by Priya Grey
“I shouldn’t have told you,” I let escape from my lips. “Maybe it’s better to go through life believing in an illusion than recognizing the truth?”
I hear him take a deep breath. “You did the right thing. It hurts like fuck, but I’m glad you told me. I’m going to go now and disappear for a bit. It was great knowing you, Rebecca. Take care of yourself.”
I don’t want to get off the phone with him. “Where are you disappearing too?” I ask quickly.
He sighs. “I have a boat. The next memory was actually going to take place on it. Anyway, I always wanted to sail around the world with Ashley, but it looks like it’s something I’ll do on my own now.”
“Sailing around the world sounds like fun,” I reply. Then I suddenly realize how stupid I sound. I’m just so nervous and concerned about him that I don’t know what to say. “Jackson, before you disappear on your boat, I think there’s something you should know.”
He takes a moment before responding. “What?”
I cradle the phone to my ear and tell him what I’ve discovered from our time together. “Ashley was the lucky one. She was the one who should have been grateful to have you in her life. I know she meant a lot to you, but she didn’t deserve you. You’re a great guy, Jackson, and any woman would be blessed to have you in her life.”
I finally told him what I’ve always wanted to, but all I hear is silence.
He eventually says, “Thanks, Rebecca. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Take care of yourself.”
He hangs up.
I lower my head as I realize Jackson is gone from my life.
I slowly walk back to the living room and join Kristi on the couch. Sadness overwhelms me. I feel terrible and worried about him.
“He canceled our arrangement,” I divulge to Kristi.
Then I start to cry.
Kristi envelops me in her arms. I’m not crying for myself, but for him – for the pain that he’s going through. Jackson already suffered the loss of his wife, and now – because of me – he’s suffering the loss of his memories of her.
Then, I receive a notification on my phone. I wipe my eyes and glance at it.
“What is it?” asks Kristi when she sees the shocked look on my face.
I show her the message I just received from my bank. Jackson has deposited $1 million dollars into my account.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Jackson
1 year later
It’s impossible to escape the truth.
I know because I have tried.
For the last year, I’ve been sailing around the world, trying to get as far away from myself – and my memories – as I can. I’ve been to Australia, the coast of Africa, and am now standing on my sailboat, staring out at the French Riviera. A full moon is shining brightly in the night sky. And from the distant shores of Monte Carlo, I can hear the faint revelries of the rich and elite celebrating their good fortune. As I watch the ocean waves gently rock my sailboat back and forth, I contemplate the same question that’s been dogging me all these months at sea: why go on living?
A year ago, I attempted suicide because I missed Ashley so much. I couldn’t imagine living my life without her. Now, I’m thinking about killing myself again because the one thing I truly believed in has turned out to be bullshit: Love.
I lived my life for love only to discover it doesn’t exist.
Learning the truth about Ashley – and the illusion I was living under – has destroyed the one thing that gave me hope in this miserable world: Love. No matter how down in the dumps I got, no matter how depressed my days grew, at least I had experienced love. I knew what it felt like to be in communion with another human being. But it turns out, I was kidding myself. That wasn’t love that I experienced with Ashley. It was nothing but a lie.
I really don’t see the point in living anymore. I don’t see the point in painting or breathing. The world has nothing left to offer me. I have punctured a hole in the mirage and discovered that there is nothing behind it.
Once again, I hear the distant laughter and music emanating from the shores of Monte Carlo. I was preparing to dock my sailboat and venture into one of its many fabulous casinos. But what’s the point? I could get drunk again, like I have in many other port cities I have visited this year. I could find an easy woman and try to fuck my way to feeling better. But I know that none of it works. I’ve done it all. Nothing helps fill the empty void I carry deep inside me. The one thing I believed in – love – has turned out to be a marketing gimmick. And for me, there’s nothing as meaningful to replace it.
I look up at the full moon shining above me, and then down into the dark, deep mysterious ocean below me. Not too long ago, I tried jumping off a bridge. If it wasn’t for a stranger suddenly appearing on the scene, and yanking me back at the last possible moment, I would have succeeded in killing myself.
But as I look around me, and hear the waves gently lapping against my sailboat, I realize I am truly alone. There’s no one to stop me from stepping into the place which you cannot return from.
Maybe it’s finally time I cross that line – into the realm of the unknown – and escape the loneliness and misery I’ve been carrying with me all these months at sea.
Then, as the courage to kill myself begins to build inside me, the most alarming sound echoes in my ears. My cell phone suddenly let’s out a jingle. I’ve received a message.
I decide to ignore it, but then receive another notification.
I’m baffled as I reach for my cell phone. I assumed I didn’t get any coverage out at sea. But perhaps I’m near enough to the shores of Monte Carlo that one of its cell towers was able to reach me.
When I glance down at my phone, I’m shocked to see who the message is from.
Rebecca: Hey Stranger, I hope you are well. I just wanted to thank you again for all the money you sent me. Because of you, my parents have a new house and are back on their feet! And because of you, I’ve been able to realize my dream of opening my own cafe! It’s a wonderful success! I have you to thank for that. I miss you. I know that sounds a little crazy because of our weird relationship. But it’s true. I miss you and hope you are doing okay.
She included a picture of her cafe with the message. It’s called Becca’s Bakery & Cafe. There’s a line around the corner.
I can’t hold back my smile. Then I realize it’s the first time I have smiled in months. I’m genuinely happy for Rebecca. As I stare at the picture of her successful cafe, I begin to realize something else: I don’t really know Rebecca. Even though we have spent several intimate moments together, she is still very much a stranger to me.
But the little I do know of her – the ‘real’ her – is intriguing and attractive.
Then I have a moment of clarity. It almost knocks me off my feet.
What if this whole time, I’ve been misreading the signs?
When I couldn’t enter the apartment I shared with Ashley, who did I meet at a bar? Rebecca.
After my failed suicide attempt – trying to jump off that bridge – who did I bump into on the street? Rebecca.
And now, when those dark thoughts have entered my mind again, who has reached out to me – even though I’m half way around the world? Rebecca!
The universe has been sending me all these signs, but I’ve been misreading them this entire time!
I shake my head in disbelief. I’m such an idiot.
Chapter Forty
Rebecca
I switch off the mixer and inspect the bowl to check on the consistency of the batter. “You want to make sure you don’t over-mix the batter because that will leave you with a dense cake. But you also want to make sure the batter doesn’t have any chucks of butter or sugar left in it because that will cause pockets of caramelization. You want to avoid that too.”
“Sounds like a tricky balance.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it,” I assure my new assistant. Her name is Amy and I hired her last week to
help in the kitchen. Due to the surprising success of my cafe, I’ve had to double my staff in a matter of weeks just to meet the insane demand for my pastries and desserts.
It’s been a little crazy these last few months, but I’m not complaining. My dream has come true: I’m now the proud owner of my own bakery and cafe. I never imagined it would be so successful right from the start. By the end of our third week, we already had lines around the corner. Probably because that food critic, Nicholas Turner, called my new cafe “one of the crown jewels of the city’s dessert scene.”
The minute that review came out, I called my dad and told him the good news. Because of the generous amount of money I received from Jackson, my mom and dad were able to rebuild their house and moved in a few weeks ago. Unfortunately, many other families weren’t so lucky.
My parents couldn’t be prouder of my successful cafe – especially my mom. After all, she introduced me to the art of baking and cooking when I was younger.
“Okay, now let me show you how to properly grease and flour a pan,” I say to Amy.
“Rebecca, you need to come out front immediately!”
I look up. Kristi is standing in the doorway to the kitchen. She’s incredibly excited.
“In a minute. I just need to show Amy one more thing,” I reply.
When she’s not narrating audio books, Kristi helps out at the cafe manning the counter. I really appreciate her help while I go through the process of hiring more staff.
“This can’t wait. You need to come right now.” Kristi hurries toward me and whispers excitedly, “He’s here.”
I look at her confused. “Who?”
“Him,” Kristi broadcasts with a smirk.
I roll my eyes. “Kristi, who is him?”
She tilts her head and motions toward the front of the cafe. “You know, Mr. Wonderful. Man of your dreams.”
“Jackson’s here?” I reply, suddenly nervous.
Kristi nods enthusiastically then declares, “And he’s looking even hotter than I remember him. He’s got the most perfect tan. He’s like a Greek God,” she adds dreamily. “I’m so jealous.”
I quickly take off my dirty apron and ask her, “How do I look?”
“Honestly? Like you’ve been in a kitchen for hours,” Kristi replies as she wipes some flour off my face.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath.
Kristi then grabs me by the shoulders and shakes her head. “Don’t worry about that. Just get out there.”
“I just wish I looked a little more presentable,” I gripe.
Kristi leans in and whispers. “He’s already seen you naked…many times. He obviously likes what he sees.”
“Good point,” I acknowledge. I look at her and take a nervous breath. “Okay. Here I go.” Before stepping out, I turn to Amy and instruct, “Start greasing that pan, Amy, and then pour in the batter, and make sure the oven is set for 350.”
“Yes, Chef,” she replies with a curt nod and gets to work.
I’m still getting used to people calling me chef. After all, only a few months ago, I was an assistant, just like Amy. Before stepping out of the kitchen, I turn to Kristi one more time.
“Why do you think he’s here?”
“Because he heard you made great desserts, so he decided to stop his cruise around the world to try one of your muffins,” she replies sarcastically. “He’s here to see you, Rebecca. Now get out there.”
Kristi points with her finger toward the front of the cafe.
“Right,” I nod nervously. I take another deep breath and step out of the kitchen and walk toward the front room.
He’s standing in front of the register, a long line of people behind him. The minute our eyes meet, I feel that familiar tingle rush through my body. Kristi wasn’t lying. Jackson looks even hotter, if such a thing were possible. He’s got a warm golden-bronze tan from his months at sea. He smiles as I approach the counter.
“Hey,” he says, his dark eyes fixated on me. His stare isn’t as intense as I remember. In fact, his entire presence appears more relaxed.
“Hi, stranger,” I grin.
He motions to the long line behind him. “You weren’t kidding when you said there were lines around the block.”
“It’s all because of you. The money you gave me financed this place and also helped my parents rebuild their lives. I can’t thank you enough.”
He stares at me through friendly eyes. “I’m glad to hear your parents are doing okay and to see you in such a good place.” He then notices my hair. “You changed your hair back. It looks good.”
I push one of the loose strands of my hair back in place. “You think? Kristi says I should go back to being a blonde. She’s convinced I was more fun as a blonde.” I don’t know why I mentioned that last bit. I’m just so nervous and not sure why. I guess I’m just so happy to see Jackson again, but I’m unsure what his re-appearance signifies. Does he want to hire me again? Or is he here for another reason?
“I like the chestnut brown. It’s who you are.”
“Thanks,” I reply, looking at him. Our eyes lock in a quiet, warm stare.
“Would you two mind taking this conversation elsewhere,” a woman behind him suddenly says. “I’m late for work and I can’t get through my day without one of Becca’s muffins.”
“Sure. I’m sorry,” I say to the customer and motion for Jackson to follow me to a corner of the dining area – where we can talk in private. Kristi returns from the kitchen and shoots me a playful look as she takes the woman’s order.
“So, what brings you back to town?” I ask Jackson, hoping the answer is me.
“I have an exhibit.”
“Oh,” I say a little disappointed. “That’s exciting.”
“I want you to come to it. I did a painting of you.”
“You mean her,” I correct him.
He shakes his head. “No. You.”
“Really?”
He slowly nods, his eyes still staring at me in that unguarded, honest way he has. “I hope you like it.”
“I’m sure I will,” I confess. “I like everything you do.” On the canvass and off, I think to myself.
“It’s this Friday night. I’ll text you the address. Will you promise me you’ll be there, Rebecca?”
I feel the butterflies flitter in my stomach. I love hearing him say my name. I begin to realize this is one of the few ‘real’ conversations we have had together. Most of the other times we’ve talked, I was pretending to be her.
“I promise,” I assure him. “I’ll be there.”
His face breaks into a wide grin. “Great. I’m really looking forward to seeing you there.”
“Me too.” Just being in his presence is making my body warm and tingly all over. It’s incredible the affect he has on me.
“Well, I guess I should let you get back to work. I’ll see you Friday.”
He offers me one last smile and then turns and walks out of the cafe. I follow him with my eyes through the glass display window. He’s so fuckin’ hot. And with that bronze tan he’s even more tempting than one of my desserts.
“What did he want?” asks Kristi when I join her behind the counter.
“He invited me to a gallery opening this Friday night. He said he did a painting of me.”
“That’s so romantic,” Kristi whispers. “You got to wear something hot to the gallery.”
“Like what?”
“Don’t worry. I got this,” Kristi assures me.
I step out of the Uber wearing a burgundy colored spaghetti strap, backless dress.
“You sure I look okay?”
Kristi nods her head vehemently as she joins me on the sidewalk, pulling down the hem of her short skirt. “Jackson won’t know what hit him the second he sees you,” she swears.
I’ll have to take Kristi’s word on this. I’ve never been very good at being fashionable.
We walk toward the gallery. The paparazzi are standing outside, filming and snapping pictu
res of the celebrities and elite. I take a nervous, deep breath as I approach the man in charge of letting people in.
“Rebecca Wilson,” I say to him as he checks for my name on a list. “And guest.”
“Enjoy your evening, Ms. Wilson.” He removes the velvet rope and motions me and Kristi inside.
When I step into the gallery, I take another deep breath. Everywhere I turn, I see a who’s who of the media and entertainment world.
“Oh my God, that’s DJ Mendacity talking to Channing Davis,” whispers Kristi excitedly. She then snags two glasses of champagne from a nearby waiter and hands one to me.
I take a sip as I survey the crowded room, looking for Jackson. Then I feel Kristi tugging on my arm. “Rebecca, look, it’s you!”
I turn in her direction. My jaw drops. Hanging in the center of the room – surrounded by people – is a large painting of me, with my chestnut brown hair.
Gripping my glass of champagne, I walk in a daze toward the painting. This isn’t like the painting Jackson did of me in his studio, when I was pretending to be Ashley. Although that one looked like me – except for the different hair color – there was something about it that didn’t truly represent me. This painting is different. Jackson has not only captured what I look like in beautiful and brilliant colors, but with his masterful skills, he has also expressed who I am. I see myself in the painting. It’s not just a physical representation of who I am, but an emotional one as well.
“Do you like it?”
I turn. Jackson is standing beside me.
“I’m at a loss for words,” I admit.
“A bunch of people tonight want to buy it, but it’s not for sale. It’s for you.”
“It’s breathtaking. I love it.”
He breathes a sigh of relief. “Good. I was worried you might not like it. I had to base it off memory. I just kept replaying that moment when I first saw you in that bar over and over again. Trying to get at the truth of that moment.”