Dare to Love the Guy Next Door by Ellie Hall
Paisley
Isay goodbye to my favorite jeans as I pour a complimentary cup of coffee and grab a muffin from the hotel “refreshment station” while I wait for my ride to the airport. Thankfully, flights between Miami and Boston are plentiful and I don’t have to stay here a moment longer than necessary.
Although, it would’ve been really nice to stay in the suite. The ginormous walk-in shower had one of those big rainfall shower heads. Then again, my hair is still wet from the actual rain and I’m picking off what seems like a never-ending supply of confetti pieces.
My jeans were never recovered, but the thief can keep the shirt that said, “Your birthday present.”
It looked like Devona gave Jason the only present he wanted.
I settle in the back of the luxury limo service I hired to bring me to the airport—don’t worry, I charged it to Jason before his assistant blocks me from his expense account.
I have to admit, as unlikely as our pairing was, I envisioned a life of glitz and glamour with Hollywood hunk Jason Cobb...
Fade in:
Exterior: BEACH WEDDING – NIGHT
The guests go quiet as the bride walks down the aisle. The groom beams as she approaches.
Cut to:
Montage of their first kiss as husband and wife, the wedding reception, and romantic wedding night at a quaint B&B, then the honeymoon in the City of Light.
Suddenly, Emily shakes with tears as she leaves the cemetery, a young widow.
Cut Scene
No, I’m not an aspiring actress. Far from it. Rather, I’m a lawyer and work for movie production companies. Occasionally, I’ll receive an invitation to visit a set if the company is filming nearby.
It so happened, the actress playing Emily for that film came down with a sudden case of food poisoning. Ordinarily, they’d postpone, but getting the continuity for the ocean and sky for the beach wedding scene was proving difficult with the fluctuating weather. The head of casting took one look at me, a mere visitor on set, and said, “I found Emily’s double.”
Her actual double hadn’t shown up that day and that was how I ended up walking down the aisle, strewn with white rose petals and toward Jason Cobb. It was like time slowed down, favorably, for once. Renee, also from my office, wore an outrageous hat called a fascinator and got to play an extra and sat among the guests. She smiled and blew kisses, which I do not believe was part of stage direction.
Then, as I joined hands with Jason Cobb, it was like the dress rehearsal for my life was over and the real one began. We kissed. Actually kissed when the minister said those famous words.
It was magic.
Time suddenly sped up and never slowed.
We dated, traveled together, and he ended up asking me to marry him.
At this late hour, seated in the backseat as I drive away from my future, I’m suddenly too hot, even with the air conditioning keeping the Miami summer heat and humidity outside.
Looking back, much like the wedding scene shot for the movie, our engagement didn’t seem real.
I remember the day clearly. Time outpaced the cab, bringing my best friends and me to the upscale Steakhouse for the wrap party. When we arrived, they thrust drinks into our hands.
The spacious room overlooking the harbor buzzed with chatter about the movie and I couldn’t help but wonder, what next?
“I wonder if you’ll get to be an extra in all Jason’s movies from now on,” Cora asked. “It would be like an Easter egg. Find Jason’s girlfriend in his films. Fans would love it.”
“Did he get you a film wrap gift?” Audrey Tannenberg asked, stroking the ruby and diamond bracelet around her wrist. She was the actress officially playing Emily and dating some fancy foreign investor who lavished her with gems.
“Uh, no,” I’d said, realizing I hadn’t spoken to Jason all day. I’d hoped to get some time with him after the chaos and excitement died down. Though I didn’t care to go in the ocean, I looked forward to a romantic stroll among the sailboats down at the docks later, if the rain stopped. “Oh, uh, no. But I’m guessing that bit of bling is from Chandler.” I pointed at the gem-studded bracelet around her wrist.
Audrey laughed lazily then gushed, “Don’t be silly. It’s from Jason, of course.”
I should’ve realized something was afoot.
Once everyone gathered in the dining room, he stood tall with the kind of ease and refinement the rich and famous readily possess. I tried to catch his eye, but he glanced at one of his buddies and the director, Blain, who nodded, and then called for everyone’s attention.
“Congratulations are in order. It isn’t easy, surviving a film, but you all did it. Thanks for your hard work and dedication.”
Everyone cheered.
Blain nodded at Jason, giving him the floor. “In addition to this special occasion, I have something exciting to share. Or rather, a question to ask.” An uncharacteristic bead of sweat glazed his brow. He looked in my direction. “Paisley, will you marry me?” He held something shiny.
Time didn’t speed up or slow down. It altogether stopped. Jason dropped the ring, and it tinged on the floor. In the silence, there was no mistaking its landing place. Flustered, he picked it up and lifted it in my direction.
Audrey nudged me.
I scanned the room for the other members of the Fab Five. Well, four. I’m number five. But popping flashes blinded me.
“Go on,” Audrey hissed.
Time resumed at a hypersonic pace as Jason slid the ring onto my finger. Cheering and clapping reverberated against the windows, dark and rainy from the incoming night. Flashes dizzyingly blinked in front of my eyes. I plastered on a smile. Although marriage fit into the equation for my future, I didn’t expect it to land in my life so soon.
At the first opportunity, Blakely, Mila, and Cora—Daisy couldn’t make it—pulled me into the ladies’ room and closed us all in an oversized stall.
“Is this what you want?” Blakely asked.
“Are you sure he’s the one?” Cora followed up.
“Paisley, I don’t know if—” Mila started.
I didn’t give myself time to think, to question what their interrogation meant, or process the last hours and my future.
“Of course. I’m going to be Mrs. Cobb.” My excited squealing quieted any further concerns they may have had.
As if also remembering that fateful moment, my phone explodes with a flurry of texts—all from the Fab Five group chat. After years of late-night calls, gripes about guys, and knowing each other like sisters, they sense when I need a shoulder—or four—to lean on.
Blakely: Oh, darling, I am so sorry.
Mila: Where is that paperclip lipped, kitten toothed, lying, cheating loser? I’m going to show him what a cat with claws can do.
Jason wasn’t a big fan of Mila and after their first real conversation, he suggested I have her declawed because of her sharp-tongued, take no crap attitude. Obviously, the dislike is mutual.
Daisy: He did have thin lips and small teeth. I’d like to shake my flute at him.
She is incapable of saying a mean thing about anyone. But he was also voted the sexiest guy alive so there must’ve been some redeeming quality that attracted me to him. However, right now, I can’t come up with one.
Cora: I have to admit, I took the white lilies at his marriage proposal as a sign. Those are funeral flowers.
Me: I don’t think Jason picked the flowers. The movie was called Wedding, Funeral, Cake.
Make no mistake, I’m not defending him. The truth is, I did see the writing on the tombstone. I’ve had a hunch for a while now that things between us have been on a downward slope—I communicate with Jason’s assistant more than him. He forgot my birthday. He’s taken friends to his last few events instead of me. Granted, I’ve been busy with work but still.
Blakely: I take it the whole jumping out of the cake thing didn’t go as planned.
Me: No, that went well. It was what was happening when I popped up that was the problem.
I go on to tell them the whole sordid, cringy story. Who knows what’s circulating on the gossip sites and tabloids. I want them to hear the truth.
Mila: I’m sorry. I wish we were closer.
Me: Boston and New York are pretty close.
Mila: I’m on the road. What city could we live in together?
Me: Wait. Where are you?
Mila: Canada.
Blakely: This is news.
Cora: Focus, girls. This is about Paisley.
Last I knew Mila was living with Cora. Then again, she’s in a new relationship so maybe Mila got tired of being the third wheel. At least I think she’s been seeing someone. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own drama, I hardly know what’s going on with my girls.
Blakely: Right. Focus. I’ll get on the next flight to Miami. Yes, even in the summer. We can have a girl’s night out or stay in and watch You’ve Got Mail, eat Ben and Jerry’s—I know you love Chubby Hubby.
Me: Thanks, ladies. But I think I need a minute to myself.
Daisy: I understand.
Mila: Me too.
Cora: Are you sure, Paisley? We’ll be there in a hot second if you need us. Seriously.
Blakely: No joke. And don’t think/say anything like, “But I don’t want to inconvenience you,” or whatever well-meaning thing that might come out of your mouth.
Me: I know and I appreciate it.
The driver asks me which departure terminal. I tell the girls we’ll chat later. The sigh that escapes as I walk into the airport is short-lived when someone’s camera phone clicks. A few people approach. I grab the handle of my carry-on suitcase and hurry to the ticket counter. Unfortunately, no one is there to help.
Three women with their phones lifted as if to shoot make a beeline for me. I consider throwing myself through the rubber flaps of the opening to the luggage conveyor that brings bags to the airplanes. I’ve always wondered what mysteries lie beyond that little door.
Instead, I close myself in a bathroom stall. The whirring of the hand dryers drowns out my heavy breathing until the door opens to the sound of female chatter.
“I think I saw her go in here.”
“I’m going to peek under the stalls.”
Wow. Persistent. I do the only thing a self-respecting and self-preserving woman on the run from celebrity chasers would do. I pick up my feet, planting them on the toilet seat and for the third time today, assume a crouch. I hoist my bag onto the lid of the sanitary napkin disposal box. Holding it up with my shoulder, another shower will soon be in order.
I pull out my phone and check my ETA. On time. Instead of booking a flight to New York where I live, I opted for Boston. Yes, Cora lives there, but I plan to head further north—a place where no one knows me.
I startle when the flimsy metal door to my stall jiggles.
“This one must be out of order. The door is locked.”
“Climb under.”
“No way.”
“Are you sure you saw her come in here?” one asks.
A hand blower comes on.
“Who are you looking for?” says an older woman with a southern accent.
“Oh, our friend. You may have heard of her. Pansy. The one who was engaged to Jason Cobb.”
“Ow, that hurt. Why’d you elbow me?” another voice says.
“Our friend’s name is Paisley.”
“Oh, Paisley Jones. Yes, she seems like such a sweet woman. I can’t for the life of me figure out why she was with that jerk,” the older, southern, woman says.
“Jason Cobb, a jerk? Seriously? He’s the hottest actor in the world right now.”
“More like heartless. Did you read the story? She was surprising him for his birthday. He was cheating.” The older woman snorts.
“Who cares? He’s cute,” one of my not-fans says.
“Bless your heart. You know, I’m not so sure you’re actually friends with Paisley. I suggest you leave her alone. She probably has enough to deal with and doesn’t need the likes of you pestering her.”
Thank goodness for southerners.
“Gosh. Whatever.” From the sounds of things, my not-fan club leaves with a huff.
I slowly emerge from the stall.
A woman with a cotton-white coif washes her hands.
I use the sink beside her and whisper, “Thank you.”
She looks up at me and pats my arm. “Don’t mention it and good luck.”
“Uh, how’d you know I was in here?” I ask before she exits.
“I saw you bolt. At first, I wasn’t sure if you were having a personal emergency or trying to escape some nosy-nellies.” She winks. “I’m no stranger to hiding in a bathroom stall myself.”
She whisks out of the door in a soft cloud of perfume scented comfort.
It’s only when the red-eye flight touches down in Boston, do I realize that woman was none other than Dixie Davis, the country music legend.
I could sure use her straightforward, no nonsense sass when the car rental company tells me they don’t have any economy vehicles.
“We can offer you a Jeep Willys for an additional fee,” the greasy guy behind the counter says.
I bite the inside of my lip and charge it to Jason’s expense account. The plan is to lie low for a week or so tops. Likely, the charge won’t go through accounting for a credit card cycle at least and Jason will be none the wiser.
“I’ll take it and all those extra things you charge for. Give me the works.” I know it won’t put a dent in Jason’s wallet, but aside from the cake in his face, it’s the best revenge I can exact.
The morning commuter traffic on I-95 north out of Boston is horrendous, and I call my mother.
“My Paisley, shining star, light of my days, heart of my hearts,” she says brightly as if it’s a glorious day and she’s speaking to an angel. This is typical for her and not because she wants me to feel better about the Jason situation. Likely, she doesn’t know about it.
“Oh, um, fine,” I fumble. I wasn’t prepared for anyone not to know about the breakup, but Acacia Woodward—she didn’t take my father’s last name when they married—doesn’t use the internet or cellphones. She believes they’re contributing to the downfall of a society that knows how to communicate properly. She’s a hippy and is the only human in the country with a landline. Go figure. However, my father surprised her with a cruise for their wedding anniversary a few months ago and she went, so that was a small miracle.
“Are you sure? I sense a dip in your energetic field.” Her tone is serious.
And this is why I’m a lawyer. Mom is woo woo. I prefer facts. Mostly. But it’s good to hear her strong and steady voice.
“Just need a break from the travel and—”
“Jason?” When I don’t answer, she says, “He wasn’t the one for you.”
“Ya think?”
“I knew it the moment you met.”
“Mom,” I whine, but I don’t ask why she didn’t warn me because I wouldn’t have listened to her star charts and moon beams or whatever. “I’m thinking of going to the cottage in Seaspray for the rest of the month.”
“There’s no Wi-Fi.”
“Oh, right. So maybe just a week.”
“We haven’t checked on things in a while and there might be a leak or two. I’ve been meaning to get down there this summer, but the garden has kept me so busy.” She goes on to tell me about all her green and leafy babies.
What she doesn’t say is that none of us have been there since my brother passed away. He’d been living at the beachfront cottage, doing whatever guys named Lyric do—a little of this, a little of that. A whole lot of living.
“Yeah, so maybe only five days,” I say when the emotion passes and I get a word in edge wise.
When she reaches Z for zucchini in her litany of vegetables, we say goodbye. I get off the phone as I arrive in Seaspray.
The town is as small as I remember with only a few stores on one side of the street and the cottages along the shore. I slump. Or three days, considering there’s like, nothing to do there.
I pull over and order a coffee and grab a double chocolate chip cookie as big as my face from a bakery behind a surf shop. Yes, for breakfast. Don’t judge. It’s been a day already, and the sun has hardly risen. I devour it on the short (two minute) ride to the house.
The cottage next to my family’s has an old, battered Jeep in the driveway. The polish on my rental gleams in comparison. However, unlike the cottages of my memories, it looks like one winter storm might blow both places into the raging surf. The clapboard shingles are like a jack-o’-lantern missing teeth. The white painted trim splinters and cracks. The roof line forms a frown.
“Could this day get any worse?” I mutter around a sip of coffee, inhaling grounds.
I hack as I get out of the Jeep. “That was a rhetorical question. Not a challenge,” I shout into the wind. “Nice try, Day. You’re not going to win.”
Still sputtering and coughing, the clouds hovering over the water lift, revealing the sun that rises in the eastern sky.
A man holding a surfboard gets out of the water. He’s back-lit by the golden orb as droplets of water, shining like crystals, drip from his chest.
It’s a vaguely familiar chest with the way the pecs pop slightly and the tanned and well-defined abs chisel their way across his stomach. I’m exhausted. It’s an unbearably hot and humid summer morning. After my last twenty-four hours, my mind is two sheets to the wind but without the influence of alcohol.
“Oh my quad,” I say, still raspy from coughing. Yes, quad. As in the surfer dude’s quadriceps. I didn’t know quads could be attractive. Splash me now so I cool down because this guy’s body is...
As a rogue wave drenches me, I mutter, “I didn’t mean to literally cool me down.”
