Chapter 32 ASH
ASH
Fucking Stupid
Something’s been keeping me from making the call. But the wedding is two days away, and I can’t put it off any longer. Olive’s silence says everything—she doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore, doesn’t want to marry me. So this call is overdue.
I’ve done press junkets, late-night shows, even walked onstage after throwing up from a panic attack. But none of that feels like this—staring at my phone, thumb hovering over the screen, knowing the second I hit call, there’s no going back.
I hit it anyway.
Scott picks up on the second ring. “Hey. I was just about to call you. I spoke to Celeste, and she wants to go over some last-minute details with—”
“It’s off.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then: “Excuse me?”
“The wedding. It’s off.”
Another pause, this one longer. I can practically hear him blinking in disbelief.
"Ash.” His voice drops—calm, controlled, like he’s talking to a toddler about to stick a fork in an outlet. “This isn’t a good time for one of your dramatics, okay? The wedding costs more than most people spend on their house. Let’s just—”
“I’m serious,” I cut in, sharper this time. “It’s not happening.”
He sighs. “Okay. Talk to me. What happened? Is this a lover’s quarrel? Do we need to spin this—?”
“She left.” I drag a hand over my jaw. The stubble’s rough, my skin raw. I look like hell. “She won’t even talk to me. I’m the one calling it off.”
“You’re the one—?” Scott’s voice jumps half an octave. “You can’t just back out, man. We’re too far in. Think about the brand partnerships. For Christ’s sake, your whole reputation. Remember why we’re doing this. Do you have any idea how much money is on the table?”
“I don’t care about the fucking money.”
Silence crackles on the line.
“I care that I broke the heart of the woman that I—” The words stick, my throat tight like someone’s squeezing it shut. I try again, but the sentence won’t come. That I what?
I drop my gaze, rake a hand down my face. “I care that I hurt her,” I manage finally, my voice low. “That she’s gone—and it’s my fault.”
Scott makes a strangled sound, halfway between a laugh and a curse.
“Well. Shit. This isn’t just money, Ash.
This is your image. You chose this storyline.
You leaned into it. The reformed rockstar.
The surprise romance. The sweet kindergarten teacher no one saw coming.
America is ready to cry at this damn wedding. ”
“There’s nothing I can do,” I snap.
“That’s not true. She signed a contract, didn’t she?” I hear him pacing on the other end.
“Don’t you dare—” The words rip out of me. “I’m not forcing her into a marriage she doesn’t want. That would be fucking insane!”
His tone turns icy. “So what, you’re just going to blow it all up? The narrative, the contracts—the future?”
“I already did,” I say, quieter now. “When I let her walk away.”
Silence stretches. For once, Scott doesn’t have a comeback.
“I broke her heart,” I add after a beat, the words dropping like stones in my chest.
Scott exhales, long and sharp, back to exasperation. “Fine. I’ll handle the damage control. But you’re telling Celeste. You’ve got a meeting with her in the city in an hour.”
We hang up, and half an hour later I’m on my way to meet Celeste.
I drive through Laurel Canyon with the windows down, hoping the breeze might clear my head. It doesn’t. My thoughts are stuck in a loop—playing every word Scott said this morning and every word I didn’t say to Olive when I had the chance.
Now I have to face the woman whose Pinterest boards still think I’m getting married in two days. She’s going to eviscerate me with her eyes and her clipboard—and honestly, I probably deserve it.
At the next red light, I glance to my right.
There’s a café on the corner. Small, shaded, half-hidden behind potted succulents and a chalkboard sign that says coffee first, decisions later.
A woman sits at a window table, sunlight in her hair, legs curled under her, a paperback open in her hands.
She’s wearing a baggy sweatshirt. No makeup. Nose buried deep in the book.
For a second—just a second—I think it’s her.
My breath catches. My whole body tenses like it might actually be possible, like she might look up and smile and say Hey, I was waiting for you.
But the woman lifts her head, and it’s not Olive.
Of course it’s not.
Still, the image of her lingers like an afterimage burned onto my vision. The way she used to read in bed, one hand curled around her hedgehog pillow. The way her lips moved silently when she got to a part she loved, like she was tasting the words.
That same book is probably in her suitcase right now. Dog-eared and over-highlighted.
The light turns green.
I drive on.
But now everything feels like her.
The dog on the sidewalk—the same kind we saw on our engagement moon. She made me stop and pet it, cooed like it was a baby, then laughed when I pretended to be grumpy even though I secretly loved how she lit up.
The secondhand bookstore on Melrose. The donut box someone’s carrying down the street.
She’s everywhere. And I need to shut this train of thought down, fast.
I park on a side street, kill the engine, and just sit there for a minute.
My hands are still on the wheel. My heart is doing that slow, heavy ache thing it’s been doing for days.
I glance in the rearview mirror.
I look like shit.
I feel worse.
And for the first time, I let myself admit it.
I miss her.
Not just the sex. Not just the comfort. Not just the warmth of having someone in my house.
I miss her.
Her laugh. Her questions. The way she looked at me like I wasn’t just a fucked-up mess of bad choices.
She made me feel human.
And I let her go.
I slam the car door harder than necessary when I get out.
Time to face the music.
Or in this case, the wedding planner.
***
Celeste’s office smells like lavender and quiet luxury.
The walls are a soft cream, the furniture minimal and modern, everything perfectly arranged—like even her succulents were hand-selected for symmetry.
Her desk is spotless, except for a single open planner, a gold pen, and a tablet propped up with a calendar that looks more chaotic than mine ever has.
She looks up with a bright smile when I walk in, practically glowing. “Where is your lovely fiancée today?”
“She’s not coming.”
“Oh? I hope there are no clouds in lover’s paradise?”
“Well, you could say that…”
Her smile flickers. Just for a second. Then it’s gone.
Her posture straightens, her hands fold neatly on the desk, and the warmth drains from her expression like someone flicked a switch.
The Celeste I know—charming, composed, always five steps ahead—pulls a mask of professionalism over her face so fast it’s almost impressive.
It’s the kind of shift you only notice if you’re looking for it. And right now, I’m looking.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, voice crisp. “Then we’ll have to make do without her. I just wanted to confirm a few last-minute details with you.”
I drop into the chair across from her and drag a hand through my hair. “I understand. But our situation has changed since we last spoke. I—” I clear my throat. “I need to call off the wedding.”
She goes completely still.
The silence is instant and sharp, like the air just changed temperature.
She studies me for a long moment. Then she leans back in her chair and folds her arms.
“I see.”
“Celeste—”
“Let me guess,” she says coolly. “You had a change of heart. Got cold feet.”
“She left,” I say, my voice quieter now. “Packed her stuff and disappeared. She’s not answering my calls. She won’t talk to me.”
“So go find her.”
“I don’t even know where she is,” I admit. “And even if I did—I broke her heart. I pushed her away.”
Celeste is silent for a moment, fingers steepled now. Then she sighs and opens her planner again, flipping past pages of color-coded timelines, vendor contracts, menu plans, and seating charts.
“It’s a shame,” she murmurs.
“I know.”
“No,” she says, looking up. “Not about the wedding. About you.”
I blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Celeste leans forward slightly, her voice calm but unflinching. “I’ve planned over two hundred weddings. I’ve seen couples in love and couples in it for all the wrong reasons. But you and Olive?” She tilts her head. “You were the real deal.”
“You don’t know what we were.”
One brow arches, sharp and knowing. “Oh, please. You think I didn’t notice the way you looked at her when she wasn’t paying attention? The way you brushed hands just to feel her skin?”
I swallow hard.
“You didn’t have to say it,” she continues. “It was written all over both of you.”
I sit there, stunned, as her words settle like dust in my chest.
She softens just a little. “I’m not going to convince you to go through with it. But I’ll say this—real love doesn’t show up that often. And most people are too scared to hold onto it when it does.”
I drop my head into my hands, elbows on my knees. “I blew it.”
“Maybe,” she says. “Maybe not.”
She closes the planner and taps the cover with her nails.
“I’ll start the cancellation process. Notify the vendors. Suspend the billing where I can. But I’ll wait until the end of the day to make it official.”
My head snaps up. “Why?”
She shrugs lightly. “I want you to really think about your decision. I’d hate to waste those peonies.”
Then Celeste just gives me a long, unreadable look before rising from her chair. She crosses to the door and opens it without a word.
I stand too, my spine aching like I’ve been carrying too much for too long.
At the threshold, I pause. “You really think she could forgive me?”
Celeste doesn’t smile. Doesn’t sugarcoat. But she says, simply, “Maybe.”
***
Back at home, I decide today is as good a day as any to stress-cook. I start chopping vegetables more aggressively than necessary.