Chương 8
“You really want to do this in front of everyone?”
I opened my palm.
“You already did.”
His face changed.
Not shattered.
Not remorseful.
Angry.
He dropped my father’s ring into my hand.
The metal was warm from his skin.
For a second, I could not close my fingers around it.
My father’s ring sat against my palm, heavier than I remembered, the inside worn smooth from decades of ordinary use.
Grant had worn it for less than six hours.
That seemed obscene now.
I folded my fingers over it.
“Thank you.”
His mouth twisted.
“You don’t get to thank me.”
“I wasn’t thanking you.”
I stepped away from the altar.
The movement released the room.
People began talking all at once.
Not shouting.
Worse.
Low, urgent voices spread through the pews as families leaned toward one another and tried to assemble what they had heard into something that made sense.
Grant’s father stood in the second row and said his son’s name again.
Grant ignored him.
Natalie did not.
She looked at him as though she wanted him to say something that would make the last ten minutes less real.
He did not.
My mother reached for me.
I moved before she could touch my arm.
Her hand dropped.
“Claire.”
“I need air.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No.”
“Please.”
The word stopped me.
My mother rarely said please when she was frightened.
She issued instructions because instructions made the world feel manageable.
I looked at her face.
Mascara had collected beneath one eye where she had wiped away the tear.
Part of me wanted to fix it.
That impulse made me furious.
“You stay here.”
“With them?”
“With whoever you need to talk to.”
“That is not what I need.”
“I don’t know what you need.”
Her lips pressed together.
Neither of us knew what to do with the truth in that sentence.
Behind her, Natalie spoke to Grant in a fierce whisper.
“I told you.”
Grant said something I could not hear.
She shook her head hard.
Jenna was already moving toward me.
Robert followed.
I held up one hand.
“Not everybody.”
Robert stopped.
Jenna did not.
“That rule obviously excludes me.”
It almost sounded like a joke.
I let her come.
We walked back down the aisle together.
People tried not to stare.
Some failed badly.
My cousin Beth looked at me with tears in her eyes.
An older supplier who had known my father for twenty years gave me a small nod that somehow hurt more than sympathy.
Two guests were still holding their phones.
One lowered his when I looked at him.
The other did not notice.
At the chapel doors, Evelyn called my name.
I turned.
She stood beside her husband, pale and rigid.
“I am so sorry.”
Grant looked toward her.
“Mom.”
She did not look back.
Her apology was not dramatic.
That made it harder to accept.
I nodded because I had no useful words.
Then Jenna and I went into the hallway.
The coordinator followed and closed the chapel doors behind us.
The instant they shut, her shoulders collapsed.
She removed her headset.
“I have been doing weddings for fourteen years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, no.”
She held up both hands.
“You are not apologizing to me.”
She stared at the closed doors.
“I once had a groom’s aunt set a centerpiece on fire because she hated the florist.”
Jenna looked at her.
“Intentionally?”
“Very.”
The coordinator rubbed her forehead.
“This is worse.”
A laugh escaped me.
I covered my mouth.
It came again.
For several seconds, I could not stop.
It was not happiness.
It was not hysteria either.
It was simply the body choosing the wrong exit.
Jenna leaned against the wall beside me and started laughing too.
The coordinator stared at us.
Then, against her will, she smiled.
“That’s deeply inappropriate.”
“I know,” I said.
“I think that’s why it’s happening.”
The laughter disappeared as quickly as it came.
My knees softened.
Jenna caught my elbow.
“Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re wearing heels, pregnant, bleeding from a flower, and just detonated your own wedding.”
“I’m still fine.”
“You can be fine in a chair.”
The coordinator pulled one from the small table against the wall.
I sat because arguing suddenly required more energy than I possessed.
Jenna crouched and began undoing the strap of my left shoe.
“What are you doing?”
“You’ve been shifting onto your right foot for ten minutes.”
I stared at her.
“You noticed that?”
“You get mean when your shoes hurt.”
“I am not mean.”
The coordinator looked away.
Jenna smiled.
“Sure.”
She removed both shoes and set them beneath the chair.
The relief was immediate and absurd.
I flexed my toes beneath the hem of my dress.
Inside the chapel, a voice rose.
Grant.
The words were muffled by the doors.
Then Natalie answered sharply.
My mother said something.
I could not make it out.
The world behind those doors was continuing without me.
For the first time in years, I did not feel responsible for managing it.
That lasted approximately fifteen seconds.
Then I remembered the recording.
“Phone.”
Jenna handed me her bag.
I pulled out my phone.
There were already forty-three notifications.
Missed calls.
Texts.
A message from a number I did not recognize.
Three messages from members of the Whitmore Foods executive team.
I locked the screen again.
“Airplane mode.”
Jenna took it and changed the setting.
“Done.”
“Did anyone send the recording anywhere?”
“I sent myself the copy you asked for.”
“Cloud backup?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The coordinator looked between us.
“Should I be hearing this?”
“Probably not,” Jenna said.
“Excellent.”
She put her headset back on.
“I’m going to deal with the guests and pretend the last ten minutes were covered by my event fee.”
She hesitated at the door.
“What should I tell them?”
I looked at Jenna.
Jenna looked at me.
“I have no idea.”
The coordinator waited.
I forced myself to think practically.
May you like
“The ceremony is canceled.”
“That part I gathered.”
