Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Pippa
-don’t let me be misunderstood-
The drive back to the beach house is a blur. I watch the lights streak past, the neon and street lamps smudging into one long ribbon that I can’t focus on. I know the ocean is there, dark and endless, but I can’t see it. I guess I don’t really look. I feel as if I am in a daze.
My hands grasp the top of my clutch bag so hard that my knuckles show white.
It is taking every ounce of determination in me not to cry, and to maintain that I am trying not to remember the events of the wedding.
It is hard, though, because every time I close my eyes, I see it playing out before me all over again.
The huge screen, the Jessica Rabbit clip, the laughter, the surprised looks on their faces.
My stomach twists with a heavy, sinking ache, and for a horrible moment, I think I am going to be sick in Rhett’s car, but the feeling passes, and I sigh.
The Hawthorn estate is pretty close to Rhett’s beach house, and it isn’t long before the car pulls up on the driveway.
“I won’t be long,” I tell the driver.
“Take your time, ma’am. I am at your disposal tonight,” he replies.
I thank him and get out of the car. Outside, I take a moment to breathe in the now familiar scent of the salt and sand, mingled with the faintly sweet aroma of the flowers and herbs in the garden, but I don’t enjoy it.
It makes me feel nothing. Until tonight, it felt comforting, grounding, but it doesn’t anymore.
It’s just a house, just a scent. It’s a place to gather the pieces of a broken romance.
I go inside, my footsteps loud on the polished hardwood floor. The rooms are empty, the familiar furniture cast long shadows in the moonlight coming in through the tall windows.
I go upstairs to the guest room, and I drop my clutch bag onto the bed.
I debate getting changed, but it feels like too much effort.
I barely have the energy to pack my things, but I know I have to do that.
I get my suitcase back out of the walk-in closet and start gathering my things.
I dart in and out of the bedroom and the bathroom, gathering up my clothes and toiletries.
My movements are mechanical, my mind somewhere else.
I pack my gifts for home, and I smile sadly at the memory of buying them.
I stop and look out of the window for the last time.
The sky looks purple, and the ocean stretches out beyond the beach, waves lapping softly at the shore.
I see it, but I don’t really see it. I can’t.
I feel hollow inside, the emotional residue of the night clinging to me.
I press my palms to the glass, trying to anchor myself, trying to make sense of this swirl of feelings that I can’t name.
My thoughts drift to George. The thought of him used to stir strong feelings in me, anticipation, longing, a warm flutter in my belly.
But now? When I think of him, I feel nothing.
Absolutely nothing. I hold his image in my mind for a moment, and all I feel is emptiness and a strange sense of irrelevance.
I see now how little I must have meant to him.
How much he took me for granted. Only now that he thinks I have moved on, he wants me back.
So, I have what I thought I wanted, what I fought tooth and nail for.
And yet, the idea of returning to him leaves me cold.
And the thought of going to bed with him again. Oh God, no. Not the same missionary position all over again … for the rest of my life.
The reality of my situation hits me with brutal clarity.
All those weeks of wishing and hoping now feel hollow and wasted.
Even silly. Sandra and Lucy were right all along.
It was stubbornness, pride, and ignorance that kept me going.
I didn’t know how it could be. For the first time, I’ve tasted what a real connection should feel like.
I’ve glimpsed what love should be, and it isn’t George.
It is Rhett. Rhett, with his quiet strength, his teasing grin, the way he notices things, the way he sees me, really sees me.
And that realization is both exhilarating and terrifying.
I shake my head in wonder as I pack another item into the suitcase.
But what does it matter now? I can’t. I can’t have him.
I don’t fit into his world. I’m Pippa Fairfax, a freelance graphic designer who is messy, sometimes clumsy, and if truth be told, a little bit too loud for his polished circles.
I had one job at that wedding, one role to play – the loving girlfriend who wouldn’t get attached and wouldn’t embarrass him - and I failed spectacularly at it.
I got attached, and I embarrassed him. I became the joke of the wedding.
I was the laughing stock, and everyone, even his family, saw it.
The one good thing to come from this sad mess is that I now know I don’t want George, and that means I can move on with my life. I don’t have to be hung up on the past anymore. It’s not much comfort right now, but I think it might mean more to me in the not-too-distant future.
I close the suitcase lid with a snap and press my hands against it while I tug the zipper around it.
The sound seems louder and more final than it should.
It echoes in the quiet house. I’ve gathered up my things, and with them, I feel like I’m trying to gather up what is left of myself after this whirlwind love affair.
I’ve made choices, I’ve walked away, and I’ve lost something I didn’t even know I wanted until it was gone.
I bump my suitcase inelegantly down the stairs and roll it to the front door, the wheels squeaking loudly on the floor.
I pause, my hand on the handle of the front door, and take one last look around.
The house is still and empty, and yet it feels heavy with memories, with the weight of what could have been.
I squeeze my eyes shut and tell myself it’s fine.
I’ll be fine. Then, I step outside. The cool night air washes over me.
I start toward the car. Each step feels measured, deliberate, a physical echo of the emotional control I’m trying to cling to.
I am almost at the car. The chauffeur has got out of the car to help with my suitcase.
I head for the trunk so he can put my suitcase in.
My fingers tighten around the handle of my suitcase.
This is it. The final step, the point of no return.
I glance toward the road, toward the dark horizon where the airport awaits.
And then I hear a voice, a blast from the past, calling out my name.