Chapter 3
"Sophie," Summer said, "take a picture for me."
"Huh?" Sophie blinked, completely confused.
"Take a picture of them," Summer said, nodding toward the window. "Make sure it's clear."
Sophie's hands trembled as she took Summer's phone and raised it, zooming in as she tried to focus.
Through the phone's screen, Ryan guided Clara up the hospital steps, one hand resting protectively on the small of her back, the other holding the ultrasound printout. The tenderness was unmistakable.
It was a kind of tenderness Summer had never witnessed from him.
For three years, Ryan had been good to her. But his thoughtfulness had always felt measured, polite, like he was checking items off a list.
He would remember her birthday, always with an expensive gift.
He would go shopping with her, but his eyes never left his phone.
He would say "I love you," but his eyes never quite met hers when he did.
She had told herself that was just who he was: quiet, reserved, not the type for grand gestures.
Now she understood. His tenderness was simply never meant for her.
"I got it." Sophie's voice cracked as she handed the phone back. "Summer, please. Let's just go."
Summer took the phone and looked at the photo Sophie had just taken.
It was a good shot. The composition was clean, the morning light soft, their faces unmistakably clear.
She opened the family group chat.
There were eighty-seven people in the group, relatives from both sides: the Carsons, the Linwoods, and every distant branch of the family tree imaginable.
She uploaded the photo, then typed: [I'm done with this wedding.] And hit send.
Three seconds later, the group chat exploded.
[Summer, what is this?]
[Who is that woman? Why is Ryan with her?]
[Isn't today the wedding? Where's Ryan?]
[Ryan, explain yourself.]
[Mrs. Carson, what's going on?]
Summer didn't read any of it. She left the group chat and started blocking: Ryan's family, friends, coworkers, anyone connected to him, anyone who might call her, text her, try to talk her down. One by one, she erased them all.
Then she went through her phone, methodically erasing him: his number, his social media accounts, his email, every app, every platform, every possible channel he might use to reach her.
When she was done, she looked up at the driver. "Take me to the airport."
The driver froze. "The airport? Ms. Linwood, are you sure you—"
"The airport," Summer repeated. "Now."
Sophie grabbed her arm. "Summer, what are you doing? You can't just leave. What about the wedding? The guests? Your parents?"
"The wedding?" Summer met her gaze. "The groom is at the hospital with his pregnant girlfriend. How am I supposed to go through with this? Should I just walk down the aisle by myself and say 'I do' to no one?"
"But—" Sophie started.
"Sophie," Summer cut her off, her voice soft but unwavering. "If you're my friend, don't try to stop me."
Sophie's grip loosened. Tears spilled down her cheeks. "Where are you going?"
"I don't know." Summer turned to look out the window. "The next flight out, wherever it's headed. That's where I'll be."
She pushed open the car door and got out.
The February sun was pale but bright. She squinted against the glare.
Her wedding gown, heavy with gold embroidery, caught the light and drew the stares of everyone who passed.
She didn't care. She gathered the heavy fabric in her hands and walked across the parking lot toward the hospital entrance.
Sophie hurried after her. "Summer! Where are you going?"
Summer didn't answer. She walked straight toward Ryan and Clara.
The pair had just reached the hospital entrance and were about to go inside.
"Ryan," Summer called out. Her voice wasn't loud, but it was perfectly clear.
Ryan's back stiffened. He slowly turned around, and their eyes met.
The tenderness on his face froze, replaced by shock, then panic, and finally, guilt.
"Sum... Summer?" His voice cracked. "What are you doing here?"
Clara turned around, too. When she saw Summer standing there in her wedding gown, the color drained from her face, and she instinctively hid behind Ryan.
"Have you forgotten what today is?" Summer asked.
Ryan opened his mouth, but no words came out.
"February fourteenth, ten a.m., the Sterling Hotel, our wedding." Summer recited the facts like a verdict. "Twelve hundred guests are waiting for you. The priest is waiting for you. I am waiting for you."
She took a step forward, but Ryan stepped back, pulling Clara closer, shielding her.
The simple act of it cut Summer like a blade.
"Who is she?" Summer demanded, pointing straight at Clara.
"She... she's..." Ryan stammered, struggling for words. "A colleague's—"
"A colleague's wife?" Summer let out a short, humorless laugh. "Ryan, you already used that one. It didn't work the first time."
Clara peered out from behind Ryan, her voice small. "Ms. Linwood, please don't misunderstand. Ryan and I are just—"
"Just what?" Summer's gaze landed on her. "Just friends? He just happened to have a free morning, so he came with you to the OB?"
Clara bit her lip and stayed quiet.
"Ryan." Summer turned back to him. "I'm giving you one last chance. Come with me. We go to the hotel, go through with the wedding. And I can pretend none of this ever happened."
She spoke slowly, each word deliberate. This was her final offer: to him, to them, and to herself, a final, desperate claim on dignity.