23. Chapter 23
Ilearned two things while at the airport in San Jose. One, there was a storm in Houston delaying flights back home. And two, the changes Wesley had promised Frank he’d complete himself, well, let’s just say he’d reverted to his old ways of delegating. My inbox was approaching maximum density at an alarming rate.
The realization left me with some choices. I could stay at the airport to see if a flight became available while shuffling around in search of better Wi-Fi to best help Wesley. Therefore, hopefully, proving my worth to the company. Or I could post up at a nearby motel with reviews that suggested it might have a pest problem but not a Wi-Fi one. The flight I had already booked left in three days anyway, which should give the storm enough time to get the heck out of town before my original flight.
I chose the latter, mostly because I couldn’t stop crying and was tired of the looks I’d been getting while sobbing over my open spreadsheet.
That’s how I spent most of my Thursday and Friday: plopped in the middle of a sad motel mattress. A laptop on my thighs surrounded by tissues, some chocolate I’d picked up at the airport, and my broken sandal. I’d already pulled the chancla on three roaches’ asses. But one had scurried under the dresser before I could get him.
I tried my best to work. I really did. I needed to get into good graces with Wesley. Working through the tail-end of my vacation showed initiative and remorse. By some cosmic mercy and punishment, the long and meticulous reconfigurations took almost zero percent of my brain power. I could complete them with my limited brain space, but it also meant I wasn’t distracted. Consequently, I thought about Beck the entire time.
My mind ping-ponged between him being so tender and so sweet this entire vacation to him ripping my heart straight from my chest with that kiss from Reagan. Then, the warning signs flashed behind my eyes.
I knew he wanted to make Reagan jealous.
I knew this relationship was fake.
I all but handed my heart to him on a silver platter with a polite bow and an Enjoy your meal, sir.
I was glad only the cockroaches bore witness to the pitiful show. After another stint of crying—this one lasting a few hours—I collapsed on the mattress and stared at the ceiling, hiccupping. A good cry takes everything out of you, carves out your insides like a jack-o-lantern, and leaves you numb. And numb is how I felt when my phone vibrated with a text. I reached for it without sitting up, patting several scrunched tissues before making contact.
I expected Wesley or my sister or, hell, even Beck. But it was Amanda’s name on my screen.
“What does the wedding planner want?” I groaned.
Maybe Victoria had told her about my dishonesty. I imagined I was about to get my ass reamed out via text message. Instead, it said:
Where are you?
That was none of her business. I’d never agreed to come to the wedding as a calligrapher. I’d agreed to go as Beck’s date. Beck’s fake date. I tossed my phone on a nearby pillow and covered my face with the crook of my elbow, preparing for another crying marathon.
Because in another life I would be going to Victoria’s wedding as Beck’s date. We’d get to dance to our first slow song together and laugh at Koontz making a fool of himself, and I’d drink too many pina coladas, and I’d get Gabe to tell me embarrassing stories about teenage Beck. Then, Beck and I would stumble into our suite, a tangle of limbs.
In another life, I kept him.
In another life, he was mine.
Another text came in while I ugly cried. I ignored it, rolling onto my side, trying to hold myself together with my arms because it felt like my heart was going to leak out through a gap between my ribs.
My phone buzzed again.
“God! What do you want?” I yelled at my phone.
Amanda had sent both texts.
We have a situation.
The other text was a picture of the five-foot mirror on which I’d made the seating chart. It had a crack from top to bottom.
“Oh, fuck,” I whispered into my hand. That piece had taken me hours.
She sent me another text.
Someone ignored the fragile labels on the box.
Yeah. No shit. My thumbs hovered over the phone, ready to text something akin to, Sorry to hear that. Best of luck! Because I had no interest in going back to that resort. I could all but picture running into Beck and Reagan—hand in hand. Or worse, making out in that hot tub like Kat and Jake had that first night at the resort.
But then I thought about Victoria. After all the deception, I owed it to her to make this right.
Me: I’m going to need masking tape, a level, an X-Acto knife, paper towels, Windex and white acrylic markers-chisel tip!
By the time I’d changed into something other than my panties and an oversized T-shirt, I had another text.
What’s your location? I’ll send a driver.