Not His First Choice Chapter 09
More than a year passed.
Spring came around again. The apricot tree bloomed again.
One weekend at dusk, I went into town for a friend’s wedding.
It was outdoors, on a ranch. Sunset light. Beautiful hour.
I stood at the edge of the lawn with a glass of wine, watching the couple dance.
Someone walked over. Stopped next to me.
“Nora.”
I turned.
Ethan stood two steps away in a clean white shirt.
Three years. He looked steadier than the last time.
“Been a while.”
I nodded. “Been a while.”
We stood in silence for a bit.
“My brother-in-law’s got a ranch out here,” he said, tipping his chin toward the bonfire. “I came out to help him with fencing.”
“And you?”
“My inn. Still open.”
“I know,” he said. “I tried to book twice. Both times you were full. Business is good.”
I didn’t say anything.
He was quiet a few seconds. Then: “I used to think if I did enough, you’d have to forgive me.”
“Took me a while to understand—some things don’t come down to *enough.*”
He glanced at me, then away. “I’m not here for an answer. I was passing through. I just wanted to tell you I—finally don’t feel like I owe you something. Not because I made it right. Because I’ve accepted that some things can’t be made right.”
I held my glass and looked out at the mountains.
“Ethan.”
“Took me a long time to figure something out. I played that points game not because I was stupid. Because I learned early on—*if you want to be loved, you have to earn it.* I never really believed anyone would just choose me.”
“And you making me earn it—that just confirmed the thing I was most afraid of.”
I turned to look at him. “So yeah, I hated you for a while. Then I realized you were just the last person in my life who made me believe that lie.”
“It took me three years to get that lie out of me for good.”
He listened. Didn’t interrupt.
Out on the field, the couple finished their dance. People applauded.
Ethan handed me an envelope—one that had probably been intended as a reply card.
“I wrote you a letter. You can read it. Or don’t.”
I took it. Didn’t open it.
“I’m not waiting for an answer anymore,” he said. “I just wanted you to know—these three years, I finally learned how to be a decent person.”
Then he turned and walked back toward the bonfire.
I slipped the envelope into my pocket. Didn’t open it there.
After the wedding, I walked home to the inn, sat down under the apricot tree in the yard, and opened it.
Inside was one photo.
Salar de Uyuni. The sky mirrored in the water. Everything blurred into white.
No him. No anyone.
On the back, in ballpoint pen:
“I went. You should go too. For yourself.”
I stared at the line for a long time. Then I smiled a little.
I tucked the photo into the guest book behind the front counter and left it there.
The next morning I got up at six as always. Made coffee. Toasted bread. Cleaned the rooms.
Sunlight spilled into the yard. Apricot blossoms cast their shadows on the brick.
I pushed the inn’s front door open and hung the “Open” sign on the handle.
A young woman with a hiking pack stood at the doorway, smiling.
“You got any rooms?”
“I do.”
I stepped aside to let her in. “Welcome.”
Above us, a few apricot petals let go in the wind, drifting into the yard.
This time, I was just waiting for the breeze.