Page 236 of Reverse

All thoughts of my victory in becoming Editor in Chief ofSpeaktarnish as my past and present—which pales in comparison—collide. It all brings me back to the same damning conclusion—the future is now.

After endless months of burying my head in the sand at work, and hiding my raging heartache behind my career, it’s reared its ugly head. Remorse has its wicked way with me and the itch to go back and seek refuge in a packed schedule has me looking up early flights home.

You cannot live to work, Natalie.

It’s the remembrance of Easton’s headlines that keep me parked on my stool at the poolside lounge, adjacent to the resort lobby.

At least in Mexico, I’m safe from continuous updates regarding the new love interest of the world’s most promising new rock star. Here, I don’t have to avoid them as if they don’t exist and press through the rest of my day, pretending I didn’t soak in every line like the rest of his starry-eyed fans. Because that’s all I am now, a spectator, a fan. His past, and maybe for him, still considered a stain.

Even though,technically, I was hisfirstfan and his firstwife. No one but me will ever get to claim that title, even if he’s intent on replacing me sometime in the future.

It’s an immature thought, but a valid claim and win, nevertheless.

“AHA!” I shout, and Jerry jumps back in fright, managing to keep a grip on the glass before it slips from his hand. “Whaddaya know, Jerry,” I muse, twirling my colorful drink umbrella between pinched fingers. “I just caught a glimpse of the bright side. Things may be looking up for me.”

He gives me a dead stare as he continues drying his glass. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” I mumble, sucking on the ice from my last drained margarita, attempting to ingest more tequila.

The downside of not catching an early plane home? Watching my best friends fall in love at a time when it’s the most heart-wrenching to witness.

“I haveso muchto be thankful for, a lot, really,” I reiterate to myself and to Jerry, who motions to my untouchedcomplimentaryappetizer in blatant suggestion.

Ironically, even as I continually try to count my blessings, I can’t find one fuck to give about the future that awaits me back in Austin. Not since the tranquil Mexican waters and Señor Tequila smacked me with a good dose of vitamin truth.

I knew what was expected of me, so I stepped up, took control of my emotions, myself, and my life, and let it fuel me. I did what I do best, I compartmentalized my pain and made and attained new goals. A faint, but new set of abs included.

I’ve since met those goals, and now . . . my future will consist of more of the same, and it’s blindsiding.

“Jerrryyy,” I drag out his name, a clear solicitation for a pinch more of the numbing juice.

“No,” he belts in reply without so much as a glance my way, thehospitalityportion of his demeanor long gone.

“Fine,” I slouch into my stool and close my eyes, listening to the sounds around me—the fountain gurgling in the nearby pool, and just beyond, the faint but distinct lapping of ocean waves which lulls me into a happier place.

“I, Elliot Easton Crowne . . . Take you, Natalie Renee Butler . . . To be my lawfully wedded wife . . .” he declares reverently, a glimmer of love resting on his lash line as he takes the ring from Joel and turns back to me. His warmth engulfs me wholly as he pushes the promise onto my finger.

“Love is patient,” I recite. “Love is kind.”

“Love is not boastful,” he murmurs, “nor does it insist on its own way.”

“Love is not self-seeking,” I say, voice shaking with the love I feel as I push the band on his finger.

“Or easily angered,” he squeezes my fingers, and I feel the implication of it—a second promise.

“Love keeps no records of wrongdoings,” I recite back when prompted. Just as we’re pronounced, he whispers my name in awe.

“Natalie . . .”

“Ha!” I exclaim at the faint sound of my name, an echo of the most defining moment of my life by the velvet voice that continually haunts me. Jerry glances over at me, brows lifting to his hairline to let me know I’m still cut off. Feeling the impact of that whisper, I briefly wonder how I managed such a clear audible memory and giggle maniacally as I squint at my empty margarita schooner. It’s apparent I need to steer clear of tequila . . . and maybe Jerry until the end of my Mexication.

When I feel the prickling sensation of a presence behind me, I begin to rattle on my barstool and realize both sets of Jerry’s eyes are still on me as the silky voice repeats my name.

“Humor me, okay, Jerry?” I straighten on my stool as much as possible as the hairs on the back of my neck start to rise at an alarming rate. “Just for shits and giggles. Is it the tequila, or is there someone behind me? Say . . . yea tall,” I position my hand well above my head, “resembling a criminally good-looking, but verybroodyrock star?”

“It’sJerod,” he says, “and yes.”

“Yes, it’s the tequila?”

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