Chapter One
Siobhan
Eighteen to twenty-four months.
All bridal magazines insist that a bride should organize a wedding within that time frame.
I did.
According to my bridal planner I created two years ago, today I should have a light breakfast.
I’m not.
Instead, I’m eating wafer cookies dipped in chocolate chip lavender-flavored ice cream.
The next item on the agenda is practicing the vows I’ll say during the wedding.
Not today.
Today I’m reading articles on how to move on and move forward. Earlier, I drafted a post on Reddit where I talked about my pathetic life. I thought better of it and just deleted it. The jilted brides subreddit is more depressing than… well running out of chocolate or ice cream.
Did I write the vows according to the deadline?
No, I thought about writing a book called The Ways I Hate You but since I don’t have the bandwidth for nonsense, I refuse to give this wedding fiasco a second thought. At least, on that day, I did. Today, I’m reconsidering it.
Move on, Siobhan. It’s over.
It is over.
My plan to stop wallowing in self-pity is to figure out how to overcome the bitterness and sadness. The person I loved the most, the one I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with is gone.
Gone.
Experiencing loss is heart wrenching. He knew I had trouble handling that, yet he did that exact thing to me. And he left by choice.
At first, I was in complete shock. Now, I’m just trying to get over the worst rejection of my life. I don’t miss him—I don’t love him. Did I ever love him if it’s this easy to move on?
I’m over Roland Seymour.
He can enjoy his new life in Atlanta with his new beautiful Southern Belle wife, his minivan, and his two-point-six children. Okay, I have no idea if he has a family with that woman, but it doesn’t matter.
I’m over the cheating bastard.
Over.
Him.
But how do I let go of the anger?
When I come to an article about letting go of the toxic people in your life, I feel like I might’ve struck gold. I begin to research this award-winning, best-selling author when I stumble upon his website. He’s an influencer whose entire career focuses on relationships. And the man is expensive.
“Would you pay a guy ten thousand dollars to give you relationship advice?”
Nydia, my best friend and roommate, turns her attention from her yoga mat toward me. “Is he going to find me a husband who cooks, cleans the house, does laundry, and has a sexy voice that he’ll use to read me romance books at night?”
“I said relationship advice. He won’t build you a custom-made robot or a miracle.”
I stare at the soulful dark eyes of Nando. The picture they added to this article makes him look like the definition of trustworthy. He is also cute, maybe hot. I could use a guy like him to at least give me a night to forget this unplanned turn of events in my life.
He’s the exact kind of guy that I should NOT be using in this situation. He’s probably a player who sleeps around with every woman who asks for advice. Okay, I’m judging this poor man without even knowing him. See, jaded.
He doesn’t seem that bad. If anything, his website and social media are amazing for clickbait. I continue to surf the web for more about him.
“There’s nothing more about him than his picture, his smooth voice on those online videos, and a brief bio that says nothing about him. Yet, people pay him for relationship advice.”
I’m in the wrong business, I don’t say out loud.
“What kind of relationship advice is he offering?” Nydia places her left leg over her shoulder, stretching her right hand. “For free, I can tell you that men are a waste of time. For a hundred dollars, I can find you a good rabbit vibrator off the internet. Nando might be short for something. I used to know a guy with that nickname, but we were kids.”
She switches poses with such grace I wonder if she’s made of rubber. There are times when I want to join the yoga studio where she goes so I can learn to do that. Other times, I remember yoga isn’t for me. I can’t stay in one position for more than twenty seconds, let alone a minute—unless I’m bitterly remembering that today is supposed to be my wedding day. And today, my ass is glued to the barstool, my eyes staring at the screen searching for something useful, and my hand keeps feeding me junk.
“But he promises to get me the guy in just thirty days, or I’ll get my money back.” I try to fake excitement.
“What are you reading?” She stretches herself across the mat.
I wave my tablet. “I was scrolling through the news,” I lie. “You know how you click one article, read it, and find another one, and then you’re in the clicking rabbit hole that never ends? There’s an interview with this guy who swears he can coach you to get the guy.”
She scoffs. “Can you say, charlatan? That’s impossible.”
“Not only that, but”—I lick my lips—“he claims to have united at least a thousand happy couples since he started working on this project.”
Nydia laughs so hard that her cat, Dex, lifts his head and meows at her. The glare he gives her is priceless. I wouldn’t be surprised if one day I wake up and realize he smothered her in her sleep.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your nap.” She chuckles. “See, that’s why we don’t need the guy. We already have a moody male in the house. At least he’s loyal.”
“Cats don’t buy me flowers or send chocolates just because they thought of me or snuggle next to me at night,” I complain. But my ex didn’t do any of those things either. In fact, my ex dragged me to this small town in search of the dream.
Seriously, why did I quit my corporate job, sell all my belongings, and plan to build a sustainable farm with him? That should be filed under: what was I thinking?
Clearly, I wasn’t thinking at all, and the worst part is that he dumped me.
He. Dumped. Me.
I sigh. “Maybe I should take your suggestion and buy myself a good vibrator.”
“We could go to the city tonight and enjoy the weekend,” she suggests. “No, wait, you’re working, aren’t you?”
“You work on weekends too,” I remind her, then give her a you’re-worse-than-me look and say, “You never stop working.”
“Shush.” Nydia waves a hand disregarding me. “I have a farm and a store. I can’t just take a day off. At least, they’re mine. You work for a guy who might one day say, ‘I’m selling my business. You’re fired.’”
My stomach drops just thinking about what can happen if he does that. Anyone else would’ve left Luna Harbor the moment they got dumped. It’s been almost two years and I’m still licking my wounds. It’s not like I miss Roland. I’m angry at everything I lost because I believed he was the love of my life.
He wasn’t.
Roland was the promise of everything I always envisioned. He offered me the dream—a family, love, and a place to call home. Now, I’m stranded in Luna Harbor, wondering if I even want to pursue the dream and working myself to death.
That’s when it hits me. Why is Nydia telling me this? “I thought you liked Mr. Cantú.”