Chapter Thirty-One

‘What the hell are you doing here, Carter?’

I get a slight, sadistic shiver of pleasure as I watch him wince; whatever he was expecting from our first meeting again, this wasn’t it. Perhaps he suspected I’d just fall onto my knees on the marble floor of the Hotel Belle View’s lobby and beg him, beg him to take me back. Perhaps if he’d done it two days ago, I would have… but there’s something different now. Now, there’s some vestigial part of me that wants to see him suffer, wants to put him through the same wringer I’ve been put through for the past couple of days. I shouldn’t, I know that. I should be the bigger person. But I’m not, so fuck it. Let him twist in the wind for a little while. He’s earned it.

He doesn’t say anything; he just stands there, face pointed down towards the floor of the lobby as he sits on one of the plush leather sofas, caught off guard like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar. Carter’s shamefaced puppy dog act might even have worked on me, once upon a time – but that time has long since passed. You bastard, I think. It’s a new feeling, but a comfortable one. I’m not upset with him anymore. I’m not sad. I’m just angry, for the way he treated me and the audacity it takes to reappear and try to snatch a perfect moment away from me. Who cares if he knew that’s what he was doing? You complete bastard.

‘Could we go somewhere?’ he asks eventually.

‘Where?’

‘Anywhere. Just… you know. Somewhere else.’ Somewhere private, he means. Somewhere where it’s unlikely I’ll call him out on his bullshit.

‘I’m busy, Carter.’

‘With what?’

‘Wedding stuff. Which you’d know, if you’d bothered to turn up.’

‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’

I grit my teeth; it’s the only thing I can think of that might stop three days’ worth of bile from pouring out of me and drowning him right there. ‘Why? Why are you here?’

He pats the seat next to him. ‘Please?’

I sit down, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy about it. ‘Fine. I’m sitting. Happy?’

From the expression on his face, the answer is an immediate and definite no. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Carter look so utterly miserable; I’m not sure I’ve seen anyone look so miserable, in fact. His suit is rumpled, his eyes heavy with bags – as far as I can tell, the only luggage he brought with him.

‘When did you get in?’ I ask.

‘About an hour ago. I tried to get an earlier flight, but they were all sold out. I must have written a thousand texts to you, but…’

‘No signal,’ I say. ‘I haven’t had any signal all week.’ That’s why. That’s why he didn’t get in touch with me. It’s not that he didn’t care, or that he was off banging some co-ed from the University of Chicago’s Department of Kama Sutra Studies. It was just goddamn Verizon, that’s all.

He shakes his head. ‘It’s not even that,’ he says. I started writing so many messages but… there are just some things you can’t say in a text message, you know? Some things, you have to say in person. And then when I realised I wasn’t going to make the wedding, I didn’t want to spoil things for you. That’s when I decided to fly down and say my piece in person.’

‘So that’s it? You just hopped on the first flight you could and decided to come and have a chat with me?’ I furrow my eyebrows, just slightly. That’s not the Carter I know. The Carter I know would never have done something so impulsive. Hell, the Carter I knew struggled to make a decision between matching neckties; the idea of him spending eight-hundred-odd dollars on a return trip is somewhere in the vicinity of finding out that Bigfoot and the Loch Ness Monster are joint shareholders in Faked Moon Landings, Inc.

He shrugs. ‘It seemed like the right thing to do.’

‘Why are you here, Carter?’ I ask. ‘Why did you come? Really. No bullshit.’

‘I came to see you.’

‘Why, though?’

‘Why do you think, El?’

What was it he had said to me, in that hateful little text? The one I must have read and reread a thousand times, in my mind if not on my phone? Don’t call. I need space from you right now. Have fun in New Orleans. I could have deleted it – probably should have deleted it – but there it was. There was no forgetting it. His words, burned on my mind forever. ‘You made it pretty clear that you didn’t want to see me again, Carter,’ I say.

He shrugs again, but at least this time he has the grace to look shamefaced as he does it. ‘Well, I fucked up,’ he says. ‘There. Is that what you wanted to hear? I. Fucked. Up. I’m sorry I missed the wedding, and I’m sorry for what I said before you came down. I’m sorry I broke up with you over the phone. I’m sorry. That’s all. I’m sorry.’

The more he talks, the louder he gets. By the time he’s finished, small groups of people all over the lobby are doing their level best to make it look as though they’re not eavesdropping on us. ‘Keep your voice down,’ I hiss.

‘No. No, I won’t. I fucked up, and I don’t care who hears.’

‘Carter…’

‘El, I made a huge mistake. It’s all I’ve been thinking about for days. Ever since I got off the phone with you, ever since you went away… I just haven’t been able to get it out of my mind. And then I went around to your apartment, and –’

‘You went to my apartment?’

He nods. ‘Sorry. I just wanted to pick up some things I left there before you got back. I figured it would be easier that way. Then I saw your ring on the nightstand, and I…’ I watch as he sits back and fumbles in his pants pocket; a few seconds later, his skinny little fingers emerge wrapped around a small black velvet box. I know what’s in there long before he flips it open. I can see it in my mind: that loop of silver, the small-yet-stylish round-cut gem that six months ago had seemed so perfect, so right on my finger.

My ring. My plan. My future.

Everything I had ever wanted… a week ago.

He holds it out to me, and suddenly everyone in the lobby gives up any attempt at pretending they weren’t spying on us. It’s funny how quickly people’s attention is grabbed whenever there’s a ring involved, like the diamond serves as a lighthouse beacon pulling them ashore.

‘Carter,’ I say softly, but the word sticks in my throat. You don’t want to do this. Please. Trust me. You don’t.

The ring box clicks open. ‘I was so stupid, El,’ he says. ‘So stupid. I threw away a good thing, because I got scared at how you acted with me sometimes. I mean, so what if you’re a bit controlling, right? It’s not like I’m perfect or anything. That just means you care – and I need that. The past week has made that so clear. I don’t want to spend my life without you. I don’t want to spend another second without you.’

His words drift around me like smoke from a blown-out candle: shapeless, idle, barely there. My eyes are drawn elsewhere, to every other set of eyes in the room. Most of the wedding party seems to have meandered into the lobby over the past two minutes. I see face after familiar face looking across at me, no doubt wondering who the strange, dishevelled man bothering the Maid of Honour is. The old couple – Drew’s grandparents, perhaps – who were telling me that they’d been married for sixty-something years, and what a gift it was. A distant cousin or two. Old friends. Lauren’s work colleagues from the hospital. Peppered among them, the faces of Lauren, of Danielle, of Paige, of Jessica. The longer Carter speaks, the more they seem to come out of the woodwork – like vultures, feasting on drama. It’s not like that, I think. They’re just curious. They want to share in my joy. Because who wouldn’t be happy to hear something like this? Who wouldn’t be thrilled?

Not me. No, Sir. Not me.

It’s a sea of smiles, one after another.

Except…

Except for one face. One familiar, wounded face. One face I never wanted to hurt like this.

Jack.

He’s standing on the stairs, raised above the crowd, with a perfect view of what’s going on. His white suit jacket is crooked over his arm, his shirt buttoned low. He looks for all the world like he’s about to step out somewhere casual – a nice, easy date with some woman or other, some woman out there who deserves him, who wouldn’t bring all this nonsense into his life.

Who didn’t lie to him.

Who didn’t deceive him.

Who wasn’t already taken.

Technically.

‘Ella Elizabeth Mossberg,’ Carter says. ‘Will you do me the honour of being my wife? For keeps this time?’

I’m sorry, I want to say – but my jaw feels like it’s been wired shut. Besides, what am I sorry for? For not telling him about Carter sooner? For last night? (No, definitely not that. Not ever sorry about that.) For the fact that now, faced with Carter and that ring, I’m hesitating?

I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

But the words don’t come. Not quickly enough.

Jack stares back at me for an instant, before giving me a slow nod of the head and heading out the main door of the Hotel Belle View – and, I can only assume, out of my life forever.