Chapter 3
Abby
Everyone told me not to go back to work so soon.
My parents. Even my sister, who secretly hates me.
They all insisted I take more time off, to reset, to heal, to “process what happened,” whatever that means.
But I didn’t want to sit around in my wedding dress, surrounded by snot-filled tissues, watching Sex and the City: The Movie on repeat while Carrie gets left at the altar.
At least Big realized he was an idiot and turned the car around.
Mine didn’t even show up to the venue. No, mine waited all day, all damn day, until we were about to walk down the aisle, then called his best man to tell him he wasn’t coming.
I remember it like it was yesterday. Well, yesterday plus almost four years.
I was in the bridal suite with my bridesmaids, all of us laughing and giggling.
I was trying not to drink more champagne even though I desperately wanted to.
What I wouldn’t give for a Back to the Future moment.
To time travel back to that exact second, before Mike, the infamous best man, walked in and dropped the worst news I’ve ever received.
Second worst, technically. Losing my grandpa still holds the crown.
I was so happy in that luxury suite, perching there in my foolish little bubble, moments away from becoming Mrs. Abigail Jean Taylor.
Wife of the uber-wealthy Marcus Taylor. Handsome, kind, practically perfect Marcus Taylor.
God, I was an idiot. What’s comical is when Mike walked into the bridal suite and started talking, I laughed.
I genuinely thought he was playing a joke on me.
Mike was always the funny guy in Marcus’s group, the king of one-liners, bad puns and awkwardly timed dad jokes.
But not this time. This time, Mike looked pale and clammy.
Like he already knew the news he was about to deliver wasn’t going to go down easy, definitely not like a cold glass of lemonade on a hot day.
I remember sitting there, completely still, for what felt like hours, but was probably just a few seconds, after he told me Marcus wouldn’t be coming.
My breathing started to change. My chest got tight.
My sister, who was never particularly kind to me growing up, immediately grabbed my hand.
She must’ve known I was about to either pass out or puke.
I did both. Puked, then passed out. Real classy.
When I came to, Lila was fanning me, my sister was holding my curls off my neck and my mom was crying. Yes. Crying. Like… Mom. For once, could I be the center of attention?
I repeated Mike’s words as a question, my voice shaking.
“He’s not coming?”
The girls around me all nodded yes and that’s all it took. I broke down. Like full-blown, 1920s silent film actress sobbing. Gasping, hiccuping, shaking. Pretty sure half the guests waiting outside could hear me.
Eventually, my mom told Lila to sneak me out the back and take me to her place.
The limo was already waiting, the one that was supposed to whisk Marcus and me away to our dream honeymoon in Turks and Caicos.
Instead, it carried a shell-shocked, dumped bride and her best friend, who held my hand the whole way and swore she could feel every ounce of my pain.
Lila and I grew up together in the city, which feels like a rare thing nowadays.
We went to Trinity School from kindergarten through twelfth grade, side by side the whole way.
She’s always been my rock. Long, straight black hair and a smile that could light up any room.
She was the Veronica to my Betty. The guys loved that growing up.
We never fought over anyone. Even when we met Marcus at the same time, she could tell I was smitten.
I still remember her grinning and saying, “Go get ’em, Betty,” with a wink.
Thank God she was there for me that day, the day I got left at the altar.
She was the one who grabbed my shoes and my dignity, snuck me out the back of the venue and climbed into the getaway limo with me like we were making a dramatic escape.
She didn’t try to fix it. She didn’t say the wrong things.
She just showed up. And in the worst moment of my life, that was everything.
She even supported me when I insisted on going back to work just three days later.
She walked me to the office every morning that week, holding my hand like it was nothing.
Tourists probably thought we were a couple, however honestly?
I didn’t care. They weren’t entirely wrong, either; Lila is into women.
Well… more bi, I guess. She doesn’t see gender, as she likes to say.
I’ve always admired her for that, for being so confident and unapologetic about what she wants.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be that bold. Just walk up to a cute guy at a bar and hand him my number. Or not hold the door open at Starbucks so I could unusually be first in line for once. Yep. Total rebellion fever over here.
My first day back at work was just three days after the disaster Marcus left in his wake.
My eyes were still a little puffy, but Lila said it made me look youthful, hid the wrinkles around the corners of my eyes.
Silver lining, I guess. Most of my coworkers had been at the wedding, so of course they already knew.
The ones who hadn’t been? They definitely heard about it by lunch.
Everyone treated me like I was made of glass.
Like if they said the wrong thing, I’d shatter into a million mascara-stained pieces.
Everyone except Jonathan Slack. I already hated his entire existence, but between wedding planning and keeping up with my workload, we’d gone several months without one of our signature knock-down, drag-out workplace feuds.
Which, truthfully, was personal growth for the both of us.
There was never a question of whether to invite him to the wedding.
He wasn’t my friend. He wasn’t even friendly.
And I once overheard him say Marcus must be a “complete pussy” if he was willing to marry a “ball buster like Abby.” So yeah. No invitation was ever given to him.
My first morning back at the office actually started off shockingly well.
Someone left the good bagels in the kitchen and no one had touched the everything one yet and my boss, Victoria, tall, cold, vein-covered Victoria; unexpectedly hugged me.
Hugged me. It was almost unsettling. She hadn’t come to the wedding.
Claimed “weddings aren’t her scene,” which was rich coming from someone I’m pretty sure has been married three times before.
But hey, I wasn’t mad. I didn’t exactly picture her slow-dancing under fairy lights with the open bar crowd.
Things stayed quiet and respectful for the first few hours…
until Jonathan strolled in, late, dragging his suitcase behind him and still tan from whatever luxury vacation he’d been on.
Apparently, he’d skipped town the weekend of my wedding.
Of course he did. While I was busy getting publicly humiliated, he was probably on a yacht somewhere, sipping a Mai Tai, blissfully unaware that my life was imploding and off living his best tan-lined, responsibility-free life.
Jonathan appeared in my office, airy, cocky and far too pompous for someone who hadn’t even bothered to show up on time that morning. He placed a large box of chocolate on my desk.
“Congrats on your wedding, AJ,” he said, smirking. “Even though I still can’t believe he actually married you.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but without fail he cut me off.
“Don’t thank me. This is the viral chocolate from Dubai. Luxurious and delicious.” He gestured proudly toward the gold-trimmed brown box like he was offering up a treasure. “Figured I’d bring your husband something to snack on while he tries to drown out that high-pitched voice of yours.”
I was speechless. Clearly, no one had told him I didn’t get married. That I’d been left at the altar. And while he’s a world-class prick… even he wouldn’t mock me for that. Would he?
“You know what?” I said, uncrossing my arms and shoving the box back across the desk. “I don’t want it.”
He blinked, stunned, like the idea that someone might reject him or famous chocolate had never once occurred to him.
“I was attempting to be nice,” he muttered, snatching the box and turning toward the door.
Then, like he couldn’t help himself, he tossed out one last jab over his shoulder.
“You better have handcuffed that husband of yours to the bed, or he’ll leave you the second he realizes how annoying you really are.” He chuckled and slammed the door shut behind him.
Tears rushed to my eyes before I could stop them.
My chest tightened, panic bubbling to the surface faster than I could blink.
Jackie, my next-door office neighbor, must’ve heard the whole thing.
She rushed in without knocking, knelt beside me and wrapped her arms around my shaking shoulders.
She rocked me gently, the way I imagined she did with her four kids at home.
“It’s okay, love,” she whispered. “Breathe. Breathe. Let it out.” Her hands were soft, her voice even softer and somehow, in that moment, her kindness held me together better than any piece of chocolate ever could.
Word of my panic attack must’ve spread quickly, because for the rest of the day, people kept stopping by to check on me.
I didn’t mind the sympathy, but I wasn’t exactly an attention whore like Jonathan.
Or my mother, for that matter. Still, it was nice to know I worked with good people. Well… mostly good people.
During lunch, I was walking back from the break room when I spotted Jonathan sitting in my office. Glass walls, great for letting in natural light. Also great for watching your nemesis make himself at home uninvited.
For fuck’s sake. I mumbled under my breath, then whipped the door open so fast I nearly took it off the hinges.
“Get out of my office,” I snapped.
He looked startled but didn’t move.
“Listen, AJ… I didn’t know about—” He paused. “I didn’t know that—”
“Oh, you didn’t know my life blew up while you were tanning on some fancy yacht, eating grapes off a wannabe Gigi Hadid’s belly button or whatever the hell you were doing?” I cut in.
“Yes. Okay. I didn’t know you were… dumped.” He cringed. “I mean, left. Shit. I don’t know what to say, but I just… I didn’t know.”
“How about you just say, I’m sorry, Abby. I’m sorry this happened to you. Then take your selfish, stuck-up, arrogant, cocky face out of my office and don’t talk to me again.”
Was that harsh? Maybe. Okay, yes. I might’ve let out everything I’d been wanting to scream at Marcus and accidentally aimed it at the second-worst man I know.
Jonathan’s expression dropped. Not quite sad, because that would require him to have emotions. But maybe… somber. Like defeat, covered in fancy cologne.
“I’m sorry, Abby,” he said quietly.
Then he placed the box of chocolate, still in his hands, I hadn’t even noticed, on my desk and walked out. As cruel as it may have been, it felt so good to finally tell him off.
For a few weeks, Jonathan avoided me. I didn’t care. Heck, I barely noticed. Eventually, he started talking to me again, but only when absolutely necessary. Just the basics, limited to mutual ads and shared clients. No jabs. No jokes. No chocolate bribes. Over time, things went back to normal.
I went back to normal. No more sobbing myself to sleep. No more skipping dinner or rewatching breakup montages on TV. I started going out again, with Lila, coworkers, the occasional blind date I wasn’t emotionally ready for.
Life moved on and like clockwork so did the feud between me and Jonathan. Which, weirdly, made me feel… better. Like if I wasn’t butting heads with him at work, everything felt too simple. Too normal. It’s probably unhealthy, but fighting with Jonathan? Kind of keeps things interesting.