Night Shift 2 Page 15

  But I didn’t.

  And now we’re left wondering if the pieces of the life we once shared still fit together somehow. First loves are hard to forget. The question is, do we want to forget? Or do we risk the chance and see what happens next?

  1

  Saylor

  This has to be a joke.

  It’s my only thought as I turn the square, colored invitation over and over in my hands.

  The same champagne-style font.

  An identical scroll pattern adorning its top and bottom.

  On cream-colored linen cardstock.

  Every detail of the line-by-line etiquette perfected and even the layout of the words is the same.

  All the particulars I spent countless hours obsessing over just like I did every other facet of my wedding.

  I turn it over again.

  Yep. It’s my wedding invitation all right. Same groom—Mitch Layton. Same time of day. Same destination: the tropical paradise of Turks and Caicos.

  Everything is the same except the bride’s name. This one says Sarah Taylor.

  And that’s not me.

  In fact, the only place it says Saylor Rodgers is on the outside of the envelope. I’m an invited guest. I double-check to make sure it’s really addressed to me because surely the man I left high and dry the week before our wedding wouldn’t invite me to his wedding. To someone else.

  Only six months later.

  But it’s there. My name. My address.

  Sweet Cheeks CupCakery

  Attn: Ms. Saylor Rodgers

  1313 State Street

  Santa Barbara, CA 93101

  Definitely no mistake on the address because that’s me, and this is where he knows to find me.

  The irony. It’s been six months, and not once has Mitch asked for a more detailed explanation than “because I just can’t” as to why I left.

  But if I don’t care about him in the least, why does seeing this invitation make my stomach churn?

  And even more importantly, why is my hand setting down the RSVP card, picking up a pen, and opting for the filet mignon rather than macadamia nut encrusted halibut as my entrée selection when I have no intention of going?

  None.

  Whatsoever.

  And even stranger, why did I put an X next to the “plus-one” for a guest when there is no plus-one in my life?

  Call my rash decision to attend blatant curiosity to see what the future Mrs. Layton looks like.

  Deem my selection of plus-one a definitive need to prove to “our” friends—who conveniently forgot my phone number when I dumped Mitch—that I’m better off for doing it. That I was in the right. That I’ve never been better since I left. That I’m happier.

  And I am.

  I think.

  2

  Saylor

  “Saylor.”

  My brother grumbles my name for what feels like the tenth time in as many minutes. I choose to ignore him. Keeping my head down, my concentration remains focused on the elaborate frosting I’m perfecting on the cupcake in front of me.

  I’d rather keep my head in the sand than listen to the lecture I know is coming. The comments about how the payables are more than the receivables. The do you know that even with this small business loan you acquired you’re still going to drown in debt unless you figure out how to get more business? The you need to come up with marketing different than everyone else so you’ll attract more customers.

  And then he’ll start his spiel. How I need to be more active on social media. How Internet orders are huge these days and where the longevity and success is. Get enough online orders, up the demand for my product in other areas, sell franchise opportunities to service those demands, then sit back and reap the rewards.

  Doesn’t he see I’m doing everything I can? That I’ve poured my blood, sweat, and tears into my dream since breaking up with Mitch? Not only to prove to myself that it was the right decision, but probably more so to prove to everyone else that it was. And that I can make it on my own. Without him or his family name or their bank accounts full of money. That none of that defines me.

  And so I keep my head down, add the pearl lacing around the edge of the cupcake I’m decorating (for a wedding no less) while my eyes continually glance to the foot traffic outside, hoping they’ll stop in and buy a cupcake.

  Or several dozen.

  Because his groan is only going to get louder the deeper he gets into the mess I’ve made of the spreadsheet his accounting brain deems easy. His columns, rows, and formulas with symbols that make no sense to me. I’ve got more important things to do than add the numbers into the sheet.

  Like running all aspects of the business he’s currently—and deservedly—bitching about.

  “Saylor?”

  The change in his tone has me lifting my head to look through the open doorway where he stands watching me. The look in his aqua-blue eyes is full of confusion and what I think is anger. There’s something in his hand I can’t quite see.

  Crap. What did I do now?

  “Did that asshole seriously have the audacity to invite you to his wedding?”

  I slowly set the piping tube down and brace my hands on the butcher block in front of me in preparation for Ryder’s protective older-brother gene to kick in. For the anger to come on my behalf when he should be the one pissed off after what Mitch’s family did as a result of my actions. And due to my own stupidity for not tearing up the invitation in the first place.

  I’d completely forgotten about it.

  Or at least that’s what I tell myself as I look at the champagne cardstock in his hand and remember the RSVP card I filled out in haste last month. More as an act of “screw you” than of real intent. The response my assistant, DeeDee, told me she mailed out since I had haphazardly left it on my desk instead of in the trash.

  My smile is tight as I pretend to be perfectly fine with having been invited. Because it’s easier to pretend than to let the tears of guilt burn bright over the fallout that has affected him as well. My sweet, gruff, overprotective brother who loaned me the money to start this business and then found out his largest account—Layton Industries—withdrew their business, his top source of dependable income over the past eight years.

  I see the stress in the lines on his face. Know he’s trying to help me as much as he can and chase new clients to keep his business afloat. Be the mom, dad, and big brother all in one fell swoop. But I know he hates when I thank him for it, so I focus on answering his question instead. I recognized the did that fucker Mitch really invite you? in his tone despite the polite way he phrased it.

  “It appears so,” I murmur and worry my bottom lip between my teeth attempting to divert the topic at hand. “Did I mess up the spreadsheet that badly?”

  “Screw the spreadsheet, Say. Does that prick really think that—?”

  “I left him, Ryder.” My voice is quiet when I speak. A mixture of uncertainty tingeing its edges. “Not the other way around.”

  “And for good reason.” He realizes the hard line to his tone hits me harder than I expected. The pressure of being single, friendless, and exhausted from working my fingers to the bone to make this all work to prove I can is taking its toll. His use of hold-no-punches communication with men at work versus needing to soothe an emotional little sister more than he thought has him cringing. He walks over to me and hooks an arm over my shoulders. “Look. I know it’s been hard for you. You basically had to start all over. A new place to live, your friends all siding with him and treating you like shit . . . Everything. But you’re doing it. You’re starting a new life. Have a business up and running and—”

  “Barely,” I mutter as I scrub away the frustration on my face with my hands and in the process smear frosting who knows how many places onto my cheek.

  “It’s a lot more than most people would be doing seven months after a long-term breakup.”

  I inhale deeply and nod my head as I pull up my proverbial bootstraps. This was my doin
g. My choice. Walking away when I could have stayed. Realizing that even though Mitch and I had been together for six years, the spark had died long before. Sure there is more to a relationship than just the want to throw him up against the wall the minute he got home and have wild reckless sex with him, but then again, that was never there to begin with.

  Growing up with parents who had loved so fiercely, yet constantly referred to the numerous goals, dreams, and wants they gave up because Ryder and I took precedence, gave me pause to what I’d be giving up, marrying into Mitch’s family. Because the compromise would have been solely on my part. Not his.

  Regardless of my reasons, no one on the outside can fathom why I chose to walk away. I mean, he was Mitch Layton, perfect in every way imaginable—polite, successful, Ralph Lauren-handsome—and even with all that perfection, I can still recall looking in the mirror in the weeks before our wedding and thinking while all that was nice, I didn’t want to live a life always wondering if nice was enough.

  I pull my mind from the thoughts and look back at my brother, to the intricate and colorful ink on his forearms flexing as he lifts the invitation to read it again. Most days, the crisply starched dress shirt of his accountant’s uniform covers those tattoos. To the purse of his lips as he lifts his eyes up to mine. “I’m sorry this affected you. That my breaking up with him—“

  “I told you not to bring it up again. This was not your doing.”

  “Spoken like a true friend.” I chuckle and pick up the piping tube again. More like my only one—and sadly it’s because he’s my brother so he has to be—given the circle of friends Mitch and I had over the years seemed to side with him after the break up. The weekly lunch dates suddenly were rescheduled by text saying, “I’ll call you when I get free time,” and the monthly girls-only dinners for some reason stopped happening. Even my manicurist, who did Mitch’s mom’s nails, suddenly had no openings for my long-standing appointments.

  “Does he actually think you’ll show up?”

  “He invited me, didn’t he? Or maybe it was the bride-to-be who did? Who knows? Who cares?”

  “Do you know her?”

  “Never heard of her before.”

  “Whoever it was probably just wanted to rub your nose in it. Show you what you could have had. He’s arrogant enough. Thinks he’s such a prize.”

  And that right there is the crux of the problem. Sure I have doubts. Like middle of the night stare at the ceiling when I can’t sleep wondering if the grass is greener on the other side doubts. They’re ridiculous though, because I know deep down in my heart of hearts I did the right thing.

  But loving someone and being with him for most of your adult life makes it hard to walk away and not experience some level of uncertainty.

  So maybe that’s why the thought of seeing Mitch with her feels like it would cement my decision and chase away any doubts still milling around.

  “True,” I muse as I lace another row of beads on the next cupcake. “But wouldn’t you feel the same way if someone did that to you?” My brother just stares at me, the snarl on his face betraying the calm in his eyes. “I get why you’re pissed at him—and I am too for what he did to you—but when it comes to me, Ryder, he has a right to be mad. I was the one who called it off.”

  “Oh, I remember, all right,” he says over his shoulder as he heads back to the desk. And I know he does. My tear-filled state in his office when I realized I couldn’t go through with the wedding. The understanding ear for his hysterical sister and the ledge he talked me down from after I picked up the phone and told Mitch I needed to talk to him. “You want to really know what pissed me off more than anything? You broke off an almost seven-year relationship with him and not once did he get pissed or rage or sit on your doorstep and beg you to reconsider. He didn’t fight for you, and you’re worth fighting for. Instead, he acted like the passive-aggressive asshole he is by sending you an invitation to his new wedding?”

  I shrug, loving that he thinks I’m worth fighting for, and at the same time knowing Mitch didn’t fight was an answer in itself. “If you were in his shoes, how would you have handled it?”

  “Me?” He laughs with a sheepish grin that suggests what he’s about to tell me may or may have not happened in the past. “After the girl refused to talk to me, I would have gotten shitfaced. It wouldn’t be pretty. Then I’d probably bang on her door all night long until she was so sick of me, she had to face me. And if she didn’t and I had to gather some sort of self-respect, I’d probably go out, drink some more, sleep with the first willing candidate because . . . well because, wasting six years with the same person when it amounted to shit would piss me off, and I’d want some way to feel better about myself. So yeah . . . not classy but that’s what I would have done.”

  I snort. “Sounds about right, and yet for the life of me I can’t see Mitch acting like that when obviously he did—the going out and screwing the first thing he laid eyes on part.”

  His sarcastic laugh rings around the empty café. “Hate to break it to you, sis, but obviously he did or else he wouldn’t be getting married this quickly.”

  And I can’t hide the fact that the notion stings. But at least it solidifies one of two things: he either felt the same way about our relationship as I did, or he fell in love with Rebound Sarah because I bruised his ego and she made him feel good again.

  “Maybe he wants to prove he’s over me despite the rumors I’ve heard that she’s a carbon copy of me.” Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as those words stop his trek back into the office. The notion that Mitch is marrying another tall, aqua-eyed, blonde-haired woman with olive skin hits him.

  He laughs at the notion, sarcasm ringing in it as I hear the shuffle of papers on my messy desk in the back room. “Where’s the RSVP card? I’ll send it back and let him know just what I think about how smart you were to dump his ass. Pretentious prick.”

  Luckily Ryder can’t see me from where he stands because I’m certain the scrunch up of my nose and falter in my icing would give away what I did.

  “Saylor?”

  “Hmm?” Indifference.

  And there must be something in how I respond that catches the tiny inflection in my tone. After all, he has known me my whole life.

  “Please tell me you don’t plan on going.”

  “No. Of course not.” Eyes on the next cupcake. My fingers squeezing another row of pearls around the edge. My feet shifting to abate the weight of his scrutinizing stare.

  “Where’s the card then?”

  “I must have lost it.” Dodge. Avoid. Ignore. “It must have fallen out. It’s probably on the floor under the desk and—”

  “You’ve always been a horrible liar.” I can hear the confused disbelief in his tone as he steps back out to the shop. I immediately let go of my hair wound around my finger. My tell. “What did you plan on doing? Waltz in there and say ‘I’m here! The ex who was smart and walked away.’?”

  My God. When he says it like that, I can hear how stupid it sounds. But of course, being my brother and the voice of reason, he doesn’t just stop there. “C’mon, Saylor. Do you actually think he sent you that invitation because he wants you there? Because I sure as shit know she doesn’t. I’m trying to wrap my head around what part of you would actually RSVP that you were going to go. The female mind boggles me sometimes. I mean . . . wait a minute. You’re not second-guessing yourself now, are you? Please tell me you don’t have the misguided notion that you’ll show up and know whether you made the right decision or not. And if you did make a mistake, think he’ll drop everything and marry you instead because—”

  “Ryder.” It’s a warning. All I can muster through the emotion clogging my throat.

  “You are, aren’t you?” Incredulous. Victorious. Disappointed.

  “Please stop.” I stare at him, jaw clenched, eyes burning bright with the tears I refuse to let fall so he can see how stupid I feel over the notion. “Sending the RSVP back was a knee-jerk reaction, okay? St
upid. I had never even intended to mail it. I was just pretending, but DeeDee gave it to the mailman accidently.”

  “So what? Just because you sent it in doesn’t mean you have to actually go to it.” He throws his hands up, his frustration with not understanding clear. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No. Maybe I wanted to see how my own wedding would have looked. Maybe I thought why not go? It’s in paradise, after all. Take a vacation with the non-refundable vacation package waiting for me to use.”

  “If it’s non-refundable, didn’t you already lose it?”

  “No.” My laugh is short and disbelieving. “My travel agent felt so sorry for me after knowing how hard I’d worked to scrape the money together to pay for the trip. She was able to get the resort to honor a future stay so long as I traveled within the next twelve months. All I have to do is call them up with dates to see if they have a vacancy. It’s not like they don’t already have my money.”

  “And so what?” He shrugs. “You have a trip so you might as well take it? Wouldn’t you rather use it another time when Mitch isn’t there? Or is going when he is a way to satisfy your curiosity?”

  I hear his logic. Understand how stupid my own reasons sound and yet that doesn’t stop me from answering. “Maybe so. All I know is that by the looks of finances, I won’t be going on another vacation any time soon so—”

  “So why not show up at my ex’s wedding? Yeah, because that sounds completely rational.” He rolls his eyes while I glare at him. The sarcasm reverberates in the space around us and only serves to irritate me more.

  Needing a moment to calm my rising temper, I pace to the end of the butcher block. He’s judging me, pushing my buttons, and I hate having to account for my actions or justify my opinions to anyone other than myself. “Not rational by a long shot, but hell, maybe I want to go and spy through the bushes so I can silently thank God it isn’t me walking down the aisle to him. Or maybe I have this fairy-tale fantasy of walking into their wedding with some hot stud who is obviously so madly in love with me that those assholes—the people I thought were my friends, yet were nowhere to be found when I needed them most—can see us. And maybe, just maybe . . . for once in this whole situation, I can prove I’m not home in the corner, licking my wounds because I realized I made some huge mistake like they all think I am!”