Page 12 of Still the One

“I know.” At least we’re on the same page about that.

“Maybe we should have met up before coming here,” she says.

“Yeah,” is all I can reply.

“Would you have? If I had asked?”

“I don’t know.” Probably not.

“I’ve tried a few times over the years… to get back in touch with you.”

“I made the very conscious decision to not respond to you after the first time. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to.” I never wanted to see Jamie again, I was convinced of that.

Jamie’s chin bops against my shoulder as she nods. I’m the one who moves in closer now. Her hand slides off my shoulder and finds mine. Our hips collide, then effortlessly find the rhythm of the music again. Then, somehow, we’re dancing cheek to cheek.

“It might be a head fuck, but it’s so good to see you,” Jamie whispers. “It only hurts a little. You are still so gloriously you. Thank you for coming.”

I’m not sure I can respond in kind. I’m glad I came, but I don’t know how good it is for me to see Jamie again. It’s a trip to dance so intimately with her. To feel her against me, to sense her body heat, to inhale her perfume—to know that her hair is still as soft as it ever was. Truth be told, it makes me want to hold on a little tighter—like my arms suddenly remember what they’ve lost.

Because I don’t know what to say and neither does Jamie, we end the dance in silence. When the last note plays, it’s hard to let go of her. But I do. Of course, I do—I have experience in doing so.

“Thank you.” Jamie drops my hand. “I’ve got my eye on you for the next slow dance,” she says, and turns away.

Chapter 8

Jamie

I’ve left the party and walked to the beach to cool off, to put some distance between myself and that dance floor where Mac is the center of attention. Good thing Sandra and Tyrone instated a strict no-social-media rule or Instagram would be filled with clips of Gabrielle Mackenzie letting her hair down.

The roar of the waves draws me closer to the shoreline. It’s late, and most hotel guests have gone to sleep. To my left, a couple leans into each other while strolling on the beach. How lovely did it feel to hold Mac like that? When I told her it was good to see her again, I also meant that it was amazing to dance with her, to exchange a few words with her, to perhaps—or maybe that’s just wishful thinking—witness the appearance of a tiny crack in her steel armor.

Giggles arise from behind a stack of lounge chairs. Three teenagers are smoking. When I look a little closer, I recognize them from the wedding party. They’re Sandra’s nieces and Tyrone’s nephew, I think.

“Pssst.” They beckon me.

It’s really not my job to ask how old they are and whether they should be doing this. When I approach them, I smell weed.

“Want some?” one of the girls asks.

The brazenness of youth. They don’t even consider that I could tell on them—not that I would.

“Weren’t you canoodling with that smokeshow from the news earlier?” the nephew asks.

“Canoodling? I don’t think so.” I hold out my hand for the joint. Why not?

“Could have fooled me,” one of the nieces says as she gives me the spliff. “It’s strong stuff, just so you know.”

I ignore her warning and inhale deeply. Like a middle-aged parent trying to be cool with her kids but failing miserably, I splutter out an embarrassing cough.

I shake my head. “I didn’t see you here, but don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

Light-headed, I walk back to where I came from. Those three young people could have been the kids Mac and I never had. We had our first IVF appointment booked for the week after our commitment ceremony.

“Instead of a honeymoon,” she said. “But so much better.”

She could have gone through with it on her own, but she didn’t. Mac doesn’t have kids and it’s not because she can’t have them. Or maybe she did get pregnant, and something went wrong after. There are so many possibilities. There are so many things I don’t know. She’s as much a stranger to me as those kids I just smoked with.

“There you are.” Her red dress stands out against the darkness, that’s how bright it is. “Are you okay?”

---