Page 166 of A Love Letter to Whiskey
I snuck phone calls to B from the only payphone in town, maybe still in existence, but she never answered. Leaving a voicemail was too risky — especially since Angel’s lawyer could request access to B’s phone record if she got crazy enough.
And taking this case alone, I knew she was crazy.
So, I tried my best to just work and bide my time, to get the green light from my lawyer and the damn divorce done so I could finally call B. No, fly to her, take her in my arms, and know she’d never be out of them again for as long as I lived.
She said she’d wait for me, I assured myself on the hard nights.
B was always a woman of her word, and I knew no matter what — even if she was angry with me, even if she had questions, even if I’d hurt her with my silence… she would wait.
But the day the divorce was finally finalized, I got an invitation in the mail.
To her wedding.
EVERYONE TRIED TO STOP me.
My parents. My sisters. My friends at the office. Hell, even Ethan — who had bigger fish to fry as a lawyer out in California — took the time to tell me it was a stupid idea to fly to Pittsburgh and track B down.
I didn’t care.
Rationality had been obliterated, emotions taking the wheel, and they steered me onto a one-way flight to Steel City.
She had her address as the return address on the invitation she sent, so it was easy to track her down after I checked into a hotel and dropped my bag. I didn’t plan to stay there longer than one night. I planned for B to fall into my arms, to tell me the wedding was a joke, to finally fucking be with me.
Finding her apartment building was easy. Getting upstairs without her knowing… well, that proved a bit trickier. Luckily, the doorman was easily persuaded with a fake story about how I was her long-lost half-brother and I was there to surprise her. He rang me right up after that and wished me luck.
Maybe part of him felt sorry for me since I was completely soaked from the rain. I was also shivering — more from nerves and anger than from the cold, but he took pity.
I held that wedding invitation crumpled in my fist the whole elevator ride up to her floor, my ears ringing. And when I finally stood in front of her door, I didn’t pause to think about what I would say when she answered it.
I knocked, hard, and when she didn’t immediately answer, I knocked three more times.
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I heard her annoyingly say from inside.
And then the door flew open, and there she stood — my surfer girl, in tiny sleep shorts, a tank top thin enough for me to see her nipples peak at the sight of me through her sports bra, and tube socks.
Her hair was tied up in a curly mess of a bun on top of her head, her face makeup-free, freckles pronounced under the low lighting of her apartment. She gaped at me, those plush lips in a soft O, and I just stared at her, chest heaving, torn between the urge to demand answers or to cave completely and pull her into me.
Seeing her killed me as much as it brought me back to life. I just wanted her in my arms. I wanted to feel her again. I wanted her to tell me everything would be okay.
But the wet invitation in my hand screamed otherwise.
I lifted my hand, nose flaring as B’s gaze fell to the invitation crumpled in my grasp.
She swallowed. “Jamie…”
“No.”
She shuddered as I fisted the invitation into a wadded mess.
“Fuck no.”
I didn’t wait for her to invite me. I pushed past her into the apartment, pacing.
“By all means, let yourself in,” she deadpanned.
I kept my back to her, eyes on the large window overlooking the city. Again, the urge to say fuck it and just run to her, bury my face in her neck, wrap my arms around her… it was so fierce, I had to will a long, soothing breath to stop myself.
Finally, with my back still to her, I lifted the invitation again.
“What the hell is this?”
Silence.
And then…
“I tried calling you…”
Her voice was weak, and I couldn’t stop the low laugh that slipped from me as I spun to face her.
“Oh, you did? And what exactly were you going to tell me?” I pressed. “That you’re getting married? Please tell me you’re kidding, because I know that’s not what you were going to call to tell me. I know this invitation can’t be real. This is all some big joke, right?”
I saw it, the moment the surprise of me showing up on her doorstep faded, and pure anger seeped in, instead. “Excuse me?” She scoffed. “No, Jamie, my fucking wedding is not a joke.”
