Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
ISABELLE
Sometimes, all I want to do is lie in bed and stare blankly at the ceiling.
Despite my marketing efforts on social media and at my flea market booth, ticket sales for my fashion show have been slow. The venue capacity is around a hundred people, and I’ve only sold seven tickets so far. Seven.
I’m telling myself that there’s still time, but deep down, I can feel the discouragement chipping away at me. Maybe I should’ve waited a few more years until my business was more established before trying to pull off an event like this.
I glance at the vision board on my bedroom wall, focusing on the photo of a fashion show in the center of the board.
This is supposed to be my highlight of the year—no way am I giving up so easily.
Pushing my shoulders back, I take a few deep breaths, focusing on the progress I’ve made with other aspects of the event.
I have my venue, models, photographer, videographer, and playlist. I’m doing my best, and I’m trying, and maybe I’m not there yet with the marketing, but I’m taking it step by step.
Focus on what’s within your control. You’re doing great.
After my little pep talk, I open my Instagram business account and scroll through my feed. Social media’s a great marketing tool, but maybe instead of simply promoting my event, I need to focus more on building a personal connection with my followers.
An idea forming in my head, I take photos of the two outfits I’m debating between for the Summerhurst High reunion tonight—a black bodycon dress and a yellow maxi dress, both of which I sell at Designed by Isabelle.
I post the photos on my Instagram story with the text, Help me pick an outfit for my high school reunion tonight!
Less than a minute later, there’s a new reply to my post.
Jackson
You should take photos of yourself wearing the outfits. How else are people supposed to pick?
I don’t know which is worse—me being unaware that Jackson’s somehow also following my business account or me reading his text in his cocky voice.
Me
It’s called using your imagination
You probably don’t have one
I sit down on my bed, watching the three typing dots appear and disappear.
It looks like status quo Isabelle and Jackson are back.
That comment he made at The Daily Brew about me came out of nowhere, especially since things had seemed to change between us after our conversation at Angela’s Rooftop Bar.
That said, Jackson did immediately apologize, and now that more time has passed, I’m not mad about it anymore.
Jackson
I have a great imagination.
Me
Full of dirty thoughts
Jackson
I can be dirty- or clean-minded. I’m flexible.
My cheeks start to feel hot, so much so that I have to put down my phone and take a moment to calm myself down. Because why am I suddenly imagining Jackson being flexible, as in the physical, moving-into-all-sorts-of-positions kind of flexible?
He’s doing a great job at messing with my mind—that’s for sure.
When I don’t reply, my phone lights up with two more messages.
Jackson
I’m sorry again for what I said the other day. Have fun at the reunion.
P.S. My vote goes to the black dress.
I stare at his texts, my flustered state disappearing and morphing into confusion. Is he not coming tonight?
We obviously haven’t talked more about his fake-boyfriend offer, but it’s too late now.
I push away the temptation to ask him about whether he’s coming to the reunion.
Me
Guess I’m not going to choose the black dress then
And I know. It’s okay. I’m sorry for what I said too
With that, I put my phone away to get ready for the event.
Thirty minutes later, I’m wearing the black bodycon dress—but not because Jackson suggested it—with my hair curled and a matching scrunchie on my wrist, also made and designed by yours truly.
So, yes, tonight, I’m going to be a walking ad for my business, but I’m going to walk in there proud.
Because I’ve learned if I’m not my own biggest supporter, then who will be?
Certainly not Ivy. I haven’t heard from her or Mom since that night at my parents’ house.
For makeup, I opt for a light smoky-eye look and cat eyeliner to match my dress. It takes me five tries to achieve an even, winged eyeliner look, but I get there in the end.
As I’m applying my lipstick, there’s a call from my dad.
I hesitate for a moment before picking up. “Hey, Dad.”
Dad’s voice is cheery. “Hey, Belle. How are you?”
“I’m good, thanks. You?”
“I’m doing well, thank you.”
There’s a pause on his end, and a pit opens in my stomach because I know what he’s probably about to bring up next.
“About Ivy and Ben’s engagement party falling on the same day as your fashion show, I know it’s less than ideal.”
Pain slices through me at the reminder. “Why does Ivy hate me, Dad?”
“I don’t think your sister hates you.” There’s a softness in Dad’s tone.
I plop down on my bed, not believing his words. “Then why would she do this?”
Dad sighs. “I don’t know that either. But I want to let you know that your mom and I are going to split up our time and ensure we can make both events.”
His words come as a surprise, albeit a welcome one. I thought my parents would easily choose to attend Ivy’s event over mine.
“I know your mother isn’t the best with words, but she’s genuinely happy for you,” he adds. “And I’m proud of you, too, Belle. I know this is something you’ve always wanted to do.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I smile even though he can’t see me right now. “I appreciate the support.”
“Of course,” he says. “Love you, Belle.”
“Love you, too.”
Loud conversation fills the air as Jen and I step inside the gymnasium at Summerhurst High, grabbing our name tags for tonight’s reunion.
I do a stocktake of who’s shown up. Around eighty percent of our cohort is here, which is a solid turnout. A buffet-style table is set up near the back with appetizers, finger foods, and alcoholic and nonalcoholic drinks.
By the time I finish my scan of the room, one observation stands out—Jackson’s not here.
Jen and I arrived ten minutes late due to traffic, but it’s unusual for Jackson to be late to anything. The guy always had a reputation for always being early, and I doubt things have changed now. He could probably write a whole book about the art of punctuality.
A sinking feeling unfurls beneath my ribs. He’s really not coming tonight.
“Oh God, he’s here,” Jen suddenly mutters under her breath.
“Who?” I ask, an unexpected rush of anticipation flowing through my veins. “Jackson?”
She shakes her head. “Oliver.”
A chill runs through me, and I brace myself as I turn around and watch Oliver walk inside the gymnasium, a black suit fitted against his frame and his blond hair neatly slicked back.
Normally, men in suits are a weak spot for me, but right now, I might as well be staring at a rock.
A gorgeous brunette woman, wearing a white blouse and dress pants and pearl earrings, emerges from behind him, looping her arm in his.
I watch the two, waiting for any hidden emotions to erupt. But after several moments, I realize I’m not feeling anything. No anger, sadness, jealousy, or discomfort at seeing Oliver again or seeing him with another woman.
If anything, this whole thing feels anticlimactic.
“Guess he brought a date,” I say. “But it’s fine. It’s not like I didn’t consider the possibility.” I divert my attention elsewhere. I’m not going to let Oliver ruin my night. “Let’s go talk to some others.”
“Sounds good,” Jen agrees. “He can go rot in a trash can.”
After a few rounds of chatting and socializing, I think I’ve drained my social battery for the month.
“I’m ready for my bedtime already,” I say to Jen.
“Come on. We’re not even at the halfway mark yet,” Jen protests. “And besides, Jackson’s not here yet.”
I wave off the idea. “I doubt he’s coming. Have you ever seen the guy be late to anything?”
“Guess not,” she admits. “Anyway, I’m going to use the restroom.”
I nod. “I’m going to get some more food.”
We part ways, and I trek toward the food table, planning to get more of the mini hamburgers I had earlier.
“Hey, Izzy.”
I stop in my tracks, my breath hitching at Oliver’s nickname for me when we were together. But I’m not Izzy anymore, so I keep walking ahead, hoping that if I ignore him, he’ll get the hint and leave me alone.
“Izzy.”
Great.
I reluctantly spin around to face him. He hasn’t tried to approach me until now, and I have no idea why he suddenly wants to talk.
“Don’t call me that.” My voice comes out gruff.
Oliver raises a brow. “Right, I’m sorry. Isabelle then.” He sticks his hands inside his pockets and gives me a once-over. “It’s … good to see you again.”
I stare into the eyes of the first and only boyfriend I’ve ever had, not believing we’re having this conversation right now. Once upon a time, I could get lost in those ocean-blue eyes, but now all I see is nothingness as I stare at him.
“I can’t say the same about you, Oliver.” I don’t bother masking the irritation accentuating my tone.
He shakes his head. “You really haven’t changed at all.”
I scoff. Seriously? This is the first time we see each other after our breakup, and that’s all he has to say to me? It’s not like I was expecting an apology from him, let alone closure, but I refuse to listen to him talk to me like that.
“I’m not here to listen to your commentary about whether I’ve changed or not.”
“Okay, you’re right,” he says, lifting his hands in defeat. “I take back what I said.” He hesitates. “So, uh, how have things been with you?”
I hold my head high, feigning confidence. “Better than ever.” I don’t bother asking him the question back. I’m not going to pretend to care about his life, because I don’t.
Oliver opens his mouth, but right then, his date walks over to his side, her gaze darting between me and him. She gives me a polite smile and links her arm in Oliver’s. “Olly, are you going to introduce us?”
“Uh, yeah. Of course.” Oliver scratches his head, looking like he’s contemplating digging a hole and crawling inside. “Veronica, this is Isabelle.”
“Nice to meet you, Isabelle,” Veronica says. “I love your dress.”
“Thank you.” I hesitate for a moment but am ultimately unable to contain my curiosity. “So … how long have you been boyfriend and girlfriend?”
Veronica frowns. “Oh, did Olly not tell you? I’m his fiancée.”
Fiancée.
The word repeats in my head like a curse.
Suddenly, it’s as though the air is being sucked out of my lungs. My head instinctively turns to look at Oliver, and for a fleeting moment, I swear I see a flash of guilt in his eyes, but it quickly disappears.
“Well, congratulations,” I finally say, my voice neutral and civil.
Veronica beams. “Thank you.”
“Thanks.” Oliver nods quickly, like he’s relieved. It’s almost laughable. Is he really worried I’m going to make a scene upon hearing the news that he’s getting married?
“How about you?” he then asks. “Are you seeing anyone new?”
I fiddle around with the scrunchie on my wrist, contemplating my answer.
Yes, I’ve been telling myself I won’t let Oliver get to me.
That I don’t need to prove anything to him.
Yet when it comes to seeing him standing in front of me with his fiancée, it’s as if all the pep talk I gave myself never happened.
The truth is, a large part of me still wants to show him that I’ve moved on, too.
“I am,” I lie. “I have a new boyfriend.”
Oliver cocks a brow in suspicion. We did date for six years after all, and I know he thinks I’m bluffing. “Is he with you tonight?”
He couldn’t make it tonight.
Five words. Simple. Straightforward. Just say them, and there’s a good chance Oliver will let it go.
“He—”
The gymnasium doors swing open, and a dark-haired man walks inside, his steps confident and steady.
You know how, sometimes, in movies or TV shows, someone will walk inside a venue, and all heads in the room will suddenly turn to look at that person? The camera will zoom in on the faces of everyone staring intently at them, and it’s like everything’s happening in slow motion.
Those scenes always seem a little dramatic.
But as I watch Jackson Carter saunter inside the Summerhurst High gymnasium at exactly six fifty p.m., it’s almost as if a scene pulled straight from a movie is reenacting itself in real life. My life.
I turn my attention back to Oliver, who’s staring at Jackson with his jaw locked, and I swallow before the three words spiral out of my mouth.
I shouldn’t do this. I’m probably going to regret this. I can feel it in my flesh and bones. But in my mind, I’ve already voluntarily consumed the magic potion of absurdity, and the liquid is overtaking any remaining feelings of rationality in my body.
“He’s here now.”