Chapter 2
ROXY
‘Where are the bridesmaids’ shoes?’
All around me, Evangeline’s wedding party and her planner were in full-blown panic mode.
The suite was a chaotic blur of satin dresses, strappy heels, and scattered jewelry.
Amid the sensory overload, I sat frozen at the vanity while the hair and makeup team worked their magic.
I locked eyes with my reflection, a wave of grief crashing over me.
Twenty-five years ago, I dared to fall head over heels for Angel Daniel Forrest.
Now, the only man who ever truly had my heart was about to say I do to my sister, and to top off the twisted joke, I was in the bridal party.
As the makeup artist blended out my foundation, I checked out, surrendering to my dark thoughts.
My mind drifted all the way back in time to the sun-drenched playground at our tiny pre-K-through-eighth school.
I was six years old, rocking scabs on my shins and dirt under my fingernails.
Packing a wet mud ball between my palms in the sandbox, I was creating a semblance of a clay sculpture.
My sister Evangeline was arranging her trio of American Girl dolls on a nearby bench when Billy Leigh, the schoolyard terror, marched over and ripped one straight out of her grip.
‘Hey!’ Evangeline yelled.
I lunged forward, clocking Billy right in the jaw with the mud ball without a second thought.
‘Leave my sister alone!’
Billy was eleven going on nineteen, massive and mean.
He retaliated with a gut punch, sending me flying across the dirt.
Evangeline screamed as Billy struck her cheek next, the sound of the slap echoing off the brick walls.
A dark-haired, ten-year-old boy, the Australian kid who had just arrived at our school, sprinted over the parched grass.
With a roar, he tackled Billy into the timber edge of the sandbox.
‘Don’t touch her or her sister ever again,’ the new kid roared, landing blows into Billy’s chest. ‘Do it again, and you’re dead meat.’
Teachers had to drag our growling knight off the now squealing and bleeding Billy into the principal’s office.
Despite the blood on his fists and his torn collar, a smirk played on the newcomer’s handsome face as Billy howled into his hands.
From that second on, my heart was lost to Angel.
However, he had eyes only for Evangeline, falling for her sweet, blonde, blue-eyed, pig-tailed allure.
Contrary to popular belief, she was not the sweetheart she presented to the world.
At home and in private, Evangeline was my tormentor, targeting me with pinches, slaps, and cruel insults in secret.
She stole my toys, then my clothes and makeup, and later even my friendships.
She lied and made me take the blame for her sins.
Worse, our father, Reese, encouraged her behavior, believing her over me every time.
My mother, bless her, did what she could to shield me, but Elsa was also Reese’s punching bag and spent her energy on self-preservation.
I escaped the emotional starvation and bullying through sketchpads, charcoal, and oil paints.
I turned my pain into canvases, using them as journals to process my confusion and loneliness.
Throughout middle and high school, I faded into a wallflower as Angel and Evangeline’s connection blossomed.
Then he chose her as his girlfriend.
Regardless of their relationship, I was besotted with him.
He was perfect in my eyes: the confident, cool kid with unruly black hair and a muscular frame that towered over the other boys, while I was just the awkward, tongue-tied young girl.
He was unaware of his impact and never played up to it, which only made all the girls swoon more and the boys jealous.
He talked with respect both for himself and others.
He rarely cursed, and he always remembered everyone’s names.
Aside from being fit and killing it at sports, he kicked-ass in a garage band, and his guitar skills were off the charts.
Despite his popularity, he remained faithful to Evangeline and, by extension, to me as her sister.
At school, even though I was quiet and invisible to most, he always noticed me, and when he said hi in his deep vibrato, it sent jolts through me.
When he added a lush smile, quirky with a touch of roguishness, I swooned.
He always asked how I was doing, and even offered to carry my heavy supplies bag to the art room several times.
A hot flush would creep up my neck as I stuttered out a response, telling him I’d take care of it, before he threw me a wink and prowled away.
I was left staring after him, his rich, deep laugh lingering in the air long after he disappeared.
He was beautiful inside and out.
Over time, I got convinced Evangeline did not deserve him.
I sensed the cracks in their relationship and realized that Evangeline used the same narcissistic tendencies she used on me on him.
The way she spoke to him with disdain disgusted me; how she pushed him around infuriated me.
After high school, her behavior worsened.
Her screaming matches, disappearing acts, breakups, and drug-binged toxicity amped up.
As her boyfriend, Angel was left to deal with it, and I hurt for him.
Her behavior escalated; when she was mad at him, she tended to hit him in front of others.
He always talked her down, gently holding her back with his strength, despite the grim expression in his eyes.
I watched from the sidelines as they went through messy breakups and dramatic reunions, even as my heart broke for him.
Angel stuck by her because whatever else he was, the man was loyal to his core.
Still, they made a gorgeous couple: he so handsome and talented, she so beautiful.
After graduating, he joined the Australian SAS, climbing the ranks to major before leaving the military behind to form Six Sinners.
The band went stratospheric after just a few years on the circuit, making him a tried-and-true rockstar at thirty-five with countless followers.
Angel was a mastermind lyricist whose tracks, the massive hit ‘Sinner’s Psalm’ and chart-topping anthem ‘Broken Halo’, were hymnals for millions.
His guitar skills were wild, his devastated ballads and his raspy vibrato brought out the goosies all over me.
I listened to his songs and memorized each one, fantasizing that he was singing them to me.
When my obsession grew out of hand, I tried temporary distractions, dating a few decent guys, but none of them ever measured up to Angel.
In time, I forced myself to let my envy go, accepting the brutal reality that a man like him would never consider a plain girl like me.
Not when he was in love with the life force that was Evangeline.
Then came their engagement announcement last year, which utterly annihilated me.
I went dark, hiding out in bed, unable to get up, mourning a future I knew I had no right to grieve.
Heart churning, stomach flipping in sickening free falls, I scrolled through their announcement photos.
There they were, glowing and in love, on some private beach littered with candles and rose petals, with Evangeline flashing an absurd pink diamond at the lens like a trophy.
At 35, Angel had matured into breathtaking gravitas, edged with dangerous, rakish beauty; handsome, tall, with dark, wavy hair that curled at the ends.
From his broad, muscled shoulders to his corded neck and chiseled jaw with neat stubble, he was magnificent.
Eyes piercing, smoky grey, almond-shaped; nose sculpted; and those lips, so lush.
The way he quirked them in those images eased my sadness, because his joy mattered more than my secret grief.
Last night at the rehearsal dinner, it hit me that hope’s door was closing forever.
I left early to drink wine alone in my tiny apartment, mourning Angel, still utterly in love with him, my heart ripping apart.
Holding onto him was destroying me.
I vowed then to surrender him, with a brutal, grief-soaked lucidity that was gut-wrenching to the core.
Because loving him meant accepting when to stop dragging him down the aisle of my broken dreams, even if it tore my soul to shreds.