Hitched

by Dawn Rae Miller

  So I return the favor and run my gaze up and down his no longer lanky body. Fletch wears jeans and a fitted t-shirt that shows off his new, more muscular physique. Time may have passed, but his taste in clothes has remained the same.

  Funny how that happens.

  He hangs up the phone and sticks it in his jean's back pocket. "Hi," he says.

  "Hi."

  The years apart aren't melting away with each passing minute. Instead, they seem be growing more and more insurmountable. Nasty things bubble to my lips, but I swallow them away. I promised Brady I'd be good, but now, faced with a long car ride, I don't know if I can. I want to know why he abandoned me. What did I do to deserve it?

  Fletch stops staring at me and turns toward the conveyer belt of luggage. "Just let me grab my stuff, and we can go."

  I drag my foot across the linoleum floor, and my cheeks flush red. "My car wouldn't start, so I had to take a cab. I'm sorry, but do you think we could get a rental?" I hate asking him, but there's no other way.

  Fletch nods his head. "Not a problem." He whips his phone out and pushes a button. "Sharon?" he says. No hello. No greeting. Just an authoritative voice. "Can you book a town car for me out of Logan to the Cape? I need it now."

  He hangs up and gives me a half-smile, the kind that used to melt my heart. But not today. Nope. I'm one-hundred percent immune to that smile.

  "We should have a car in the next couple of minutes."

  "Wow," I say with the annoyance I've been trying to tap down. "It must be nice to be you."

  "Ellie, don't."

  I cross my arms. I won't go there. Not tonight when we have a long ride ahead of us. But at some point Fletch is going to have to deal with what he did to me. To us.

  Fletch grabs his nondescript black luggage from the conveyer belt and motions toward the door. "We should wait outside. The car will be here any minute."

  He's being so nice. Like nothing has changed between us.

  And it pisses me off.

  He walks toward the exit, and I jog after him, my suitcase rolling along behind me. "Why'd you come?" I blurt.

  "Why'd I come?" Fletch pulls up short, and I nearly bump into him. "Because my best friend is getting married, and he asked me to be here.” He turns toward me. “I'm the Best Man, if you didn't know."

  "A best friend you haven't made any real time for in nearly two years. When was the last time you saw Brady?"

  Fletch blinks hard. "Maybe a year ago? I don't know. I've been busy running a company and all."

  "Well, I do know. It was when he flew out for your dad's funeral. It's the last time most of us saw you." Except me, I add mentally. I got you for a few more days.

  "I see Cal all the time," Fletch says, landing the hundred-ton elephant next to my feet. "She makes an effort."

  Gut punch. "And the rest of us don't?"

  "I'm not having this conversation here." Fletch turns away from me, and walks out the door into the humid late afternoon air. I follow along because where else would I go? I need a ride to Brady's, and I don't have enough money to get a car of my own.

  We stand on the curb, waiting, not speaking. This is going worse than I'd imagine.

  "How's your boyfriend?" Fletch sounds flat. Like someone has taken all the air out of his lungs.

  I eye him suspiciously. On a list of top ten things I don't want to talk to Fletch about, Michael hovers around number two. Probably because Fletch and I never officially broke up. We more or less faded away, the distance between us growing greater until there just wasn't an us anymore.

  So I guess, in some ways, Fletch is still my boyfriend. That is, if you need an official breaking up – which we never had.

  God this is going to be a terrible weekend. I wish Michael were here, if not for the company, than as an excuse to stay away from Fletch.

  "Why do you care how my boyfriend is?" I say. "And how do you even know I have a boyfriend?"

  "Brady," Fletch says. "He has a big mouth."

  That he does. For the past two years, Brady's kept me abreast of important Fletch information. But not who and if he's dating. No. I didn't want to know that.

  Besides, that's what gossip magazines are for.

  "How's Jenn Asher?" I ask, spouting off the name of an actress he's supposedly been seeing.

  "I don't know. I've only met her once, at a fundraiser."

  My heart pumps harder. Fletch, it seems, is single. I, however, am not.

  A sleek black car pulls up to the curb, and a man in an ill-fitting suit jumps out.

  "Mr. Colson?"

  Fletch nods, and the man hurriedly takes our bags and places them in the trunk. Fletch opens the car door for me, and I slide in, to the far side. He folds himself into his seat, his long legs bent at the knees.

  "I know I should have said this earlier, but you look great, Ellie."

  His compliment strikes me across the face, and I recoil. "Really, Fletch? We haven't spoken in years, and you want to talk about how I look?"

  He hangs his head in the sheepish way I know all to well. "What do you want from me, Ellie?"

  The words coming rushing out. "An apology. An explanation. Something."

  He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees and his head on his hands. "I'm sorry. I should never have disappeared."

  The hurt that's been sitting in my heart spills out. The love I had for this man is messy, and it flows through me like molten lava. I turn inward, focusing on my breath.

  That love may never come back.

  "Ellie," Fletch says, reaching across the seat and taking my hand. My body wants to fold into his, but my heart - oh my fragile heart - it wants to curl up on itself and lock all the love away. "Let's just make it through the weekend, okay?"

  I shake my head. "I don't know if we can. There's been too much damage."

  Fletch settles back into his seat and drops my hand. "I knew this was a bad idea. I told Brady I should just fly to the Cape."

  I turn away from him, and stare out the window, watching the city rush past us.

  He didn't even want to ride out with me. That was all Brady.

  I keep the tears inside.

  Fletch can't hurt me anymore. I won't let him.

  Chapter Three

  The tension between Fletch and me isn't exactly sexual. In fact, it's physically uncomfortable, and I can't wait to jump out of this car the first chance I get.

  But with traffic, we still have at least an hour to go.

  "Don't fuck with me," Fletch says into his phone. Since we started driving, he's been on the phone non-stop. "I know what you're up to, and if you think you can push me around because of my age, you're wrong."

  With that, he hangs up.

  Things, it seems, aren't all so rosy in Fletchlandia.

  His phone rings again, and he looks at me apologetically before answering it. "Fletch Colson," he says.

  He listens for a moment before saying, "Absolutely not. If we're rolling it out, we're doing it right. If that means pushing back the release date and not half-assing it, that's what we'll do."

  I resist rolling my eyes, and instead, focus on my phone. I pretend to be doing important things, but am really just engrossed in a game of solitaire. My phone buzzes, and I startle.

  Once I gather myself, I open my email.

  Another work message.

  By the amount of email I've received in the past forty-five minutes, you'd think I was a senior person with the inability to leave the office for two days without the world seemingly falling apart. I'm not. I’m just a junior consultant.

  But I’m good at what I do, even if I hate it.

  Because I’m bored, I flip open my laptop and look for the documents my co-worker needs. Since the car doesn't have wifi, I type out a long response on my phone, explaining the numbers, and why we made the decision we did.

  It's all very exhausting.

  Have I mentioned, I hate my job?

  Several texts from Michael flash across my screen.r />
  Having fun?

  Miss you.

  How’s Fletch?

  I can still make it out if you want me there.

  For a long while, I stare out the window and actually consider asking Michael to come, but then I look over at Fletch and he's watching me. He's quiet for the first time since entering the car. It's a little disconcerting, to be honest. Because here I am with Fletch Colson, in the moment I've fantasized about for two years, and neither of us have anything to say to the other. Or maybe, more correctly, neither of us wants to talk to the other.

  How different this is from our last car ride together. We couldn't shut up then. It was like we were both on speed, eager to get to know the other in ways we hadn't already.

  Neither of us knew where we were headed - each day was a new adventure. Sometimes we'd head east, sometimes south. We'd traveled through Oregon, Washington, Idaho, Montana, and South Dakota. In Sioux Falls, we stopped and decided to head south through the heart of the Midwest.

  At each stop, I had called my dad, who hadn't been overly excited about me traveling across the country with a boy he'd just met, but Dad hadn't told me not to. He simply required that I check-in everyday.

  Fletch, on the other hand, hadn't called home once. Lucky for us, his bankcard kept working. And, as he pointed out, if his parents really wanted to find him, all they'd have to do is look at where our charges were made.

  We never heard a peep from them.

  On that day, in Sioux Falls, Fletch had rested his head on my shoulder. "Do you trust me, Elle?"

  "Absolutely," I answered. I trusted that boy more than anyone else on Earth.

  He flashed me one of his brilliant smiles. The one that filled my nightmares later on. "Want to see the Gulf Coast?"

  I had laughed. "We're going to see everything from sea to shining sea aren't we?"

  "If we can."

  And we did. We saw everything in that summer – New Orleans; Washington, DC; plantation houses; long stretches of highway where we sung at the top of our lungs. The world was our playground.

  But not anymore. Now we're just somber shadows of our once brilliant selves.

  We cross the bridge to the Cape, and I turn my gaze back out the window. The city lights give way to stars. Thousands of them sparkle across the sky and kiss the black expanse of ocean. It's lovely.

  We drive on for a while, not talking, past quaint towns and sprawling houses, until we reach a semi-hidden driveway.

  "This is it," Fletch says, breaking the silence between us. "Casa de Brady."

  Even in the moonlight, I can see how massive the house is. These boys - men - never cease to surprise me with their family money. I guess I shouldn't be too surprised though, I've visited Brady's family home in Connecticut.

  "Don't stare too hard, Ellie. Your eyeballs might fall out," Fletch teases.

  I am not in a teasing mood. "My eyeballs are just fine."

  "Relax, Ellie. It was just a joke." The change in his voice from when he was talking on the phone to when he talks to me is noticeable. He's softer with me, less abrasive and aggressive.

  "Sorry," I mumble. And I am. At least for the stuff since we met at the airport. All that came before, I'm not ready to apologize for.

  Fletch reaches out, like he wants to take my hand again, but thinks better of it and hurriedly pulls back.

  We lock eyes.

  My heart sputters, and I want to look away. I need to look away. But I can't.

  "Ellie, it's been hard. I've missed --"

  "Stop," I say, holding up my hands. "Just stop. I can't do this right now."

  And I can't. I know I can't. Not without tears, and I don't want to cry in front of Fletch. It's bad enough that I cried almost every night for a year after I realized he wasn't coming back. No, I've had my share of crying.

  "Okay," he says softly, inching away from me. "Okay."

  Our car turns into the circular driveway and under an ivy-covered portico. The whole thing reminds me of arriving at a fancy hotel – the kind I can't afford. At least not until I pay off my crushing student loan debt. If that ever happens.

  There's a man waiting on the porch, watching our car, but before he can make it down the stairs, the front door flings open, and Brady barrels toward us. I leap from the car, desperate to get away from Fletch, but even more excited to see Brady. It's been two months since we've properly hung out, and I'm dying to catch up.

  "Bro!" Brady rushes past me and wraps Fletch up in his massive arms. "You actually showed up. And not on a fancy private jet or anything. I'm impressed."

  "I even flew coach," Fletch says, laughing.

  Brady throws an arm over Fletch's shoulder. "Slumming it, man. You're totally slumming it." He looks at me and grins. “And look! You brought a hot girl with you!"

  Brady grabs me by the waist and swings me around. When I protest, after going around the fourth time, he sets me down and signals the man standing on the stairs.

  "Wilson," Brady says. "Take Miss Ellie and Mr. Fletch's things to their rooms." He gives us a knowing smile. "Or will we be sharing this weekend?"

  Suddenly, it occurs to me what Brady was doing. The car ride was his failed attempt at getting Fletch and me back together.

  Oh, Brady. If only things were that easy.

  I must have turned white because Brady grips my arm. "Hey, I was only joking, Ellie. Don't mind me."

  But we all know he wasn't, and that makes things incredibly awkward.

  The man named Wilson grabs our bags and disappears into the house. A hundred of my apartments, maybe more, could easily fit inside. Either way, it's massive and reminds me a little of Fletch's place in wine country, but less modern and more East Coast Old Money. It's a compound, more than a home.

  Fletch told me once about his home in Hawaii. The Colson Family Compound he had called it, and I giggled, saying a compound sounded like something the Kennedys' would have, or where you'd find a crazed, stoned leader of some cult. We had a good laugh over that when Fletch said his dad was basically the stoned leader of a cult.

  And now here he is, the leader of the same cult. Most likely still a stoner, too.

  Brady links arms first with me, then with Fletch and guides us up the stairs. For a moment, my old life - the one at Harker flashes before me. How many times did Brady, Fletch, and I hang out? Or walk around campus in a pack, as Sarah once said.

  But that was then. This is now. In this life, we three make an odd coupling: the CEO of GroundFloor; a wealthy, but fledgling yoga wear entrepreneur; and me, a lowly consultant who can't even afford to rent a car until the next pay period. To say I'm the odd man out would be an understatement.

  "How was the ride? You two catch up?" He makes a kissing noise, but when neither Fletch nor I laugh, he drops his arms and stops short of the doorway. Brady turns on us. "Listen to me. This is my wedding. It's not the Fletch and Ellie show. Got it."

  I nod, but inwardly know it will never be anything but the Fletch and Ellie show to me. Yes, I'm here because Brady invited me, but I'm definitely here because of Fletch. As much as I don't want to admit it, it's true.

  "Good. Now get your asses inside before I have to kick them."

  I scramble through the doorway, but behind me, the two guys whisper something I can't quite hear.

  "What?" I demand, spinning around.

  "I don't want this to be awkward," Brady says.

  I toss my head back and laugh. "How can it be anything but?"

  "It will be whatever you make it," Brady says busting out his yogi sayings. Since leaving Harker, Brady has become more obsessed with all things yoga. Hence his foray into designing a yoga wear line. And while I think it's great that he's managed to merge his passion with real work, sometimes I get tired of hearing his profound statements or quotes from his yogi mentor.

  But in this, I know he's right. I'm completely in control of how this weekend goes. Well, Fletch and I are, anyway.

  "Where's my room?" I ask. "I need to change and fr
eshen up."

  "Top of the stairs, on the left. Your name is on the door." He elbows Fletch. "Makes finding each other easier."

  I shake my head. Still the same Brady.

  "Hey, Ellie," Brady calls. "Don't fall asleep. Sophie has some things planned for us all. Besides, Paige, Cal, and Reid are already here, and they want to see you."

  Calista. Wonderful. Just who I want to see. Especially after my last trip to San Francisco when she all but told me to leave and never come back.

  The thing about Calista is…well, she's Calista. Gorgeous, smart, and knows how to work the system she and Fletch grew up in. Me? I was so lost in the days following Will Colson's death. I tried being a good girlfriend to Fletch, but Calista is the one who ran interference with the press, and she held his mom's hand at the funeral. Meanwhile, I was paddling hard to keep Fletch's head above water. He was a ball of conflicting emotions.

  All I wanted to do was stay. To hold his hand and make things better.

  But that wasn't enough.

  Chapter Four

  About halfway down the hall, a simple chalkboard hangs off a single nail on a glossy white, three-panel door. My name is written in a pretty script.

  A beachy vibe permeates the room. A white duvet covers the bed, and all the furniture is weathered white. Gray-blue accent pillows are tossed on the bed, and jars full of shells line shelves. Overall, it’s cute. Like something you’d find at a B&B or a quaint country inn.

  My suitcase sits on the valet near the dresser. I unzip my well-used bag and begin placing items in drawers. When I'm anywhere for more than a night, I like to unpack. It makes being on the road seem less desolate.

  I pluck an agenda off the dresser. Sophie’s thought of everything. Tonight is a bonfire on the beach. Tomorrow is golf and the rehearsal dinner. Saturday evening is the wedding, but during the day, guests are free to explore the Cape - there's even a list of suggested activities. Sunday morning is a brunch followed by Brady and Sophie's departure.

  I shake my head. Brady has no business getting married, but who am I to say so? Granted, he seems enamored by Sophie and her cute French accent. But is that enough?