Chapter 3 - The Ghost Speaks
By midnight, the apartment was scrubbed clean of Carter’s existence. A junior associate from his law firm had arrived around eight o'clock in a sleek black SUV, nervously muttering apologies as he loaded Carter’s luggage, golf clubs, and high-end espresso machine into the trunk. Carter himself hadn't possessed the courage to show up in person. Instead, he had sent six sprawling text messages alternating between furious accusations of betrayal and pathetic promises that he would never mention Sloan again.
I didn't reply to a single word. I blocked his number, blocked his mother, and deleted my wedding Pinterest boards before pouring myself a generous glass of Cabernet Sauvignon.
I was sitting on my living room rug, leaning against the base of the couch, watching old sitcom reruns to drown out the silence, when my phone screen lit up.
It was an unknown number with a North Carolina area code: (704).
My thumb hovered over the screen. A strange prickle of electricity crawled up the back of my neck. There was only one person in North Carolina who would be reaching out to me tonight.
I slid the green bar across the glass and pressed the phone to my ear without speaking.
""Mara?"" a voice asked. It was feminine, slightly raspy, with a warm, melodic southern cadence that sounded completely composed.
""Yes,"" I said cautiously. ""Who is this?""
""It’s Sloan Barrett.""
A bizarre silence stretched between the two lines. The woman who had haunted my relationship for thirty-six months—the invisible gold standard against which my cooking, my driving, my hair, and my wedding gown had been measured and judged—was breathing on the other end of the wireless connection.
""Did Carter call you?"" I asked, my grip tightening on the stem of my wine glass.
Sloan let out a low, dry chuckle that held no malice, only profound amusement. ""Call me? Mara, the man left me three frantic voicemails, two emails, and an Instagram direct message before I finally answered the phone just to get him to stop.""
""I'm sorry,"" I said, feeling an instinctive flush of embarrassment. ""I didn't mean to drag you into our disaster. When I gave him your number today, it was out of pure, unadulterated spite. I didn't think he would actually dial it.""
""Are you kidding me?"" Sloan said, her tone suddenly shifting from amused to surprisingly fierce. ""Don't you dare apologize to me. In fact, that's why I tracked down your number through an old mutual friend from Ohio State. I called to tell you that you are my personal hero.""
I blinked, taking the phone away from my ear for a second to stare at it before putting it back. ""Your hero?""
""Mara, listen to me carefully,"" Sloan said, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. ""Carter Reeves is an emotional vampire. Five years ago, when we broke up, he spent months gaslighting me into believing I was too high-maintenance, too critical, and too demanding. He had me convinced I was impossible to love. Do you know why I moved to North Carolina?""
""No,"" I admitted.
""Because I needed an entire state border between me and him and his wretched mother,"" she said flatly. ""When he called me tonight, rambling about how you threw his ring back at him in a bridal shop, do you know what he told me?""
""I can't imagine.""
""He told me that you had 'lost your mind,' and then—I swear to you on my life—he asked me if I remembered how good we were together. He asked me if I would consider having dinner with him when he visits Charlotte for a conference next month.""
The sheer audacity of the man knocked the wind right out of me. He hadn't even waited twelve hours. He hadn't spent an afternoon mourning the loss of his fiancé; he had merely attempted to pivot back to his previous safety net.
""He really doesn't change, does he?"" I whispered.
""Men like Carter don't change, Mara; they just look for hosts who have lower immune systems,"" Sloan said softly. ""He spent three years using my memory to keep your self-esteem in the gutter so you would never realize you were entirely out of his league. And the irony is, half the things he probably credited to me were complete lies.""
""What do you mean?""
""Let me guess,"" Sloan said with a chuckle. ""Did he tell you I loved his mother?""
""He said you knew how to handle Denise without being dramatic.""
Sloan erupted into laughter—loud, uninhibited, and thoroughly genuine. ""Denise Reeves called my mother white trash at a Thanksgiving dinner because we served store-bought cranberry sauce! I threw a glass of Pinot Grigio directly onto her Persian rug and walked out! Carter cried in my driveway for two hours begging me to apologize to her, and I told him to go marry his mommy instead!""
A genuine laugh tore through my throat—the first real, unrestrained laugh I had experienced in years.
""He told me you never used butter on garlic bread,"" I choked out through my chuckles.
May you like
""I literally eat butter with a spoon, Mara,"" Sloan laughed back. ""He’s a delusional narcissist. And I called you tonight because I wanted to make sure you didn't take him back. Because women like us? We build the empire. Men like Carter just want to put their family crest on the front door.""
We stayed on the phone for two hours. By the time I hung up, the ghost of Sloan Barrett was dead and buried. In her place was an ally—and a brutal clarity about the bullet I had just dodged.
