Finally.
I think I’ve shut him up.
Until I set my phone down for exactly two seconds and it buzzes again.
Holy hell. At this rate, I’ll scream bloody murder and call the bosshole out of his office, tripping over his polished shoes.
I wish my eyes wouldn’t betray me with the urge to read more, but they do.
Jay: See, this is why I freaked. The thought of dealing with a lifetime of that sent me running.
Dakota: Good. Stay gone, little man.
Oh, but that would be too easy.
My phone pings two more times. Great, now he’s sending multiple whiny texts in a row.
But when I look at the screen with my breath stuck in my lungs, I see CAPTAIN instead.
Hey, can you send me the campaign timeline draft and the latest from Rome? I just left for a meeting in Tacoma, but I have some time and can work from my phone. I just need the file.
Yeah, I send back, relieved it’s not more Jay.
I open an email and attach the timeline and the “ivory package.” I have no idea why Isabella the designer named it that when most wedding dresses are just plain white. We’ll come up with a better name internally...
Try again, Lincoln texts a second later. Only one attachment came through.
My eyes do a double roll.
Jeebus. If one went through, they both did. He’s probably too dumb to find both.
Whatever. For Mr. High and Mighty, I send the damn email again.
I’m rewarded with another ping! that grates on my eardrums.
Jay: Don’t you ever think about us, Dakota? About what we could have been? About what we could still be?
Not anymore, I send, gritting my teeth. And it doesn’t matter. You just said my personality sent you running.
Jay: Really? Even after all the years we spent together you never think where we could be now? I made a mistake. I’m man enough to admit it. You had our whole lives planned out. This doesn’t have to be who you are.
Oh my God, stop.
But he doesn’t. My phone keeps chiming, bringing back the horrible face of a man I don’t want to remember.
Jay: You’re not some bitchy loner, Dakota. I know you. The caring girl I remember with a mean-ass talent for words has gotta be in there somewhere. I still play the song you wrote sometimes...
I hate having this conversation, but I really hate hearing that Jay still carries around any piece of me. Of us.
Assuming he’s not just lying through his teeth for sympathy, which is always possible.
But my vision blurs anyway like a heavy, unwelcome rain sweeping in.
Don’t. Just leave me alone, I send back with trembling fingers.
Of course, he doesn’t listen.
He never did.
Jay: Dakota, please, just one chance. One hour to talk to you, to try. I’m telling you I fucked up. But we don’t have to let it end like that.
Yep. I’m fully crying now, ducking down in my chair so nobody else can see the mess rolling down my red cheeks as I bury my face in a tissue.
I could, but I don’t want to. It’s too late. I’m blocking you, I send a minute later.
Jay: I love you.
Dakota: I fucking loathe you.
Jay: I want you back.
He’s...he’s drowning me. It hurts to breathe. I muster just enough energy to tap at the screen and send one more frantic F-you.
You don’t. You DON’T, Jay, and I’m not interested in trying or being your fucking little pity game. Text me again and die. You’re blocked.
It’s a miracle I’m almost alone by the time I log off in a huff, grab my purse, and run for the elevator.
I barely manage to scramble on my bike and pedal home, counting every breath and every second until I’m nestled in the sanctuary of my bed.
My ex’s comeback attempt by text couldn’t be more pathetic.
Except, I feel pathetic, wrapped up in the blankets and forced to remember so many times I’ve spent the last year teaching my brain to delete from my head.
Leave it to this human virus to short-circuit what little memory immunity I had.
Leave it to him to bring me back to the biggest disaster of my life.
My stomach flutters with a trillion butterflies.
I’m waiting with Dad in the church foyer under a balmy North Dakota sun. Dallas isn’t much compared to the big cities, but this small town knows how to make it classy.
There’s an antique getaway car waiting for us after the ceremony, on loan from Thelma Simon and the McKnights with their massive car collection.
The decorations are laid out like a dream, all courtesy of Grace Barnet, a local girl who married a literal movie star. She rocks a rustic style to die for and her projects are booked out for months. I think I’ve been teleported back to my nineteenth century dream along with the church.
The dress I’m wearing is sleeveless and modern and beautiful. I shiver against the breezy air conditioning.