Page 8 of Still the One
“We can at least acknowledge that the whole experience was very different for Mac, and it still is now. I have to respect that.” I inhale deeply. “Anyway, don’t we have a wedding ceremony to get ready for?”
“That’s hours away, darling.” Alan doesn’t pry further and takes another sip from his drink.
“In that case, I might rest my eyes for a bit.” I suppress a yawn. I tossed and turned for hours last night, reliving the final conversation I had with Mac—the one in which I broke her heart into a million pieces. But there’s no way I can fall asleep here with the hubbub coming from the pool and Alan’s probing questions. I don’t want to be alone in my room either, left alone with my thoughts and countless regrets.
“Hey, guys.”
I recognize Sandra’s voice so I open my eyes.
“Are you having fun?” she asks.
I’m in a five-star resort in Hawaii to celebrate my friend’s wedding, yet I wish I was elbow-deep in some dough, kneading it to perfection, doing what I love the most. The lack of sleep is catching up with me and my non-conversation with Mac isn’t helping matters.
“We sure are, darling,” Alan says.
“Scoot over, please.” Sandra taps my legs. I move so she can sit with us. “Did you go on a bender last night?” she asks when she sees my face.
“Just a little trouble sleeping.”
She nods. It’s the only explanation she needs. It’s the only explanation anyone ever needs when it comes to Mac and me.
“I’ll make sure to look my best this afternoon.” I try not to imagine what Mac will look like—how dazzling and eye-catching she will surely be.
Chapter 5
Mac
I swim and I swim, until my arms burn so much I fear I might not make it back to shore. Being in the same room as Jamie, after all this time, was so disconcerting and threw me so off balance—especially when she started apologizing—that I had no choice but to hide behind a shield of bitter coldness.
We were never going to fall into each other’s arms for a long-awaited reunion. She hurt me too much for me to ever be genuinely warm toward her again, but I surprised myself with the bite in my words, the sharp sting of them. So much for everything being water under the bridge.
I slowly make my way back, keeping my head above water so I know whether I’ll have to avoid her on the beach. But I’ll have to spend time with Jamie again in a few hours. We’ll be sitting at the same table for hours tonight. Sandra did check with me before she arranged the seating plan and I said yes because I truly believed time had done its thing. Until I saw Jamie again.
I try to keep the memory of that soul-destroying emotion of loving and hating someone at the same time at bay. Of not understanding what I must have done wrong to have her leave me like that. To have her dump me, three months before our commitment ceremony, as if I was nothing to her. Two decades later, I know for a fact it wasn’t me. It was never me. It was Cherry—what kind of name is that, anyway? A cherry is a fruit you pick from a tree, not the name of someone you fall in love with when you’re meant to marry the love of your life.
Jamie leaving me for Cherry had me in a state of devastation for months. The suddenness of it, the swiftness with which she said goodbye, stunned me into emotional ruin, just as I was going places—and making very detailed plans for our future as a couple and as a family. We’d have four kids if all went well. At least two. I would have been over the moon with just one baby to hold in my arms. But here I am, on the cusp of fifty, single and mother to no-one. That’s what went through my head when Jamie started apologizing, when she said she had always regretted how things ended. I saw red because I might have come to terms with losing Jamie, but I never truly accepted not having children—and I somehow still hold her responsible for that.
I make my way out of the water.
“Looking good, Gabby,” someone shouts. Someone always does.
I wave them off, not giving them a second look. I need to focus on myself, on getting my act together before the ceremony. I’ll go through my routine of getting dressed and putting on makeup, as I do before I go on camera. It has a calming effect on me and surely sitting next to Jamie for the remainder of the day is less demanding than relaying the latest sports news to millions of viewers. Yeah right.
Without stopping to talk to anyone, I head to my room and start my ritual.
“I do,” Sandra says. Tyrone, her brand-new husband, looks at her with so much love in his eyes, it touches something deep inside me. When was the last time someone looked at me like that? Or I at them? I can’t even remember. I’ve never again come close to marrying. I’ve had flings and relationships, some of them even lasted a few years, but they always ended and although it most certainly wasn’t always pleasant, no break-up has ever hurt me the way my split from Jamie did. Her dumping me so coldheartedly protected me from any similar future pain—maybe I should be grateful to her for that.
Next to me, Alan dabs a handkerchief against his eyes. There’s wetness on my cheeks, too. Oh, damn it. This kind of glorious love on display is not missing its effect. I might have become a little bitter over the years when it comes to all things romance, but I’m not immune to this. To this union of Sandra and this other person she loves so deeply she wants to shout it from the rooftops. Thank goodness Jamie is sitting on the other side of Alan and Charles, because I really shouldn’t be grateful to her for eternal protection against future hurt. She broke my heart so badly that, when I finally managed to put it back together again, it was no longer capable of a love like that—like I see in front of my very eyes right now. I can no longer imagine what it must feel like to love someone the way Sandra and Tyrone love each other. And boy, do I miss that feeling. Because I felt it every morning when I opened my eyes to Jamie lying next to me—always with a grin on her face, even at four o’clock. Every single morning I woke up and looked into her sparkly eyes, I knew she was the one for me, and I felt so disproportionally lucky to have found her, to be with her, and to have her love me back.
The tears keep on streaming. Everyone’s standing up to applaud the happy couple. I follow suit. I’m not the only one crying—although, I suspect, none of us are crying for the exact same reasons. We’re all projecting something onto this moment. I glance at Jamie, but I only see her back from where I’m standing. Her shiny shoulder-length hair that was so soft, I used to brush my cheek against it just for comfort, for the sheer pleasure of feeling it against my skin. Is it still so soft? I don’t want to know.
Alan reaches out his hand to me and I gladly hold onto it. Beneath all his loud bravado, he’s a big softie.
We collectively whoop as Sandra and Tyrone walk past us.
“Love you, San,” Jamie shouts. “You too, Tyrone!”
I take a deep breath and gingerly dab at my eyes. I might need a few touch-ups before I’m ready for the group pictures, unless I hide in the back somewhere.
