The last place I expected my past to catch up with me was at the Preakness Stakes, somewhere between the champagne bar and the VIP lawn. Then I saw the man who broke my heart standing beside a young girl who looked unsettlingly familiar.
I had not seen Ryan in 22 years.
Not since the night he vanished from my life so cleanly, it made me question whether I had imagined the whole relationship.
One week, we were picking wedding linens and arguing about whether we needed a string quartet, and the next, he was gone. We did not fight or disagree.
He left my engagement ring in a velvet box on my apartment counter and a note that said, “I am sorry. I cannot explain this the way you deserve.”
So when I saw him at the Preakness Stakes, standing near the VIP lounge in a navy suit with silver at his temples and a drink in his hand, I honestly thought my brain had glitched.
I stopped walking.
My friend Dana, who had dragged me there for “one glamorous Saturday before we both become complete hermits,” almost walked into me.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
I could barely breathe. “That man.”
She followed my stare. “Which one?”
“The one in the navy suit.”
My mouth had gone dry. “I was engaged to him.”
Dana snapped her head toward me. “What?”
But I barely heard her, because Ryan looked up.
And our eyes met.
For one horrible second, I was 25 again.
I could feel the old version of myself rushing back: hopeful, stupid, in love, and waiting for answers that never came.
She looked about 21, maybe 22. Her blonde hair was pulled back under a cream fascinator. She had a slim build and an elegant posture.
Something about her pulled at me before I even understood why.
Then she turned fully toward me.
And my stomach dropped.
She had my eyes.
Not similar or vaguely reminiscent, but mine.
Even the shape was the same, with one eyebrow sitting slightly higher when she was nervous.
Before I could think, she was walking toward me.
Ryan stepped after her. “Emily, don’t.”
She ignored him.
I stood there like an idiot while this young woman stopped in front of me, staring as if she had found something she had been searching for her whole life.
I forced a stiff smile because it was the only social reflex I had left.
“Yes?” I said.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
Ryan reached us then, his face pale. “Emily.”
The girl did not look at him. She looked at me and said, very softly, “Mom.”
The story doesn’t end here – it continues on the next page.
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