“Isn’t it?” I look between my two closest friends. “If I hadn’t kissed him in the first place—”
“Stop,” Jessa interrupts, surprising me with her firmness. “Did you make a mistake? Yes. Does that mistake justify someone tracking you down in another State? Absolutely not.” She sets her mug down. “Your kiss didn’t cause his behavior. His obsession did.”
Jasmine nods in agreement. “Jessa’s right. This man’s actions are his responsibility alone.”
“But Connor—” My voice breaks.
“Connor is hurt,” Jasmine says gently. “That’s understandable. But we’ve got two separate problems now. Your relationship and this stalker.”
Jessa moves to her laptop on the dining table, the breeze ruffling papers as she opens a window. “While we’re figuring out how to handle this Dennis situation, we should also address the wedding cancellation email. Everyone’s worried sick.”
The mention of the email ignites something in me. My fingers dig into the couch cushion.
“You know what? Part of this is on him,” I snap. “Yes, I made a mistake. A terrible one. But he could have at least had the decency to talk to me before announcing it to the world!”
I grab a decorative pillow from the couch and squeeze it tightly. “He knows how I feel about public humiliation, and he chose the most embarrassing way possible to end things. An email to everyone we know!” My voice rises with each word.
Jasmine and Jessa exchange surprised glances at my outburst. The anger burns hot and fast, leaving me suddenly empty as I sink back onto the couch.
“And yet,” I whisper, “I’d forgive all of it if he’d just talk to me again.”
“Look at me, Meesha,” Jessa says. “I understand you’re hurt and embarrassed. But Connor is also hurt and embarrassed. The man who’s loved you for ten years just found out you kissed someone else and kept it from him for weeks.”
My shoulders slump. “You’re right,” I whisper, my anger giving way to shame. I stare at my hands, now still in my lap. “I don’t know what to tell my family,” I admit. “Maybe I could just say we’re postponing, not canceling?”
Jessa raises an eyebrow, her expression skeptical. “And when they ask why?”
“I could say we... had different visions for our future?” The lie tastes sour even before I’ve spoken it aloud. “Or maybe just tell them Connor needs space to work through some personal issues.”
“Meesha,” Jasmine says gently, “you know that will only make things harder later.”
I drop my head into my hands. “I know. I just—I wish I could wake up tomorrow and this whole situation would have magically resolved itself. That Connor would forgive me, Dennis would disappear, and no one would ever need to know what happened.”
“Maybe it’ll happen,” Jessa points out.
I look between them, overwhelmed by their unwavering support despite the mess I’ve created. “What if he doesn’t forgive me? What if I’ve lost him for good?”
Jasmine takes my hand. “Connor loves you, Meesha. That doesn’t just disappear overnight. Give him time to process everything.”
“You don’t understand. He’s living with his ex now. They’re probably resuming their relationship as we speak. I can’t lose him. I can’t.”
Jasmine tightens her grip on my hand as the first tear falls. “Breathe, Meesh. Connor’s not getting back with Frédérique. That’s irrational fear talking.”
I try to respond, but my chest suddenly feels too tight, like someone’s wrapping steel bands around my lungs. The room starts to blur as my breathing becomes shallow and quick.
“Meesha?” Jessa’s voice sounds distant as she moves quickly from her laptop.
“I can’t—” My words come out as a gasp. “I can’t breathe.”
Jasmine immediately shifts closer. “You’re having a panic attack. Focus on my voice.”
I nod frantically, my hands trembling so badly that coffee sloshes over the rim of my mug. Jessa takes it from me before I can spill it everywhere.
“I’ve got you,” Jasmine says, taking both my hands in hers. “Breathe with me. In for four counts, hold for seven, out for eight.”
I try to follow her instructions, but my lungs seem to have forgotten how to function. Black spots dance in my vision as my heart hammers painfully against my ribs.
“He’s gone,” I manage between gasps. “Ten years, and he just... walked away. What am I going to do? What am I—”
