Chapter 4

Saturday evening. Less than twenty-four hours before the ceremony.

I stayed at the townhouse.

My wedding gown hung behind the closet door inside its heavy white muslin garment bag.

At six o'clock, the front door clicked open.

Grant walked into the kitchen carrying two brown paper bags from the trattoria near his office.

"I brought the tortellini," he said, setting the bags on the counter. "And the mushroom soup you like."

He didn't take off his overcoat. He stood by the island, watching me carefully.

"I know the last three days have been rough," he said.

"Do you?"

"I know you felt sidelined," he said, taking a step closer. "I know how it looks with Tessa handling the timeline and Brooke talking about the family table. But Valerie, I was trying to protect you. Since your mother’s second valve surgery, you’ve been carrying so much. I thought if they stepped up, you wouldn't have to bear the weight alone."

"By having Tessa decide who walks me down the aisle?"

"Tessa knows my family," he said, his voice rising slightly in frustration. "She’s known me since I was seven years old. All of them have. When my dad lost his job, Colin’s family took me in. When Brooke had her first baby, Tessa and I sat in that waiting room for fourteen hours. They are my family, Valerie."

I looked at him across the kitchen island.

"And what am I, Grant?"

He stopped. The kitchen was dead silent except for the low drone of the refrigerator.

"You're my wife," he said. "Or you’re about to be."

"No," I said softly. "I’m the person who carries the spare chair."

He ran both hands through his hair, his jaw tightening into that hard, unyielding line.

"You keep acting like you were forced out," he said, his voice sharp now. "Valerie, the five of us have had each other's backs since we were seventeen. We survived college, we survived Marcus’s divorce, we survived building this company. We don't stop showing up for each other just because someone feels sensitive about seating arrangements."

"I have never asked you to abandon your friends, Grant."

"You ask me to choose every single day!" he shouted, the words finally breaking through his careful composure. "With your silences, with your headaches, with the way you pull away every time the group gets together! Maybe if you had ever actually tried to understand us, you wouldn't always feel like you were standing outside the five of us!"

The word hung in the air like shattered glass.

The five of us.

Grant froze.

His eyes widened slightly as the phrase settled into the room. He looked at me, his chest heaving, his mouth slightly open, as if he wanted to reach out and pull the syllables back out of the air.

"Valerie," he whispered, stepping forward. "I didn't mean it like that."

His phone rang on the granite counter.

The screen lit up with Tessa’s photo.

He did not look at the phone. He looked at me.

The phone buzzed against the stone—a loud, persistent vibration that filled the kitchen.

For three seconds, I thought he might let it ring out.

Then he picked it up.

"If you walk out that door—" I said.

"I know what you’re going to say," he cut in.

His fingers were white around the phone.

He did not make up an excuse about a floral arch. I hated him more for that.

"I have to go," he said. "If I don’t, every one of them will call and ask what happened, ask if you need help, and then I’ll have to say—"

"Then you’ll have to say it," I said.

"I’ll have to say it," he repeated, very quietly.

That was it.

He was not choosing Tessa. He was choosing the version of the world where the five of them were still fine. As long as he did not answer this call, that version did not have to break.

"Go," I said.

He stared at me. He had probably been ready for an argument. An argument would have meant I still wanted something from him.

I picked up the mushroom soup and poured it into the sink.

The white liquid spiraled down the drain.

"Go, Grant. Don’t keep them waiting."

He tapped the green button on the screen.

"Tessa? Yeah, I’m on my way."

He grabbed his car keys from the bowl by the door.

He didn't look back as the front door swung shut behind him.

The engine rumbled in the driveway, its headlights passing once across the kitchen ceiling before fading into the winter dark.

I stood alone in the kitchen until the refrigerator began humming again.

Then I went upstairs.

I took a dark canvas duffel bag from the back of the closet.

Into it, I packed my passport, my daily medication, and the small velvet box containing my mother’s emerald ring.

I added my work laptop, my files, one wool coat, three wool sweaters, two pairs of jeans, and the walking boots I wore in the snow.

Every piece of jewelry Grant had given me over eleven years stayed in its drawer.

I carried the duffel down to the garage and placed it in the trunk of my compact sedan.

When I came back upstairs, my wedding dress was still hanging behind the closet door in its white muslin sheath.

The veil, the silk shoes, and the pearl hairpins were laid out beside it.

I left them where they were.

Much later, I heard his truck turn into the driveway.

The front door opened. His boots crossed the entryway. Then the hallway floor creaked outside the bedroom.

I sat on the edge of the bed without moving.

He stopped outside the door.

For a moment, I thought he might knock.

He did not.

His footsteps went downstairs. A few minutes later, I heard the soft thud of the sofa cushions taking his weight.

I waited until the house had been quiet for a long time.

Before dawn, I put on my coat, carried my bag to the car, and drove away from the townhouse.

I parked at a small motel near the station and took a room for the day.

The room smelled of cold floor wax and weak machine coffee.

I sat on the edge of the bed and took out my phone.

I opened the train website again. This time, I bought the Sunday evening ticket I had only looked at the day before.

The confirmation appeared on the screen.

I opened the guest list and sent three messages. I did not wait for any reply.

My phone lit up once in my hand.

I turned it facedown on the bedside table without looking.

Outside the window, the sky was beginning to lighten.

The ceremony would begin in a few hours.

I lay back on the narrow bed and closed my eyes.