Mixtape: A Love Song Anthology

by Nikki Sloane, Elle Kennedy, KL Kreig, Leslie McAdam, Lynda Aicher, Mara White, Marni Mann, Rebecca Shea, Saffron Kent, Sierra Simone, Veronica Larsen, Xio Axelrod

  Perfect Jordan.

  He has the money, he has the connections, he has the reputation of being a nice guy. Me? I have none of those things. I've never wanted any of them until I realized they were the things Gabby wanted. She knows all my flaws better than anyone, she's traced all of my cracks. If I were really the one she wanted—wouldn't she already be with me?

  Goddamn it.

  I can't do this. I can't watch her get married to someone else.

  Why am I going to the wedding, at all?

  It's clear Jordan and his family don't want me there. Would Gabby even notice?

  Perhaps. Perhaps not.

  Regardless, I realize in this moment, there is no reason for me to torture myself.

  I'm not going to the ceremony.

  I'm going to leave this bathroom, get on the subway and take the train to the last stop. Fuck it. Coney Island it is.

  Gabby's looking up at me, frowning. Maybe she sees something in my eyes.

  Her mouth opens in the wake of a question—but the door to the bathroom opens and Remi storms in.

  She starts to speak then stops when she sees us in the tub. “What in the—you know what? Never mind that—we, uh, we have a small problem.”

  Gabby and I stare at Remi, who's wringing her hands together.

  “Donald isn't going to make it to the ceremony. He's not in good shape.”

  Gabby shoots up to a sitting position and climbs over me to get out of the tub.

  “Is he okay?” she asks of her step-father.

  “He's sick to his stomach—something he ate last night.”

  “No, no, no . . .” Gabby starts pacing. “Who's going to walk me down the aisle?”

  I get to my feet and step out of the tub as well, my heart pounding. Remi's looking at me. My blood runs cold when Gabby stops pacing and looks at me, too.

  “Dean? Do you think . . . I mean, I know it's last minute—Could you?”

  No.

  Get the fuck out of here.

  Fuck no.

  Hell no.

  That's what I would say, if it were anyone else. But it's Gabby.

  Gabby.

  The same Gabby that held my hand on walks to school. The same Gabby that took the blame when I broke my dad's flat screen TV because she knew he'd beat the shit out of me.

  The same Gabby that's been there for me through every up and down, every goddamn mistake I've made and has never once looked at me any differently.

  I've never had much to offer her. But I've never hesitated at giving her everything I could.

  “I'll do it. I'll walk you down the aisle.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dean

  The murmur of the wedding guests dies away as the music signals the beginning of the ceremony.

  I stand just outside of the huge oak doors as the wedding party passes me to head down the aisle.

  I avoid making eye contact with Remi as she walks by in her teal dress. She had only one thing to say to me right before I left Gabby's suite earlier.

  Don't fuck this up for her, okay?

  That's all she said.

  No context.

  Because Remi and I both know I'm still in love with Gabby. And we both know I waited too long to tell her.

  There was one night . . . one night, where Gabby seemed to warm to the idea of risking crossing the line. I should've stayed with her—even if I slept on her couch—just to be there when the sun rose. Because come morning, my words were lost in a cloud of intoxication. I called Gabby, but all she talked about was how hungover she was. She didn't remember the moment we shared at the end of the night.

  How was I to know she met her future fiancé earlier that night?

  I didn't take Jordan seriously until it was too late. Until a giant diamond sat on Gabby's finger and her beautiful eyes begged for me to be excited.

  Fuck.

  I can't see him from here, but I know Jordan's standing at the end of the aisle, staring at these very doors, waiting for his bride.

  And here she comes.

  Gabby's walking toward me.

  Time crawls to a near-stop. She's all glow and lace, the long tail of her dress flowing behind her as though it has a life of its own.

  I can see it now—the future she wished for all those years ago plays out before me.

  Gabby with a round stomach, standing barefoot on a lush green lawn that stretches out before her. Two little golden-haired kids run around, their little giggles peppering the air. I walk out into the backyard and wrap my arms around Gabby. She lets out a sigh of relief, smiling with an effortless ease.

  Only it's not me. It's Jordan.

  He gives her this life. And her life is good.

  Her life is everything she deserves.

  She's happy.

  Let her be happy.

  The vision flickers and Gabby comes into focus in front of me.

  She looks nervous, but she's smiling at me.

  I can't talk.

  But if I could, I'd tell her she looks stunning. I'd tell her I wish she was mine.

  “Are you ready?” she asks.

  I'm not.

  She loops her arm around mine and faces the entryway.

  This might just be the hardest thing I'll ever have to do in my life.

  We wait, and when the organ starts playing, we walk down the aisle to the ominous tune of the wedding march.

  My mouth dry, I stare straight ahead, somewhere over the podium. From my peripheral, I catch Gabby looking at me a few times. But the rest of the time, her eyes are on Jordan, who waits at the end of the aisle.

  I don't know how long we spend walking toward Jordan, but it feels like an eternity. Long enough for me to think about all of the wasted opportunities.

  The years I took Gabby for granted, thinking she'd always be in my life. The times I was too scared to admit my feelings for her had grown beyond friendship. And the times my fear of losing her paralyzed me from telling her the truth.

  The night I told her the truth, but it didn't make a dent.

  Finally, we reach Jordan.

  I barely look at him. Not that he notices. He takes Gabby's hand and guides her forward.

  I turn and look out onto the wedding guests. I don't remember sitting down, but the next thing I know, I am.

  My ears ring, clogged with the echoes of thoughts that don't really matter anymore.

  Don't fuck this up for her, okay?

  Let her be happy.

  The minister begins his spiel, his words bouncing off the vaulted ceiling and raining down around us.

  I don't catch a single one.

  My eyes are fixed on Gabby.

  And her eyes are fixed on Jordan.

  She looks nervous, self-conscious of the hundreds of people watching her.

  Then again, he looks nervous too.

  From beside me, someone sets a soft hand on mine and squeezes. It's Gabby's grandmother. She beams up at me, her eyes glossy with emotion. She's the only one in Gabby's family who liked me when I was a kid. Maybe because she saw the real me—the me only Gabby managed to bring out.

  I look at the glee in the old woman's eyes and I forget, for just one wild second, that I'm watching the woman I love marry someone else. Instead, I see what Gabby's grandmother sees. Her little girl, all grown up in a beautiful gown. The same golden-haired girl who spent hours making boats for ants to cross puddles in after a rainstorm.

  The girl who took in every cat. And every stray dog, even when her mother punished her for it.

  The girl who couldn't stand to see someone abandoned or hurt or in need.

  The girl who saved me.

  Saved me from who I was going to become.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  I blink several times. The burning in my chest now pairing with the burn in my eyes.

  I tug on my tie, hardly able to breathe. And all I can think is . . .

&n
bsp; I can't let this happen.

  I can't let Gabby marry this man.

  She's supposed to be with me.

  I still can't hear a word the minister is saying, but I'm staring hard at Gabby, silently begging her for a sign.

  One look.

  One look and I will bring this whole damn thing to an end.

  Will she ever forgive me for interrupting her wedding?

  Will I be able to live with myself if I don't?

  My hands clench to fists and I rush to my feet. And in this exact moment, sound comes rushing back and I hear Gabby's voice hurls toward me like a spear.

  Her eyes still on Jordan, she says, “I do.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Gabby

  I see him from the corner of my eye—Dean, getting to his feet in the front row. My heart plunges into my stomach as the words I just spoke echo in my mind.

  I do.

  I do.

  I do?

  But Dean . . . is Dean waiting for me to look at him?

  Time shutters before my eyes and a strange sensation floods over me, like I've been submerged in water.

  I'm frozen, unable to breathe. And all I can hear is my pulse, which draws out impossibly slow—thump-thump.

  Thump . . . thump . . .

  The minister's mouth is moving, but it too, is moving in slow motion. My breathing is jagged as fear grips me.

  I think I'm going to be sick.

  Jordan's trying to hold my gaze. My expression seems to hint to him something is wrong because his brows pull inward.

  All my focus is going toward resisting the urge to turn my head. Just an inch—a fraction—and I will see Dean's expression.

  No one in this room knows me like Dean. And for months, I hoped he knew me well enough to see how terrified I've been of this moment.

  The finality.

  There's no doubt in my mind Jordan loves me. No doubt he means every single word of the marriage vows.

  But as his lips part to finally form the words, I do, I wonder if he feels the intense dread I felt when I spoke those same words.

  In good times and in bad.

  What bad times have we had?

  He wasn't there when my father was sick. When everyone thought I would collapse from exhaustion because I refused to leave his bedside. It was Dean who took time off from his job just to make sure I was eating and getting some sleep.

  In sickness and health.

  Would he really stick around?

  I'm a horrible sick person—groaning and whining any time I have a cold. The only person who I let see me in that gross state is Dean, and only because he's never given me a choice.

  Until death do us part.

  Death? Why does this feel like a death? Why does this very moment feel like a funeral to me?

  I try to picture my deathbed—next flu season, for all I know. Jordan's not there. There's Remi. There's Dean. But Jordan? How long will he really be around?

  Where the hell are these thoughts coming from?!

  Stop it. Stop it.

  Jordan is a good man.

  The perfect man.

  There hasn't been a moment where I haven't been reminded by everyone around me how lucky I am to have him.

  Lucky.

  Why don't I feel lucky?

  Why do I feel . . . trapped?

  “I do,” Jordan says.

  I'm very aware of Dean still on his feet. He hasn't said a word, though several minutes have passed. He hasn't even moved. But the fact he's still standing, as though waiting—hoping for me to look at him, sends shockwaves through me.

  What will happen if I do look at him? Will I be forced to admit I don't really want to marry Jordan?

  I just did.

  Time lurches back to normal speed and the minister's voice drums over me.

  “And now . . .” he begins, as my pulse surges up to warp speed. “By the authority vested in me by the State of New York . . .”

  Oh God . . .

  “I now pronounce you . . .”

  “Wait!” A desperate voice calls out, making the minister's mouth snap shut in surprise.

  I finally turn my head and look at Dean.

  Dean.

  There are a few people throwing nervous glances his way, too. No doubt fearing the moment he’d shout out in protest. It seems as if he was waiting for the moment the minister would ask if anyone objected to this union. But that moment never came—we requested the minister omit that part because it's always an awkward moment at weddings—the tense silence.

  The truth is . . . there was a part of me that feared I would be the one to object.

  And now, the ceremony has come to a halt right at the last few moments. Because someone did object. But it wasn't Dean.

  The desperate voice that called out for the minister to stop . . .

  It was me.

  Not a single person stirs, everyone seeming to hold their breath at once.

  All eyes are on us.

  Waiting.

  Cringing . . .

  “Gabby,” Jordan hisses, forcing my eyes to lock onto his. He's grown pale and his lips barely move as he speaks. “What are you doing?”

  A haunting, dizzying silence closes in around me.

  Over Jordan and me.

  Every millisecond goes on for hours.

  Oh my God.

  I don't want to hurt him.

  I don't want to embarrass him.

  I don't want to disappoint the hundreds of people who flew in from around the world.

  But I also don't want . . . to marry him.

  I can't process a single thought beyond the desperate need to get away from here.

  Right now.

  “I can't do this,” I whisper.

  Jordan closes his eyes. I can almost hear his heart break.

  Mine does, too.

  “I'm sorry,” I add, my eyes burning.

  Clearing his throat, Jordan looks at the minister and says, “We need a few minutes.”

  A wave of murmurs moves through the crowd of wedding guests. People turning to look at each other and whisper behind their hands.

  “No, Jordan,” I blurt out.

  He's eyeing the nearest door. There's determination in his eyes.

  He wants to take me aside and talk some sense into me.

  I'm terrified he will.

  Because this isn't at all something I'd do.

  This.

  This . . . scene.

  This . . . mortifying moment belongs to someone else.

  Jordan takes my hand and tries to guide me to the side.

  “No,” I say again, yanking my hand away. “I can't. I'm sorry.”

  The room is spinning.

  Footsteps echo behind me and before I know what's happening, Dean is at my side. It's not until he takes my hand in his that I finally take a breath.

  He gives me a look, a look I can read loud and clear.

  Say the word and I'll take you away from here.

  Dean.

  His face is one I know better than my own—it brings me comfort. Even his blue eyes, churning and wild, and struggling to contain his demons, give me strength. And the scar across his left eyebrow is a reminder of the many times he literally fought for me.

  To keep me safe.

  The look we share lasts a split second, but echoes decades of stories and trust. I know, just like I always do, I won't feel safe with anyone else but Dean.

  My voice breaks with a shaky breath as I say, “Get me out of here.”

  “What—Gabby, don't . . .” Jordan warns under his breath.

  Dean doesn't skip a beat. “She's coming with me.”

  I couldn't stay if I tried—that's how desperate my urge to flee is. But the hurt in Jordan's eyes shreds me. I know it should've never come to this. I should've been strong enough to know what I wanted before stepping in front of everyone we know.

  �
�I'm so sorry,” I say, my voice breaking.

  Then I let Dean lead me down the wrong side of the aisle, past a chorus of gasps and a blur of mortified faces.

  Dozens of people get to their feet to watch us go.

  In what sounds like a distorted, far off voice, someone—maybe my mother, or my grandmother, or Remi or even Jordan—calls out my name one last time.

  “Gabby!”

  But I don't look back.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dean

  The tail of Gabby's dress is now a giant ball of fabric between her arms. She runs past me and heads toward the doors like the floor is crumbling into a crater behind us. I follow, not bothering to look back as the confused mutters from the guests erupts into a full-blown commotion.

  We push past the large oak doors and by the time we're halfway down the hall, footsteps begin to echo behind us. People are following us out, no doubt entranced by the train wreck playing out before them. Gabby reaches the exit doors first. She runs out onto the street and comes to a stop a few paces ahead. The moment I step out beside her, I can see why.

  The city's alive around us, bustling and loud, cars honking and engines purring, people moving quickly past us on the busy Manhattan street. Only a few people spare a glance at Gabby, flustered in her large wedding dress, but for the most part no one seems to notice what's just happened.

  It's a heist—I've stolen the bride.

  I scan the street and line of traffic in search of a taxi.

  Gabby looks more panicked than ever, her chest is rising and falling at quicker and quicker intervals. She's clutching the material of her dress tight against her chest and looks like she might faint.

  “I can't stay here,” she says, glancing back.

  People from the ceremony are starting to trickle out of the building. And with every passing second, the city is becoming aware of the chaos following us out onto the sidewalk.

  “Come on,” I say, taking her hand again.

  We head down the block to the entrance of the 81st subway station. In our rush down the stairs, Gabby almost trips. As far as I know, no one's chased us down the block—yet there's a frenzied energy about the way I swipe my metro card for Gabby to get through the turnstile. Her dress snags twice before we are both able to clear onto the upper platform.

  Once again, she comes to a stop, seemingly frozen with indecision.