Chapter 2

On Teagan’s phone screen, the video played without sound.

A photo flashed of me holding a work light over an engine while Emmett changed a flat tire on her first car.

Then another: Teagan and me sitting on the living room floor, taping up boxes the weekend she moved her things into our house.

I was there in the frame. Plainly, quietly, part of the ordinary week.

"I gave this to Dad on Wednesday," Teagan said. Her gaze stayed fixed on the glass. "He said he’d bring it to the rehearsal."

Emmett stopped three feet away from us under the hallway sconces. His suit jacket hung open, his hands resting loose at his sides.

"Teag," he said, keeping his voice carefully level. "Your grandmother’s looking for her cardigan. Go see if it’s by the coat rack."

Teagan didn't turn around. "Why did you take Brenna out?"

The question fell into the quiet corridor, clean and unadorned.

Emmett’s mouth tightened. He glanced past her shoulder toward the dining room doors, checking the sound of laughter inside.

"We talked about keeping the focus on your family, honey," Emmett said. He took a half-step forward, but didn't reach for her. "Your mom and I wanted tonight to honor where you came from."

Teagan stepped back from him, deliberately putting two feet of carpet between them.

"Mom saw my draft Tuesday night," Teagan said, her voice flat and steady. "She asked why Brenna was in three different clips. She didn't tell you to delete them."

Emmett went rigid.

Behind him, someone dropped a fork against a plate inside the private room.

"Teagan, that's enough," Emmett said, his tone sharpening.

"You told me the file wouldn't play right on the projector," Teagan said. She locked her screen with a dull snap and slipped the phone into her purse. "You said you had to fix the export yourself."

Emmett didn't answer.

Teagan looked at me once, her mouth drawn tight, then turned and pushed back through the double doors without another word.

The heavy wood swung shut behind her, cutting off the warm light from the dining room.

Emmett let out a breath through his teeth. When he turned to me, the calm father routine had vanished entirely.

"Are you happy now?" he whispered.

I wanted to open the dining-room doors and tell every guest how carefully he'd lied to his daughter. Teagan was still inside.

I kept my voice down for her, not for him.

"She asked you an honest question, Emmett."

"Margo called me Tuesday night in tears, Brenna," he said, stepping closer, lowering his head so his voice stayed between us. "She asked if tomorrow meant she was getting edged out of Teagan’s senior year. You know how she spirals when she feels left behind."

"So you lied to your daughter and erased me to avoid an uncomfortable call."

"I handled a problem," he insisted. "Margo has to sit through the ceremony tomorrow. If she’s sitting in the front row feeling discarded, Teagan spends the entire reception managing her mother’s mood."

"You didn't handle it," I said. "You just handed the cost to me."

Emmett looked down the empty carpet, his jaw set in that stubborn, familiar angle.

"It's three minutes of old photos. Tomorrow you get the vows, the dinner, the house, the rings. Why can’t you just let this go for twelve hours so we have a peaceful morning?"

"Because letting it go always means I absorb the damage," I said.

I thought of Thanksgiving. Margo had asked to push the schedule back four hours at the last minute because her sister's flight was delayed.

I didn't wait; I carved the turkey, served my parents at two, and kept our traditions intact.

When Emmett finally walked in at six with Teagan, he spent the rest of the evening cold and distant, angry that I hadn't made my family sit in an empty living room until his ex-wife felt accommodated.

Every single time a boundary became inconvenient, Emmett expected me to pay the difference so he wouldn't have to tell Margo no.

"Brenna, listen to me," Emmett said. His tone softened, sliding into that smooth, reasonable register he used to end arguments. "My brother flew in from Milwaukee. My mother is sitting in that room right now. We're going home, we're sleeping in our bed, and we're getting married at two tomorrow."

I looked at him—really looked at the line of his mouth and the tired ease with which he dismissed me.

"I'm not going home with you tonight," I said.

His eyes widened, his head pulling back slightly. "Excuse me?"

"Drive your mother home," I told him. "I'm calling Joelle. I'm staying on her couch."

A dark flush rose from beneath his collar, creeping up to his ears.

"You're not sleeping at Joelle's. My family is staying at our place. What am I supposed to say when I walk through the front door alone the night before our wedding?"

"Tell them whatever you want," I said. "You're already good at editing the truth."

"Brenna, don't do this." He stepped in front of me, blocking the path toward the glass exit doors, his voice dropping to a harsh, urgent hiss. "If you walk out into that parking lot, you don't just mess up tonight. My mother will know something happened. You're blowing up the entire weekend over a slideshow."

"You blew it up when you handed them that thumb drive, Emmett."

I stepped around him.

He didn't grab my arm. He stood there, his shoulders squared, watching me cross the tiled lobby toward the front sliding doors.

"If you get in that car," he called out quietly, every syllable clipped and cold, "don't expect me to lie to my mother about why you aren't there."

"I don't," I said.

The automatic doors parted with a soft hiss, letting in the cool, sharp night air.

My phone was already ringing against my ear.

"Hey," Joelle answered on the third ring, the hum of her television in the background. "Aren't you guys still at dessert?"

"Are you home?" My voice came out thinner than I intended, scraping against my throat. "Can I sleep on your couch tonight?"

The line went completely quiet for two seconds. The TV volume clicked off.

"I'll unlock the front door," Joelle said without asking a single question. "Do you need me to come get you?"

"No. I'm ordering an Uber now."

I stepped onto the curb under the hotel overhang.

A silver sedan pulled up to the turnaround three minutes later. I opened the door, slid onto the worn leather back seat, and gave the driver Joelle's street address.

As the car swung around the driveway and pulled out onto the main road, the dashboard clock glowed pale blue: 9:42 PM.

My ivory satin gown was hanging from the wooden doorframe of the guest room in Emmett’s house. My veil, my shoes, and the velvet box with my grandmother’s pearl earrings were sitting on the dresser by his keys.

If I wanted them tomorrow, I would have to walk past his mother, his brother, and his ex-wife's lingering presence to get them.

My phone vibrated in my palm.

A text from Emmett popped onto the screen, short and final:

Mom asked where you went. I told her the truth: you pulled Teagan’s video from the reception and walked out.

She’s helping me pack up the centerpieces now.