Chapter 2

Lana’s face darkened. She was already striding across the floor, her bridal train gathered in one fist, the other hand rising like she intended to slap someone.

Ella caught her wrist before she could raise her hand.

“Lana,” Ella said quietly, “the wedding isn’t over.”

“That woman did it on purpose!” Lana turned. Her eyes were redder than Ella's.

“I told every bridesmaid that bouquet was for you—”

“Lana.” Ella squeezed her hand, her voice was quiet, steady. "Your wedding isn't over yet."

The crowd had already moved on. The spotlight followed Rain, who clutched the bouquet and glanced at Nate with shining eyes. Nate had already stepped back to the edge of the crowd, at ease.

The officiant, a seasoned old family priest, cracked a joke and the warmth returned to the room. Lana bit her lip, turned away, and finished her vows.

Through the reception, Ella sat at the bridal table. She felt the stares—the pity, the curiosity. On the other side of the room, Nate laughed with his friends. Rain sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. The distance between them had long since crossed the line of what was appropriate for an assistant.

She hadn’t been a bridesmaid originally. But the groom’s side had been short a groomsman at the last minute, and someone suggested Rain. Nate brought her everywhere now. “Experience,” he called it. Even to her girlfriend’s best friend’s wedding.

When Lana and her new husband reached their table for toasts, Lana hugged Ella hard. Her voice dropped to a whisper only Ella could hear.

"That woman has been circling him for six months. I had someone look into her — she's calculating, Ella. Every move is deliberate. And Nate, he—"

“Lana.” Ella patted her back and cut her off. “You’re the most beautiful bride today. Don’t waste it on this.”

Lana huffed but said nothing more.

—

The night wore on. Guests filtered out in twos and threes. The music softened. The staff began clearing tables.

Finally, Nate walked over, calm and unhurried.

“Ready to go?”

He took her bag from her hands, then reached to put his arm around her shoulder. Ella shifted sideways, just out of reach.

“You’ve been drinking. I’ll call a car.”

He didn’t seem to notice her evasion. He nodded. “Fine.”

The car slipped into the dark city streets. Neon signs blurred past the window. Ella’s own reflection stared back at her—carefully made up, but the exhaustion under her eyes was unmistakable.

“Earlier,” Nate said, “Rain got the bouquet first. She’s young. Probably just wanted some wedding luck.”

He shrugged. “You can’t blame her. Don’t take it to heart.”

Ella said nothing. She watched the city lights bleed into one another.

After a moment, he glanced at his phone, then at her. “Are you mad?”

He leaned closer. “I said next time, didn’t I? Our wedding will be better than Lana’s. You can have as many bouquets as you want, okay?”

His fingers threaded through her hair and rubbed the back of her neck—gentle, soothing, like calming a restless pet.

The ache spread through her chest like something dissolving.

Every time. It was always the same.

Soft words, empty promises of “next time.” And then he assumed the storm had passed.

“Nate,” she said, watching his reflection in the glass.

“Yeah?”

“Lana and I made a vow when we were children.” Her voice was flat. "Whoever got married first — the other one's wedding had to happen within a week."

"We were going to be each other's maid of honor. We were going to be the first to witness each other's happiness."

The car went quiet. His hand stopped moving on her neck.

“That was kid stuff,” he said, and laughed. “You can’t be serious. Plans change. Venues, schedules, catering—these things take months, sometimes a year. We’ll plan properly. I’ll give you the perfect wedding. What’s the hurry?”

He didn't explain why he hadn't been able to make a single public commitment tonight.

He just skipped straight to “how to plan a perfect wedding.”

Ella thought of a fitting room, one month before tonight. Lana spinning her around in front of a three-way mirror, eyes bright and brimming.

"Ella, you look incredible in this. I designed it just for you."

The dress had been champagne-colored silk, with tiny pearls stitched along the waistline. Lana had spent weeks on it.

"When it's your turn," Lana had said, her voice cracking, "I'm making you the most beautiful wedding gown anyone's ever seen."

Nate had been there that day. He'd been answering emails on his phone, head down, thumbs flying. At Lana's declaration, he'd glanced up briefly, smiled. "Looks nice."

Then his eyes had dropped back to the screen.

In that moment, surrounded by champagne silk and her best friend's joy, Ella had felt it clearly for the first time — the quiet, creeping grief of eight years without an answer.

The car pulled into the parking garage. The engine cut.

Nate unbuckled his seatbelt. He seemed to consider the evening resolved — the small unpleasantness of the bouquet addressed, the apology delivered, normalcy restored.

He leaned across the console toward her, angling for a kiss.

Ella lifted her hand and pressed it gently against his shoulder.

He froze.

“I’m tired, Nate,” she said.