Page 7 of The Note
Because of all the things that made my sister beautiful tonight, maybe the greatest was the way she was right then staring at her fiancé like the entire reason for her existence had been distilled into one man, and that man was Alex Fletcher.
MyAlex Fletcher.
Who I still couldn’t force myself to look at.
Ugh.
I grabbed my phone and sent an emergency text to the one person who could possibly distract me from this shit show.
TYLER:Gus Fletcher, where the fuck are you?
Gus didn’t answer right away, which was probably a good sign. He was flying in from freakin’ California, where he was knee-deep in his medical residency, and then had to rent a car and drive all the way from the airport to O’Leary. If he couldn’t reply, that meant he was getting closer. The one stable, sane human I could always count on was getting closer.
I figured if Gus’s texts and phone calls had gotten me through college, countless job interviews, the death of my grandmother, and the naming of my cat, he could damn well get me through this, too. And for once, Gus was going to break his rules about never discussing his brother with me, because my mind was a whirlwind of teenage dreams and heartbreak and questions IswearI thought I’d resolved a long time ago, but were now swimming back to the surface likeJawsready to swallow me whole.
I huffed out a breath and dropped my phone in my pocket.
A waiter leaned over my shoulder to refill my glass of Chardonnay and I laid a hand on his arm. “Maybe you could just… leave the bottle here?” I suggested, looking up at him.
He didn’t blink, but whatever he saw in my eyes made him set the bottle on the table in front of me, pat my shoulder gently, and say in a sympathetic voice, “Let me know if you need more.”
Oh, I would.
I focused on the tiny copper fairy lights that festooned the walls and ceiling of the weatherproof tent. This tent would be the venue for the wedding in two days’ time, and some of the decorations for the main event were already in place — pale pink hearts and white pompoms hung at intervals over the tables, just waiting for the epic floral creations that would be put in place at the last minute.
I’d suggested those fairy lights, just like I’d insisted on the rare celestial-pink roses for the centerpieces, even when Marissa had bitten her lip and frowned at the cost. There had to besomecompensation for letting my father control so much about the big day, I’d reminded her, and she’d leaned her head on my shoulder and nodded. I’d even helped pick the entrees and the cake during a whirlwind, taste-testing visit to O’Leary last spring… After which, I’d gone out to a bar and attempted to erase the cloying taste of jealousy and rosewater cake with several glasses of whiskey and a hot, local boy named Constantine.
Spoiler: It hadn’t worked.
Also spoiler: None of the similar attempts I’d made over the last few months had worked either, though God knew I hadn’t stopped trying.
Instead, I’d thrown all my energy into ensuring this wedding was absolutelyperfectfor Alex and Marissa, while also making sure no one could see just how torn up I was about it… because there was no good reason why Ishouldbe torn up about it. Nologicalreason, anyway.
Alex and I had broken up nearly two years ago! And sure, we’d dated for five years, but we’d spent more of that time apart than together, while I was in New Hampshire for college and he stayed in-state. We hadn’t even spent our breaks together, because when I’d had the opportunity to go to Costa Rica to volunteer or to San Francisco for an internship, I’d taken it. When Alex had suggested that maybe we should see other people shortly before graduation, there’d been a big portion of relief mixed in with my sadness. When he and Marissa had started dating a month later, I’d been a little shaken, but I’d wished them well. And when they’d gotten engaged six months after that, I’d been honestly happy for them… mostly.
So there was no drama here.
Noscandal.
No hard feelings.
We still saw each other pretty often and texted a bunch — not nearly as often as I texted with Marissa or Gus, but often enough that my heart should have gotten the message my brain clearly understood — we were friends. Alex Fletcher was not in love with me.
But a tiny voice in the back of my head saidhe should be, because he’d promised he always would be, that one time when we were eighteen.
Yes. Really.
Honestly, if anyone else had told me this story, my eyes would have rolled so hard theybroke, okay? But such was the power of the goddamn note, eveneight years later. Iknewit was insane — was fully aware thatIwas insane. That was the worst part of all this. Alex had written me that note when we were kids. When he had no idea whatalwayswas. When we’d had no clue, really, whowewere.
Still, that piece of paper had meantso muchto me. It had given me confidence at a time when I hadn’t had any. It had assured me I was loved when I’d thought I was alone. Those words had been the basis for everything I’d achieved since then — building my own life, making my own choices, standing up for myself. Those words had been a magical incantation that had set little larva-Tyler’s metamorphosis in motion. So even though I knew it was completely devoid of sense, I was fixated on the damn thing.
Had Alex meant the words at all, even when he wrote them? Had he done it just to be nice? The few times I’d mentioned it over the years, Alex had playfully insisted he couldn’t remember anything he’d said or done the day we got together, and he’d never talk about it. I knew he loved me, but he reallywasshit at communicating about important things, just like the note had said, and he was never lovey-dovey or effusive. There were times when I tormented myself with the idea that he’d regretted writing the note from the second I’d opened it, and had only been with me out of a sense of duty.
Worse than that was the idea that hehadmeant it at the time, but that something I’d said or done had made him change his mind.
I hadn’t summoned the guts to question him about it, but God, I really needed answers.
Grandma Berry jabbed me in the gut with one bony elbow to regain my attention. “Alex looks good, eh?”
