Gideon is barefoot in jeans and a black T-shirt, sleeves pushed up over his forearms. His movements are restless, agitated. He paces the kitchen like the floor might give out beneath him if he stands still. A half-empty glass of whiskey sweats beside his phone on the counter. The radio hums, crackling with an old soul track filtered through memory and static.
I hover in the doorway, dress bag still over one arm, twisting the thin gold band on my finger until the skin underneath goes pink and sore.
“She wore white today,” I say, my voice cutting through the music like a stone dropped into still water.
He doesn’t stop pacing, just scrubs a hand through his hair. “It was probably cream.”
I blink. “Gideon.”
He freezes mid-step, finally looks at me. The tightness around his mouth, the little twitch in his jaw, it all says:I don’t want to do this right now.
“Delilah’s not malicious,” he says. “She’s just complicated.”
“Complicated?” My voice thins. “She made a comment about my budget in front of the whole boutique. She smiled while doing it, like she was being helpful.”
I take a shaky breath. “And the worst part? Everyone saw it. My sister. The bridesmaids. They all watched her poke the bruise.”
“You don’t know her like I do,” he says.
“No,” I snap. “I know what she wants.”
Silence drops between us like wet wool. The fridge hums. Ice clinks in the glass as condensation trickles down its side. Outside, a dog barks twice, then stops.
“She’s been through a lot,” he says finally, quietly.
“So have I,” I reply. My arms fold tight across my chest. “But I don’t use it as an excuse to treat people like they’re disposable.”
He doesn’t respond, just tips his glass to his lips and swallows.
“I’ve held my tongue for weeks,” I say, softer now. “I let her be in the bridal party, for you. I bit mine every time she called mebudget brideor asked if I was sure you hadn’t proposed out of guilt. I’ve sat through all of it, and you never said a word.”
“She doesn’t mean it like that,” he mutters.
“She wore white, Gideon. She meant it.”
“I think you’re spiraling,” he says. “This is stress talking.”
“This is me talking.”
The space between us crackles with a kind of emotional static I can’t name. He’s right here, and still, I feel so far away.
I move to the takeout bag on the counter and start unpacking it. Plastic containers rustle. The smell of sesame and something buttery fills the air.
“I thought maybe we could act like we’re still on the same team tonight,” I offer, trying to sound casual. “I brought the dress home. We could have a quiet night.”
He doesn’t answer, just looks at his phone. Then:
“I’m going out tonight. Boys’ night.”
My hands still over the chopsticks. “Tonight?”
He nods, like it’s obvious. “It’s tradition.”
“With who?”
The pause stretches too long.
“. . . Caleb, Jordan, a few of the guys, plus Delilah.”
