Always the Last to Know(55)

“It doesn’t sound like everything. It sounds like everything you want, with no room for me. Why can’t we be together, me in the city, you in Stoningham? Lots of people have long-distance relationships.”

“You can’t raise a family that way!”

“So that’s it? Your way, or nothing?”

“What would I tell our kids? Mommy doesn’t love you enough to live with you?”

“I don’t see me having kids anytime soon, Noah. And certainly not because you bullied me into it.”

We glared at each other over our cooling burgers.

“So you’re saying no, is that it?” he asked. “Because I’d like an answer. The waiting period is over, and I’m not gonna chase after you all my life.”

“This is a very hostile marriage proposal.”

“Don’t make jokes, Sadie. Give me an answer. Will you marry me?”

There was no right answer I could give.

“I’m so sorry, Noah,” I whispered. “I love you with all my heart, but I don’t want that life right now.”

His face didn’t change. He just looked at me with those dark, dark eyes, then glanced away and swallowed. Twice. He pulled out his wallet and put two twenties on the table. Then he left me at the table with our untouched burgers and unfinished beers.

Sitting there in that pub, I think I knew. A love like that didn’t come along every day. No other man was going to light my heart up in shades of red so beautiful it hurt. I loved Noah, loved his gentleness and kind heart, how hard he worked. I loved his smile, his mouth, the way he looked on the water with the wind blowing in his tangled hair. I knew that being with someone who thought you were the most wonderful, precious thing in the world didn’t happen very often, and maybe would never happen again.

But I wasn’t going to marry a man who’d proposed via ultimatum.



* * *



— —

Three years after I’d turned Noah down in that stupid Irish pub, he got engaged.

My sister told me about it. We were having a perfectly nice, perfectly bland chat about her perfect life when she said, “Hey, by the way, Noah’s getting married. Gillian something. You guys were pretty hot and heavy, weren’t you?”

I didn’t answer.

Noah was getting married. To someone who was not me. Married. As in living together. Sleeping together, waking up together, eating together, and probably having kids together.

My sister’s words sat in my stomach like stones. “That’s nice,” I said belatedly, but Jules was already talking about the perfect vacation she’d be taking.

I’d managed to avoid imagining Noah with someone else. It was much more romantic to think of him staring out at the horizon, wind whipping his hair, arms crossed, his heart still mine. Occasionally, he showed up in my dreams, at times happy, sometimes angry and, worst of all, sad.

You can try to talk yourself out of loving someone. You can pitch it all the right ways, ways that make sense. We wanted different things. It was beautiful while it lasted. Not every relationship is meant to be forever. I’ll always have a soft spot for him. You never forget your first love. And all that makes sense . . . in your head, if not your heart. I still loved Noah, and sometimes I’d find myself walking down a street and letting out a growl of frustration. Why couldn’t he have at least tried to love my city, to open his heart to it? Why did he view Stoningham, that beautiful, pretentious, infuriating, lovely little town, as the be-all and end-all for our lives?

And who the hell was this Gillian person he was marrying?

A quick Facebook search brought me to her page. Gillian Epstein, the future Mrs. Noah Pelletier. She was an event planner—Epstein Events, not a very creative name.

Neither was she subtle about their engagement; her profile picture was her hand on a man’s chest. Noah’s chest. On her finger was a very pretty solitaire. Other photos showed the two of them at McMillan Orchards, in what was obviously their engagement photo shoot. I knew this because her page wasn’t private, and there were thirty-seven pictures captioned Engagement Photo Shoot!!! A lot of Stoningham people had weighed in on how beautiful they were, how happy they looked, couldn’t wait for the wedding, a year and a half away, for the love of God. If you were going to do it, just do it.

I didn’t like the look of her. She was pretty, but very done. Those too-perfect eyebrows. Eyelash extensions (or very blessed). She looked . . . smug. Oh, she was nice-looking, of course. Quite pretty.

But it was Noah’s face I really studied. His hair was cut short. Why on earth would he cut that beautiful, curly black hair? He looked—he was—older. I blew up the picture to see if he was really smiling, if his dark eyes crinkled and sparkled in that special way I remembered, and shit, yes, he did look happy.

My wild boy.

Tears spilled out of my eyes, surprising me. Obviously, I could’ve been his wife. I’d said no for all good reasons. He was uncompromising, and that wasn’t a good sign for a marriage. We didn’t want the same things, no matter how much we loved each other. So of course he was moving on. He deserved happiness, and I felt a hot, fast burn of shame that I hadn’t been able to give it to him. No. I’d broken his heart instead.

Then again, he’d broken mine, too. It was a mutual devastation.

So I would be glad for him. I took my unjustified sense of betrayal and stuffed it down deep. Before I could talk myself out of it, I took out my pastels and drew him a little card with a heart-shaped cloud on it and wrote, Congratulations on your engagement. I’m happy for you, Noah. I didn’t sign it. I didn’t have to.