in my chest, though I’m partially relieved she’s not dying or seriously injured.
But I know how much this theater group means to her.
She’s worked her butt off to not only help establish it but also to build it from the ground up.
Theater has always been her passion, and this was a dream of hers.
“Sam, I’m so sorry,” I whisper into the phone. “What happened?”
My best friend speaks in a jumbled mess as I strain to understand her.
“We were looking to expand our production down to the coast, and then Bradford, you know, our owner, got tangled up in a lawsuit with the Callahan family. Bradford won’t tell me all the details, but he said the Callahans were backing us financially and now they’ve pulled their funding due to a dispute between one of our actresses down in Willow Bay, Remi Martin, and Johnny Callahan’s son, Julien. ”
“What dispute?”
“I don’t know,” Sam exasperates. “I’m trying to figure it out, but I keep running into dead ends.
Both of their social media accounts are down.
There are no local reports mentioned of a feud, though it does seem the two families, the Martins and the Callahans, have a history of going to war with one another. ”
“Huh,” is all I respond with. While Sam says something to Ethan, I think over everything she’s said, trying to make sense of it all. “Honestly, it sounds like a small-town feud that the theater got caught up in the middle of. Kinda rude on the Callahans’ part, if you ask me.”
“Yeah, that’s for sure,” Sam scoffs, sniffling again. “And poor Remi. She’s just an absolute mess thinking this whole thing is her fault. I’m going down to Willow Bay in the morning to meet up with her and try to figure out what’s going on since Bradford’s keeping me in the dark.”
I find myself nodding along though Sam can’t see me. “Yeah, well, let me know what you find out. I’ll be praying for you and over the situation.”
Silence settles between us for a beat before Sam, in a small voice, says, “Thank you, Meme. I just needed to talk to my best friend.”
Tears prickle in my eyes as my heart unfreezes. “Me too. I’ve missed you.”
“I’m so sorry, Meme. This isn’t my excuse, but it’s my reason.
I’m married to your brother, and I didn’t want to step on my in-law’s toes by going against their wishes.
You don’t have to believe me, but I promise you, I told them time and time again that they were wrong and that you deserved to know. I tried, Meme. I tried.”
She sobs on the other end of the line, and I join in, knowing good and well she’s telling me the truth.
I can hear the honesty and the heartbreak in her tone.
I can feel her presence through this device.
And I know it’s only a small step in mending what’s been unraveled, but I take it.
“I forgive you, Sammie. I understand, I do. But I’m still hurt.
That’s going to take some time to heal.”
“I know,” she says through her tears. “And Meme?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m proud of you. For standing your ground.”
***
T he sun shines a little brighter today as Ashton and I head for the paint studio I wrote about in my novel.