Page 128 of The Grump Next Door
“She took half his savings, maxed out their joint cards, and moved to Seattle with some tech guy she’d been seeing.” Ivy’s voice is flat, reciting facts.
“She cheated?” The word tastes bitter.
“For months, apparently.” Ivy’s fixing her lipstick, but her eyes are on me in the mirror, watching my reaction. “Dean packed up the guitar that day along with anything else that reminded him of her. Haven’t seen it since.”
Until today.
Until I needed help.
The weight of that settles over me like a blanket, heavy and suffocating.
“Why are you telling me this?” I whisper, almost afraid of the answer.
She turns, meeting my eyes directly. “Because that man out there? The one who just excavated six years of buried grief to play at my wedding? He didn’t do it for me.”
“Ivy—” I start to protest, but she cuts me off.
“He did it for you.” She straightens, smooths her dress with decisive movements. “And if you let him get away because you’re scared? I will haunt your ass from beyond the grave.”
“You’re not dying.” But my voice shakes.
“Metaphorically haunt. With strongly worded texts.” She’s smiling now, but her eyes are serious.
My brain feels scrambled, thoughts tumbling over each other. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“So?” She tilts her head, waiting.
“So what’s the point of—”
“The point?” She grabs my hands. Hard. Her grip is almost painful. “The point is he chose you over his own pain. Do you getthat? He literally picked emotional torture because you needed him.”
Something weird pinches in my chest, sharp and insistent. “That’s not—”
“Two minutes!” CeCe bursts in, breathless. “Holy shit, you look gorgeous. Also, Dean’s playing guitar? What the hell? He’s good. Also also, we need to go. Like, now.”
Ivy takes a last look in the mirror. Breathes deep, centering herself. Smiles—and it transforms her face. She’s a stunning bride. Olive skin glowing, perfect makeup, shiny black hair cascading over her shoulders. Her dress is a freaking dream—all lace and silk and fairy tale magic.
“Let’s do this.”
We file out. Me first, checking my clipboard one last time. Then the bridesmaids in their blush pink, giggling nervously. Then CeCe, winking at me. Ivy and her dad wait at the top of the aisle, and I can see him squeezing her hand.
And Dean starts playing.
Not the processional yet. That other song. His song. The one he wrote years ago that sounds like every feeling he’s ever buried trying to claw its way out.
It’s gorgeous.
And perfect.
And so achingly beautiful, I have to press my hand to my chest to keep my heart from breaking out of my rib cage.
I stop breathing.
“You good?” CeCe whispers, close to my ear.
No. I’m not good. I’m standing at the edge of something massive and terrifying, and I don’t have a parachute. I’m watching the man who posted about me on Reddit play music he buried with his broken engagement, and I’m supposed to get on a plane tomorrow like none of this happened.
“Fine,” I lie, the word barely making it past my lips.
