And to think they even have real pictures to substantiate the rumors. Of us slinking around in the dark of night like we’re having some secret rendezvous, when instead we were just living in the moment and skinny dipping. I can only imagine the headlines accompanying the pictures.
I know I should feel something. Rage and disbelief and confusion and vulnerability and every other gamut of the like. Yet as I sit here and stare at Hayes and comprehend what he’s just told me, all I feel is numb. I just want to go back to the dream world I was in a few minutes ago where the only thing wrong was the broken oven. When I was still comprehending everything that was happening with Hayes was real, and all was going to be perfectly fine.
I was going to get my happily ever after with the only boy and man I’ve ever truly loved.
And yet right now, all I can imagine is the potential fallout. The damage. My name drug through the mud to help some petty, selfish starlet get the attention she needs to feed her ginormous ego.
I had thought the repercussions of leaving Mitch were bad. Hated being known as the girl from the valley who left Perfect Mitch Layton. But this is global. This time I’m the whore who violated Hollywood’s picture-perfect power couple.
And in both instances I was innocent.
“Say something.”
I can’t. The only response I can give is to shake my head from side to side because I’m still trying to figure out how a woman can throw another woman to the wolves like Jenna has done to me.
Then comments from the reception last night come back to me. Mitch’s. The other guests’.
Oh my God. Oh. My. God. They all knew.
They all knew and believed what was being said. And then there’s my conversation with DeeDee earlier. Her mention of the people outside the bakery. Her apologies for interrupting me with everything that’s going on. I had no clue.
And then there were Ryder’s texts. He was talking about wanting to kill Hayes. Not Mitch.
How about the requests for interviews?
Here I was thinking someone was coming to do a feature on the bakery, when in reality they were waiting to twist any words I gave them to paint me as more of the home-wrecking whore they already believe me to be.
“I need to go home.” It’s all I say as I stand, turn my back to him, and head down the hall. This is not his fault. I know that. Way deep down in my heart of hearts, I know that and yet right now, I need to go take care of the one thing that has gotten me through everything else. Go to the one place where I feel safe.
Ryder. My baking. My salvation.
“Saylor.” His footsteps are behind me. His voice a plea laced with concern. “Talk to me. Please?”
“I just need to get home.” I start throwing whatever’s left to pack into my bag: the swimsuit I took off that night on the beach, the little magnet with the turtle on it Hayes bought me after snorkeling, the cover-up I bought after he told me how pretty he thought it would look on me, his T-shirt—the one I slipped on when I got out of bed this morning because it still smelled like him.
I fight the urge to throw it in my suitcase. I want him with me. Instead I toss it at him where he stands in the doorway with puppy-dog eyes begging me to say something to him. I don’t want the reminder. But I can’t talk to him because I don’t know what to say. I simply feel violated. He catches the shirt with my name on his lips again.
The tears burn, but the rage burns brighter. The anger I can’t direct at anyone other than him. “So I came here to redeem myself in the eyes of the assholes affiliated with the Laytons—people I don’t give a rat’s ass about but wanted to try and give my business the best damn shot possible—and end up being sacrificed to the masses as a home-wrecking whore. Talk about achieving life goals.”
He sighs. Resigned. Defeated. His eyes truly reflect the pain of watching me suffer at the hands of his fucked-up world. “Yes. No. Yes.” He nods his head. Hating that he has to admit it. “I’m so sorry, Ships.”
And for some reason, hearing that nickname proves to be my breaking point.
“Don’t you Ships me!” I shout at the top of my lungs. “You used me. You knew all along and used me. You dropped the plane ticket off. Offered to take me. And all along, a part of you deep down invited me into your shitstorm without even warning me what was going on.” My voice breaks. The weekend had already been a whirlwind of emotion to begin with. But this? “You are just as guilty for not telling me.”