Sweet Cheeks(3)

I pull my mind from the thoughts and look back at my brother, to the intricate and colorful ink on his forearms. Study the images that are typically hidden beneath the crisply starched dress shirts he wears for work as he lifts the invitation to read it again. “I’m sorry this affected you, too. That my breaking up with him—”

“I told you not to bring it up again. This was not your doing.”

“Spoken like a true friend.” I chuckle and pick up the piping tube again. More like my only one—and sadly it’s because he’s my brother so he has to be—given the circle of friends Mitch and I had over the years seemed to side with him after the breakup. The weekly lunch dates suddenly were rescheduled by text saying, “I’ll call you when I get free time,” and the monthly girls-only dinners for some reason stopped happening. Even my manicurist, who did Mitch’s mom’s nails, suddenly had no openings for my long-standing appointments.

“Does he actually think you’ll show up?”

“He invited me, didn’t he? Or maybe it was the bride-to-be who did? Who knows? Who cares?”

“Do you know her?”

“Never heard of her before.”

“Whoever it was probably just wanted to rub your nose in it. He’s arrogant enough. Thinks he’s such a prize. So why not make you worry and wonder if you made a huge mistake leaving him since someone else would snatch him up so quickly? What a f*cking joke.”

I love that he immediately came to the same conclusion that I did about Mitch’s intention behind sending me an invitation. At the same time, I silently loathe that since I’ve received it, I’ve been going over my reasons for calling off our wedding more than I should be.

I refuse to acknowledge it has anything to do with Mitch or the invitation.

It’s perfectly normal to have doubts. Like middle of the night stare at the ceiling when I can’t sleep wondering if the grass is greener on the other side doubts. You don’t make major changes in your life without having them.

And walking away from the man you’ve loved and been with for most of your adult life qualifies as a major change, so it’s justifiable to have some level of uncertainty.

“Agreed,” I muse as I lace another row of beads on the next cupcake. “But wouldn’t you feel the same way if someone did that to you?” My brother just stares at me, the snarl on his face betraying the calm in his eyes. “I get why you’re pissed at him—and I am too for what he did to you—but when it comes to me, Ryder, he has a right to be mad. I was the one who called it off without warning.”

“Oh, I remember, all right,” he says over his shoulder as he heads back to the desk. And I know he does. How could he forget holding me while I sobbed when I realized I couldn’t go through with the wedding? Or how he was the voice of reason through all of my hysterics, talking me down from the ledge and urging me to listen to my heart? And then later, holding my hand while I picked up the phone and told Mitch I needed to talk to him. “You want to really know what pissed me off more than anything? You broke off an almost seven-year relationship with him and not once did he get angry or rage or sit on your doorstep and beg you to reconsider. He didn’t fight for you, and you’re worth fighting for. Instead, he acted like the passive-aggressive * he is by sending you an invitation to his new wedding.”

I shrug, loving that he thinks I’m worth fighting for, and at the same time understand the fact that Mitch not fighting for me, was an answer in itself. “If you were in his shoes, how would you have handled it?”

“Me?” He laughs with a sheepish grin that suggests what he’s about to tell me may or may not have happened in the past. “After the girl refused to talk to me, I would have gotten shitfaced. It wouldn’t have been pretty. Then I probably would’ve pounded on her door all night long until she was so sick of it, she’d have to face me. And if she wouldn’t and I had to gather some sort of self-respect, I would’ve probably gone out, drank some more, slept with the first willing candidate because . . . well because, if I ask someone to marry me, I mean it. And now I’ve just wasted six years of my life, am pissed as hell, and would want some way to feel better about myself. So yeah . . . not classy but that’s what I would have done.”

I snort. “Sounds about right, and yet for the life of me I can’t see Mitch acting like that—the going out and screwing the first thing he laid eyes on part.”

His sarcastic laugh rings around the empty bakery. “Hate to break it to you, sis, but obviously he did or else he wouldn’t be getting married this quickly.”

And I can’t hide the fact that the notion stings. But at least it solidifies one of two things: he either felt the same way about our relationship as I did, or he fell in love with Rebound Sarah because I bruised his ego and she made him feel good again.

“Maybe he wants to prove he’s over me despite the comments I’ve overheard that she’s a carbon copy of me.” Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as those words stop his trek back into the office. The notion that Mitch is marrying another tall, aqua-eyed, blonde-haired woman with olive skin hits him.

He laughs, sarcasm ringing in it as I hear the shuffle of papers on my messy desk in the back room. “Where’s the RSVP card? I’ll send it back and let him know just what I think about how smart you were to dump his ass. Pretentious prick.”