by Heather B. Moore, Kaylee Baldwin, Annette Lyon, Jennifer Moore, Shannon Guymon, Sarah M. Eden
On their wedding day, she’d still been slim thanks to the fat camp, where her fourth foster family had sent her the summer they’d toured Europe. She regained the weight after Jason’s death, drowning her stress and depression with food. At least she’d lost the weight. Again. He’d be proud of her for that, and she hung on to that thought because the one other person who’d watched her transformation— a boy at fat camp who was her first kiss— had never contacted her again. She’d emailed him after camp, but the message bounced. She figured he’d given her a bogus address.
At one point, she’d thought of that boy as the person who’d first broken her heart— she’d considered him her best friend, until she got home and never heard from him again.
She knew better now; that wasn’t loss, not really. Even though she’d cared about the guy, she couldn’t really blame him, not really. Teens’ emotions were fickle things. Even though what they’d shared that summer was real— she still believed that— he’d probably forgotten about her and moved on, like normal people did.
On her wedding day, she’d felt whole for the first time since middle school. In a sense, she’d gained a family in Jason. Her older sister, Joe, aged out of the foster system long ago but never had a stable enough situation to get custody before Alex, too, aged out.
She hadn’t thought about so much of her past in years, yet as she contemplated her wedding day, so many things that marked before and after tumbled back into her mind. She really could split her life into Before Jason and After Jason. BJ and AJ.
“How may I help you?” the young man on the other side of the counter said, tapping on his keyboard as the other customer left with a key to his rental.
Alex blinked. Thoughts of Madeleine Kendall, Jason, the last year of his life, all swirled in her mind. For a moment, she couldn’t find any words to say, couldn’t pull herself back to the earth, to this moment. She looked at the employee again and blinked once, twice.
“Miss? May I help you?” He didn’t sound annoyed. If anything, he sounded concerned.
Finally, the situation crystallized in front of her, and the past faded again. Not entirely, of course; it never did. But it slid to the periphery, where it hovered, letting her focus on the now.
“Yes, sorry.” She fished inside her purse for her credit card and driver’s license. “I need to rent a car. A compact, preferably.”
She assumed those would be cheapest. Not that she couldn’t afford something nicer, but she took care with how she spent Jason’s money. Each month, she spent less of his and more of her own. In spite of what Madeleine Kendall believed, Alex hadn’t married Jason for his money. With every purchase, she tried to prove that, if only to herself.
The next fifteen minutes were a blur as she answered questions, filled out paperwork, then finally put her suitcase into the trunk of a silver Corolla. After climbing into the driver’s seat, she let out a deep sigh, then pulled up the hotel’s address on her phone. But as she was about to start the GPS navigation, her finger hesitated over the icon. She glanced at her shoulder bag on the passenger seat, as if she could see through the red leather to the jar inside.
I’m a widow. The term felt off, like it belonged to a great-grandmother who played Bingo on Saturday nights at the senior center. A widow wasn’t supposed to be approaching her five-year class reunion. At the age a lot of women were finishing college, she’d created a successful career.
As she sat in the rental car, her phone stared at her with accusation. Instead of starting the navigation directions, she checked her texts. Sure enough, most were from Madeleine Kendall— all but two. One from Charlotte, the other from her sister. That was the one Alex tapped first.
Today must be hard on you. Hang in there! Remember that Jason would be proud of you. Don’t let MK get you down. Love ya tons! No worries— I’ll take care of the cemetery!
Then an emoji of a red heart.
Her sister knew what today meant and that Madeleine Kendall would try to cause problems. Alex smiled and decided to not even look at the texts from “MK,” as Jo called her, not until later. Not until after she finished what she’d come to California for.
At a sudden tapping on the car window, Alex jumped. The young man who’d helped her— Chad, his name tag said— called through the glass. “Miss? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” She gave him her best fake smile, then clicked her phone off and slipped it into the cup holder— MK’s texts unread, voice messages unheard— and started the engine.
Chad waved and walked away a few yards, but then stopped, clearly waiting to make sure she got off all right. She pulled out of the lot and into traffic, only then realizing that she had no idea where she was headed because she hadn’t started the GPS. She stopped at a light, then pressed the button on the bottom of her iPhone to get directions to the one California beach she knew by name.
“How do I get to Santa Monica Pier?” she asked Siri.
Her phone pulled up a map, and Alex was off, heading for the beach where she’d free the last physical part of James she still had. Then she’d check in at the hotel, get a big dinner from room service— with a decadent dessert, because she deserved it— and then collapse, hopefully into a deep, dreamless sleep, unless she could dream of happier times with Jason.
Before he’d grown really weak at the end.
But after they were husband and wife: the trip to France, the late-night movies. Laughing so hard they cried. The times they’d been happy— really happy.
The traffic light turned green, and she was off.
Chapter Two
Michael Montgomery paid the exorbitant fee to park at the Santa Monica Pier, then found an empty spot for his Mustang— one facing away from the ocean. He put the top back up before getting out and locking the doors, studiously avoiding the moment he’d have to look at the water. At least it was at a distance. Beyond the parking lot was a bike trail that was practically a thoroughfare where pedestrians had to look both ways or risk getting cursed out. Past that was maybe a hundred yards or so of sand before the rolling waves of the Pacific.
The timing of this whole thing couldn’t have been more ridiculous. He should have come on a day he wore his usual casual clothes to work. But today, he’d had an important meeting with label execs, so he’d dressed up.
So I should have gone home to change first. Yet he knew that if he’d taken a detour, he probably wouldn’t have kept his promise to come.
Not wanting to scratch up his dress shoes, he walked to the front of the car to take them off. That way, his back was still to the beach.
Why are you avoiding it? He chastised himself as he untied the second shoe. The beach hurts. That why I’m avoiding it.
After peeling off his dark-gray socks, he stuffed them into the toes of his shoes, then rolled up the cuffs of his slacks. He took a deep breath, locked the car with the key fob again— just to make sure— then headed for the sand.
As expected, the sight of the pale sand with the seemingly endless ocean beyond twisted his gut. He stood there, looking out over the vast ocean. The scent of salt reached him, bringing back memories, and with them, pain. Coming out here had been a dumb idea. He no longer cared that Nate, college-roommate-turned-therapist, had suggested he come as an exercise in letting go. Nate might have a Ph.D., but that didn’t mean he knew what he was talking about when it came to Rachel.
Just thinking her name hurt. He gritted his teeth. This was a dumb idea. Dumb, dumb idea.
But agreeing to come here now, at the very hour Rachel was walking down the aisle and making vows with another guy? That was downright asinine.
Cathartic, Nate had called it. It’ll bring closure, he’d assured Michael.
Sure, if closure meant ripping open old wounds and pouring alcohol on them. That’s about what this felt like. He stood there, ostensibly waiting for a few bicycles to pass, but his mind had drifted to the fancy church wedding Rachel had always wanted. He could see himself waiting at the end
of the aisle as she walked down it, smiling through her veil and looking angelic as she reached his side and they took hands to face the minister.
Angelic? Yeah, right.
On the heels of that thought came Nate’s voice echoing in his mind: Bitter, much?
Hell, yes, he was bitter. Isn’t that why Nate had insisted on this charade?
And Michael had come, taking off the rest of the work day. He had nothing better to do today than finish this cathartic exercise or whatever. Only one thing made him walk across the sand instead of cruising up the Pacific Coast Highway with the top down for the rest of the day. That one thing: Nate wouldn’t forget. At next week’s pickup game, he’d grill Michael about it— before, during, and after the game. Nate would see to it that a fun game would turn into a therapy session. The games were a stress outlet for Michael, something workouts didn’t always provide.
In theory, he could skip this week’s game, but Nate would still hound him. Better to get the job done, go to the next game, and report back. But to do that, he had to face the past.
As Michael walked across the sand, he felt distinctly out of place. Ahead were groups of children frolicking in the water and making sand castles, adults lying in the sun— all in swimsuits. And then there he was, a white-collar professional wearing a suit and tie to the beach. As he drew nearer, he could almost hear the Sesame Street song “One of These Things Is Not Like the Other.” He was asking for stares.
With each step in the soft sand, his bare feet slid a few inches backward. He still had quite a distance to walk; the shoreline lay even farther ahead than he’d remembered. His suitcoat felt heavy, as if it held in extra heat. He took the darn thing off and draped it over his arm.
This is crazy.
That wasn’t what Nate wanted him to think about.
“You haven’t dated anyone in a year,” he’d said in the locker room after their last game.
“Yes, I have,” Michael had insisted. “Lots of women.”
“Okay, you’ve had dates,” Nate conceded. “That’s not the same as dating. How many second dates have you had? Third dates? Any girlfriends?”
At that point, Michael slammed his locker shut and would have stalked out to his car if Nate hadn’t called him back.
“Michael. Hey. Don’t.”
He stood there, his back to his best friend, wanting to ball up his fists and yell. He didn’t say a word. But he didn’t leave, either.
“You need to find a way to move on, and I think going to the beach on Friday may be exactly the thing to help you do that. Close the book on Rachel, then put it on a shelf, never to be opened again.”
Michael remembered the image of the book, of closing it and putting it on that mental shelf. Of letting it gather dust for the rest of his life. That’s not how he’d lived the past year. Rather, he’d flipped through Rachel’s “book” often, and each time the emotional knife drove into his chest further.
I don’t break promises. Unlike some people I could mention.
Maybe there was something to the old folk myth that redheads had no soul, because that would explain Rachel’s heartlessness. Not so much her tears, though.
The farther he walked, the more aware he became of the sounds from the pier— the unintelligible chatter, thrilled shrieks of kids on the Ferris wheel and other rides, the occasional thump on wood as people went up and down the stairs or something hit the pier, like a dropped skateboard. He intently avoided looking at the pier itself. He’d go onto the pier and into Rusty’s Surf Ranch another day. Maybe. That’s where he and Rachel had had dinner on a night he’d known he would remember forever.
He was right, of course. He’d remember it. But not for the reason he’d thought at the time.
Even when he was quite sure he’d passed the restaurant, he kept his eyes straight ahead, never veering to the left, not wanting to see vendors selling all kinds of goods, from jewelry to cell-phone cases to California- and Santa Monica-themed t-shirts and more. On that day a year ago, after their dinner at Rusty’s, he’d bought Rachel a Santa Monica t-shirt before taking her on a walk along the beach, hand in hand, until the sun had dipped and the light came at the perfect angle. Then he’d dropped to one knee and proposed.
She’d squealed, cried, and said yes, and he’d slipped the perfect ring— a carat and a half— onto her finger.
How exactly had so much changed so fast? He hadn’t known anything was wrong until she stopped returning his texts and calls. Two weeks into her odd silence, she’d showed up at the recording studio, where he worked as a producer. There had been a time when she used to drop in for lunch unannounced, so at first he hadn’t thought much of it.
Not until she spoke. “I met someone else.” She never explained more than that.
What had he done to kill their relationship? What hadn’t he done to make it thrive? What had she needed from him? What had he done to make her look for someone else? He still had no answers to any of it.
Nothing but, “I’m sorry, Michael. So sorry.” Then tears as she handed over the ring, covered her mouth with one hand— her left one, which already had another ring on it. And she ran out. He’d always wondered if she’d gone out of her way to be sure he saw her new ring. He’d never know. Not that it really mattered.
Their only contact since had been the wedding invitation, which arrived only three weeks ago— apparently, she’d taken almost a year to plan her perfect day. He assumed she’d sent it more out of a need to inform rather than as an actual invitation. He didn’t bother RSVP-ing his regrets. He just crumpled the invitation into a ball and threw it away.
Then he’d turned into a raging lunatic at the basketball game that night, which was when Nate stepped in. Why the guy thought that coming here of all places, and of all days, would be healing—
Several yards ahead, a woman stood alone— red hair, and a long braid down her back. Rachel? He stopped dead in his tracks, too stunned to move. What was she doing here? Had she run from her own wedding? If so, why didn’t she have her hair in some fancy up-do instead of the long braid down her back? Why did she wear a long skirt instead of a wedding dress?
Maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him, and this was just some woman here to enjoy the beach. Except that she didn’t look like a typical beach-goer. She didn’t wear a swimsuit or carry a towel and beach bag. Just a red purse over one shoulder. She looked like she’d come here alone too.
If that woman was Rachel, then she’d left another man at the altar, which meant she really was cruel and heartless. Some poor schmuck was waiting at the end of the aisle, about to be humiliated in front of hundreds of people. For the first time, Michael actually pitied the other guy.
At least she broke my heart before the wedding day. What an odd comfort: realizing that things could have been worse.
As he walked, his gaze stayed on the red braid. Now that he was closer, the hair seemed to be the wrong shade of red— darker than Rachel’s. But the woman stood there, hugging herself in the same way Rachel used to. He had an impulse to walk up from behind and wrap his arms around her. She’d lift her head, smiling, and he’d give her a kiss. It was the most natural thing in the world.
Rather, it used to be.
His arms physically ached from emptiness. He missed being able to hold someone he loved— who loved him. Someone he thought loved him back, anyway.
He stopped a few feet to her side and made an effort to look casual as he waited for her to notice him. Finally, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her turn his direction and look him up and down. His heart rate sped up as he waited for her reaction.
“You must be drenched in that suit.” Definitely not Rachel.
He glanced over quickly, barely catching a glimpse of her profile. She was pretty. Very pretty. And not Rachel. As he tried to come up with a witty reply, she sighed and stared out at the sea again, apparently lost in thought.
She was right, though; the heat was killing him. At least he’d taken his suitcoat off.
>
“You’re right,” he said simply. He draped his suit coat over the other arm. “I’m a bit overdressed for the beach.”
Her only response was a nod. He couldn’t help but look at her again, surreptitiously. She looked nothing like Rachel. Now that he’d seen this woman up close, he marveled that he’d ever mistaken her for Rachel. Their hair colors weren’t remotely the same— Rachel’s was a dramatic red with strawberry-blond highlights. He’d always suspected that she got the look with the help of a bottle. This girl, though— her hair was dark red and obviously natural. No way could those highlights be from anything but the sun kissing her hair and lightening a few strands. She wasn’t an orange ginger, either. Her red hair was more like burnt sienna— less flashy than Rachel’s vibrant red, but warm and attractive— and real. Her cheeks had a light sprinkling of freckles. Rachel’s did too, but she caked on enough makeup to cover them and give her complexion the look of porcelain.
He’d never given Rachel’s makeup much thought, but seeing this woman look so much like Rachel, yet so unlike her at the same time, he found this stranger possessing a natural beauty that women like Rachel could only pretend to have.
The girl turned and looked over at him, her brows raised in question. Her eyes were slightly bloodshot, and she sniffed as if she’d been crying. “Do I know you?”
Now that she faced him full on, he couldn’t help but stare at her eyes— deep brown. He’d never known a redhead with brown eyes. Rachel’s were green. Or were they hazel? Not brown, certainly. He would have remembered the striking combination. This woman’s lashes were thick and long, and while she wore makeup, it only highlighted her features; it didn’t cover them.
When he didn’t answer, the woman tilted her head. “Have we met before?” She licked her lips uncomfortably. “See, I’m, um— I’m kind of in the middle of something.”