Just Jilted Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Kindle Press, Seattle, 2017

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, Kindle Scout, and Kindle Press are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  DEDICATION

  For A. Thanks for meeting me at the altar.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE: The Jilting

  CHAPTER TWO: Relationship Headquarters

  CHAPTER THREE: Putting On a Brave Face

  CHAPTER FOUR: It’s Raining Couples

  CHAPTER FIVE: Leggy Amazonian Supermodels

  CHAPTER SIX: The Rebound

  CHAPTER SEVEN: The Hot Brit

  CHAPTER EIGHT: The Comfort of the Familiar

  CHAPTER NINE: Bitter Singles vs. Happy Couples

  CHAPTER TEN: The Theory of Everything

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: If You Don’t Succeed …

  CHAPTER TWELVE: Kicking the Habit

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN: The Cheating Game

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Getting Out of Dodge

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Secrets and Lies

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Is Honesty the Best Policy?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Out with the Old, In with the New

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: The Telltale Heart

  CHAPTER NINETEEN: It’s Not You, It’s Me

  CHAPTER TWENTY: The Real Wedding

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: The Ghosts of Relationships Past

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: When It Rains, It Pours

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: The Real Goodbye

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Risk

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: The Next Great Love

  ALSO BY LILA JAMES

  A MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Jilting

  On perhaps the most fateful Saturday morning of my entire life, I sat in a cramped toilet stall in the ladies’ room of Macy’s. My wedding dress was bunched up over my knees to prevent any curious stares from neighboring stall dwellers. I leaned my expensive hairdo against the metal wall and heaved a sigh, shutting my eyes.

  A mere fifteen minutes earlier, I had fled from the church where my “wedding” was being held because my fiancé, Marcus—ex-fiancé now—decided that he just couldn’t marry me. I had managed to sneak out the back entrance of the church, ducking behind parked cars in stellar action-movie fashion. I knew that Macy’s was only three blocks away, so once I cleared the visual perimeter of the church, I walked as casually as I could to the store, heading in through the side entrance and sneaking into the ladies’ room.

  No one paid too much attention to me as I embarked on my little getaway mission. I hardly looked like a runaway bride, as my wedding dress was simple, so I just looked like a bitter woman in a very nice white dress. For the moment, it seemed, I was safe, and I could digest the whole messy situation on my own.

  “Oh, Adrian.”

  I stiffened as I heard the voice of my best friend, Liz. I winced, looking down at my giveaway white strappy heels. Guess I wasn’t so incognito after all. Damn.

  “The Macy’s bathroom? I thought you’d go somewhere more dramatic. Aren’t runaway brides supposed to have more exotic locations to flee to? The arms of another man? Fiji?”

  My stall door swung open, and I yelped. In my anger and despair I hadn’t even bothered to slide the latch. Liz stood there, looking down at me with concern. She was decked out in her sexy maid-of-honor dress, a black halter number I’d picked out especially for her. I managed to recover from my surprise and glared at her, trying to look appalled at her invasion of my privacy.

  “Adrian,” she continued, unfazed by my ticked-off expression. “A woman who lives across the street from the church said she saw a phantom figure in a white dress, doing all types of crazy moves just to get across the street. She was so freaked out, she was going to call the cops.”

  I avoided Liz’s penetrating gaze, opting to remain dead silent. Even though I adored Liz, I didn’t want to talk. To anyone. Mostly because I was still in a state of shock. Even if I did know exactly what to say at that point in time, I was so dazed that I didn’t know how I would put my words into any form of coherence. Liz, as always, seemed to read my mind.

  “I don’t need to hear any long speeches or explanations. Not until you’re ready. I was assigned to make sure you’re all right.”

  “Fine,” I managed to croak. Good. A word.

  “Just fine?” Liz persisted.

  “Yes. Fine,” I mumbled, avoiding her perceptive gaze.

  “So you run away from the church just minutes before marrying Marcus to hide out in a toilet stall, and everything’s hunky-dory.”

  I shut my eyes as images of the church, all of our guests, and Marcus flooded my brain. But I couldn’t think about Marcus or anything to do with the “wedding” at that moment. Not without feeling a tidal wave of grief and anger.

  “Are people still in the church?” I asked.

  “No. Marcus officially called it off. His best man had to make what I’m sure was quite an awkward speech to the guests.”

  I kept my eyes closed. Liz squeezed in, closing the door behind her. I could only imagine the curiosity of my neighboring stall dweller.

  “Adrian. It’s OK. You don’t have to be so tough. It’s me. If you couldn’t go through with it, I completely understand.”

  “I could,” I whispered.

  “What?”

  “I could have gone through with it. He couldn’t.”

  “Oh no,” Liz said, her voice filling with compassion. She knelt down in front of me, squeezing my hands. “We’ll talk about it more whenever you’re ready. But … can we please get out of this toilet stall?”

  *

  After every breakup there’s a grieving period, one of the painful but necessary steps one must endure in order to successfully move on. I decided to stay at Liz’s place for a spell after my “wedding” to go through my personal grieving period. It was also necessary for me to stay with Liz, as Marcus and I lived together, and I had no desire to face him anytime soon.

  Liz was one of the blessed few Manhattan inhabitants whose apartment was larger than a closet. She lived in a rather spacious two-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side that she’d inherited from her great-aunt. When we arrived at Liz’s apartment, I shut myself into the security of the bathroom as I changed into Liz’s old NYU sweatshirt and pants.

  As I changed, I tried my hardest not to think. Not thinking was a difficult thing to do, especially mere hours after being jilted at my own wedding. Subjects I was trying to avoid—Marcus. Marcus. Marcus. My parents, especially my mother. The price of the wedding. Unused honeymoon tickets to Greece. The wedding guests. Marcus. Oh, and Marcus.

  “You all right in there?” Liz asked, poking her head into the bathroom.

  “You have a bad habit of barging in on me while I’m in the bathroom.”

  “Well, these aren’t exactly normal circumstances. I mean, have you thought about what you’re going to say to your parents? What about the guests? And the reception?”

  “Arrgghbhurbarjoyaconclaus!” I shrieked.

  “What?” she asked, looking both stunned and worried.

  I just shook my head. My outburst of incoherence was a shield from hearing the dreaded subjects, subjects I promised myself I would not think about. For the time
being.

  “I don’t want to think about all that right now.”

  “Adrian. Come on.”

  “I know that I’m going to have to. I haven’t even spoken to … him.”

  “Marcus?”

  “Blah, blah, blah!” I screeched. “Yes. Him. He Who Shall Not Be Named from now on. I just don’t want to deal with any of it right now. And I know I have to at some point. Some point really soon. But for now, I really don’t want to. Can’t.”

  Liz hesitated for a moment. Finally, she nodded and left the bathroom. As soon as she left, I leaned my forehead against the mirror. I shut my eyes tight as a wave of tears swelled behind my lids.

  A few hours later Liz and I were sprawled out on her couch in front of the television, several pizza boxes and beers in front of us. Liz had my cell phone in hand, answering every call that came in. It had become her job to field my calls. She was my temporary spokesperson. I only heard her side of the calls. They went something like this:

  “Yes. No, she—what? Of course not. No, we have not run off together. God. No. Fine.”

  “Yes. I know. She’s fine. She did not sprint from the church like a madwoman, she was walking briskly. I don’t care what people are saying. No, she’s in New York. My apartment. Now? Oh, um, she’s asleep. What? Oh. Ha ha.”

  “Adrian’s sleeping. Will you please stop screaming into my ear? No, I didn’t talk her into it. I just went after her, remember? And for the record, it’s Marcus who—Mrs. Lexley. Mrs. Lexley. Mrs. Lexley! I will have Adrian give you a call!”

  I pretended not to notice that Marcus didn’t call. Why would he? It was probably better that he didn’t. Besides, he was a subject that I shouldn’t be thinking about. I forced myself to keep my thoughts trained on the bland sitcom that played on the television in a futile effort to avoid all thoughts of Marcus. He Who Shall Not Be Named.

  When my cell phone calmed down, Liz was able to take the first call of the evening on her own cell phone from her boyfriend, Stewart. Liz murmured to Stewart that I was doing “just fine,” but she was keeping a close eye on me. I tried not to roll my eyes at this. Did everyone think that I was a flight risk? Marcus was the one at fault here, not me. I was considering telling Liz to let Stewart know exactly who did the jilting when Liz snapped her phone shut and gave me a long, probing look.

  “Just one thing, Adrian,” she said. “And don’t take this the wrong way …”

  I braced myself. Statements that began with “Don’t take this the wrong way,” or “Don’t take this personally,” or “No offense, but” always ended with a veiled slight. It was a polite way to insult someone. For example: “Don’t take this the wrong way, but did you ask her to cut your hair like that?” Or: “No offense, but have you put on weight?” Needless to say, I knew I wasn’t going to like the remainder of the sentence.

  “Are you sure you wanted to marry Marcus?” Liz asked. I expelled a small breath. That wasn’t so bad.

  “Of course I did. He’s the one who didn’t want to marry me,” I said, feeling another rush of tears. Liz, looking regretful, handed me a beer and another slice of pizza.

  “I’m a bitch. I shouldn’t have asked. Is that beer not strong enough? Want some vodka? Gin?” Liz asked, like a fretful but twisted soccer mom. I waved off her offer, downing a swig of beer.

  “You know, Marcus should have just talked to you before the—” Liz began.

  “Blahwargabble!” I shouted.

  “Sorry. Please stop that,” Liz said with a weary sigh.

  *

  “Allow yourself time to grieve.” This is what I whispered to myself as I lay above the covers in Liz’s spare bedroom. I turned onto my side, catching a glimpse of my wedding dress, which was now stashed away in the closet. What was I going to do with it? The thought of returning it to the boutique where I’d giddily purchased it three months before was mortifying. I could only imagine the sympathetic whispers from the boutique staff. But I knew that I would have to do something about the wedding dress. It gleamed in the light from the streetlamp outside the window, mocking me with its beauty. Its $3,000 beauty.

  Now I could recall Marcus looking at me in that dress, tears in his eyes, right before he told me that he couldn’t marry me. But I made myself stop the thought, determined not to dwell on that painful moment. Instead, I allowed myself to recall the engagement. A little less painful.

  It was Marcus’s Christmas party last year. We had been together for a year and a half up to that point. Marcus was a software engineer at a fancy technical engineering firm downtown. His office was filled with these incredibly smart yet geeky guys who didn’t get out much. Needless to say, their party skills weren’t that refined. So Marcus and I were spending the majority of the time huddled together in a corner with our beers, talking only to each other, not making any effort to mingle. We were interrupted by Megan, his company’s receptionist.

  “Marcus,” Megan said, giving Marcus an odd look. “Do you want to help me in the kitchen?”

  In retrospect, I should have noticed that something was up. First of all, there was no kitchen—just a minuscule break room with a coffee maker. And Megan’s eyebrows were suspiciously high. But at the time, I thought nothing of it.

  Marcus pecked my cheek and left my side to trail Megan into the “kitchen.” As soon as they disappeared, the lights went out. I grasped the wall and let out a childish shriek.

  The lights came back up again, and everyone had miraculously gathered at the opposite side of the room. I was the lone person standing across from them. I had no idea how they pulled this off. They were all well coordinated, in a semicircle surrounding Marcus, who had reappeared out of nowhere, approaching me with a solemn expression. For a terrified second, I wondered if he was trying to induct me into some type of software geek cult.

  “Um, Marcus?”

  Ignoring my nervous inquiry, Marcus just knelt down in front of me. At this point, I suppose I should have figured out what was going on.

  “Marcus?” I pressed.

  “Adrian,” he whispered, taking my hand in his. I flushed, acutely aware of all the eyes on us.

  “Get up,” I hissed at him, completely embarrassed.

  “Adrian,” he repeated, lifting something up. A small velvet box.

  It was only then that I realized his intention. And I remember being frozen to the spot with absolute panic.

  “I love you, Adrian. I want you to be a part of my life. Today, tomorrow. For all my days. Will you marry me?”

  There were excited aaahs and gasps from the peanut gallery across the room, even though they had to have known what Marcus was planning. I, however, was still in pure panic mode. The fight-or-flight response. I was trembling, and I guess everyone took that for pure, instantaneous joy because they all—including Marcus—smiled. In my panicked haze, I was annoyed with Marcus for his inadvertent blackmail—how could he ask me such a question in front of all these people when the only answer I could possibly provide was yes? Otherwise, I would have come off as a complete and total bitch. I must have said yes or something that sounded like yes, because a ring I never got to really look at was on my finger and there was adulation and hugs and applause.

  But when everything calmed down, of course I was thrilled. I lifted my hand, examining the diamond solitaire engagement ring that I hadn’t been able to take off, glittering even in the darkness of the room. Like the wedding dress, it mocked me now.

  As I tried to fall asleep, I had the overwhelming urge to call Marcus and give him a piece of my mind. I had a healthy buzz going due to the two vodka gimlets I drank earlier that evening. (Actually, I‘d had four vodka gimlets. But I rationalized that it was OK to drink so much since I’d just been jilted at the altar.)

  I sat up as an alcohol-fueled righteous anger overcame me. I mean, who the hell did he think he was? How can you dump someone moments before you’re supposed to vow to spend an eternity with them?

  I got out of bed, bumping into the nightstand. Ignorin
g the searing pain in my leg, I stumbled toward my cell phone and dialed his number. On the fourth ring, Marcus’s sleep-slurred voice answered. Interesting to know that he could sleep so soundly after trampling on my heart.

  “Hello?”

  At the sound of his voice, I was paralyzed with fear. Icy, icy fear. All of my anger vanished. There were a million things I wanted to say. To yell. To scream. To cry. But the words were dead in my throat.

  Well, all the damn alcohol I’d consumed did the talking for me. Before I could stop it, a loud belch escaped from my throat. Mortified, I froze.

  “Adrian? Adrian, I’m so—”

  I hung up abruptly. Damn, damn, damn. Of course he would conveniently recognize my belch. He had once called my alcohol-fueled belches the cutest ones he’d ever heard. And now he knew I called him at—I squinted at the clock—two a.m., clearly drunk and unable to sleep. Damn, damn, damn. Drunk dialing an ex was never a good idea.

  I wiped away angry tears and crawled back into bed, trying to analyze the tone of his voice. Sympathetic? Regretful? Loving? But I came up empty, and after more tossing and turning, I finally managed to fall asleep.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Relationship Headquarters

  The best thing about waking up in an unknown bed was the blissful momentary amnesia. Forgetting what happened to lead me there. Forgetting where I was. Who I was.

  The worst part was the moment when it all came back. And it all came back to me in a rush. The wedding dress. The bathroom stall. Not being able to speak to Marcus when I called him. The belch heard round the world. Marcus. I called him. Oh. My. God.

  I glanced over at the doorway and shrieked. Liz was hovering by the doorway, watching me with concern. She looked disgustingly put together for—again I squinted at the clock—seven in the morning. She had always been a morning person.