Page 39 of Angel

Finally alone, now I could breathe.

It’d taken all my energy, from Nashville to Capri, to keep on my game face and hide the pain.

I almost fell to my knees as I locked the cedar door of my private suite.

Closing myself off from the world so I could now face the agony, the angst, the shame of being jilted at the fuckin’ altar.

The second primary bedroom in the residence was a cavern of ivory walls, carpeted luxury, and sleek cream-and-gold marble, but I scarcely noticed it.

I dropped my acoustic guitar case onto the bedding, and found the bar in the sizable living area.

I soon sank into an armchair facing the stunning view outside, a crystal tumbler of amber scotch in hand.

The liquid scorched my throat as I drank, brooding.

Losing Evangeline sucked.

I spent years planning a future with her as my ‘ride or die.’ Now, it was just over.

Hours, tears, memories, all down the drain.

With a growl, I reached for my guitar and plucked a series of minor, despondent chords.

Embroiled in heinous thoughts of Evangeline, I trapped myself in a loop of old ghosts, reconstructing our past.

The woman who ran into that Mustang was a lifetime removed from the innocent, pig-tailed blonde girl I fell in love with when I was 10.

I remembered the day I protected her on the playground, how she stared up at me with her massive, misted-over sapphire eyes as the teachers dragged me off her bully.

Her smile then made my chest seize.

I was the new kid from the northern beaches of Sydney.

My parents, sisters, and I had just moved to Nashville so that Mum could start her tenure as a professor of English at Vanderbilt.

I brought my Australian sense of humor to my new school, a healthy dose of defiance, plus a deep loathing for anyone who acted superior to the rest of us.

Evangeline, though three years my junior, became my obsession.

I adored her white-blonde curls, her laughter, and her beauty.

I had a hard crush on her and took every chance to protect her and, by extension, her sister, Roxy, becoming their guardian at school.

In seventh grade, I discovered her hiding in the back rows of the library behind the encyclopedias.

She was scribbling in a notebook, her tongue poking out.

She glanced up and saw me as I raised my chin to her.

‘What’s that you’ve got there, Evangeline?’ I asked, going for nonchalance as I slid onto the wooden bench beside her.

I peered over to read the cursive, flowery script on her page.

She’d written: I am Evangeline Forrest. Mrs. Angel Forrest.

My heart leaped with wild joy.

Her cheeks flushed, but she kept the notebook open, tracing a pink-tipped finger over the words.