Seventeen missed calls.
Eleven from Dane. Three from my mother. One from my father.
I ignore all their names and pull up a number I haven’t called in over five months. I know he knows what day it is. I also know that he’ll pick up.
“Jessa.”
“Chris,” I whisper, hating the sob in my throat.
“Jessa,” he says again. Softly. It’s as though he knows exactly what’s happened. But then, how could he?
“You were right about him,” I admit. My voice wavers, but it doesn’t crack. I won’t let it.
He doesn’t laud it over me. He doesn’t berate me. He doesn’t even seem to take pleasure in the fact that he was right. Most touching of all, he doesn’t ask me any questions.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to be right.”
“I know.” And the truth is, I really do.
“Come see me,” he says.
“I will. I just… need some time first.”
“Take all the time you need,” he says, the words soaked through with sincerity. “I’ll be here.”
I hang up and stare at the bright orb of fire in the distance. A thin stretch of storm clouds hangs over its face like a veil.
I should probably be crying, but I can’t find the energy. I don’t want to waste tears on either of them, anyway. They’ve stolen enough of my energy for one lifetime.
I don’t see the stranger until his shadow looms over me, blocking the rest of the sun. A sin I’m willing to forgive because, for one insane moment, it feels like he’s replaced it altogether.
It’s not just his impossibly imposing size or his square jaw. It’s not even his effortlessly tousled hair or his impossibly gray eyes.
It’s the way he’s looking at me.
There’s no sympathy or pity there. Just mild curiosity, and even that doesn’t quite capture it. There’s arrogance in his face, the way you’d call a prince arrogant. A kind of certainty and calm that says nothing in this life can touch him.
“Should I keep walking?” he asks. “If you’d prefer to cry in peace, that is.” His voice is deep. Chocolatey, velvety, but with an unmistakable rasp at the edges.
I frown. “Probably.”
He smirks and pulls out a flask from the inside of his coat. “Here,” he says, offering it to me. “This should help.”
I don’t think twice before accepting the flask and taking a big swig. I probably should have, though. The burning bite of whiskey scorches my throat on the way down.
“Jesus Christ,” I gasp.
“It goes down easier the second time.”
I meet his eyes for a moment and then raise the flask to my lips again. “Hm,” I say, still cringing against the burn. I take a second sip. “You’re right.”
I hand back the flask. He accepts it without a word.
“You’re not dressed for the beach,” I point out. He’s wearing a crisp button-down shirt with black pants and leather dress shoes. All of it looks ridiculously expensive. But he doesn’t seem to mind the fact that his feet are sinking into the sand.
He seems amused by that. “Neither are you.”
I laugh. Somehow, I forgot about the wedding dress.