The air thickens in my throat like fog.
“She’s what?”
“She’s part of the group,” he says quickly. “She’s always been included.”
“Included in your bachelor party?” I don’t shout. But I wish I had the strength to.
“She’s a friend.”
“She’s not my friend, Gideon. And lately,” my voice drops, “I’m not sure you are either. Tomorrow, you’re marrying me.”
His eyes shutter. Like I’ve said too much. Like I’ve asked too much.
“You’re making this bigger than it is.”
And that’s the part that breaks me.
Not the white dress. Not the digs. Not even her presence at his party.
It’s that he doesn’t see the line she keeps crossing, and worse, he doesn’t want to.
I step back. The tile is cold under my toes, seeping through my shoes.
“Have fun,” I say, brittle. “I hope she buys the first round.”
He doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t apologize. Just lifts his glass and sips, like none of this matters. The music hums behind him, too soft to drown anything out.
I walk past him. Through the living room. Down the hall. Into our bedroom. I shut the door.
The silence hits harder here. Thicker. Like the walls have absorbed every word we didn’t say.
The room smells of stale lavender dryer sheets and leftover curry. I drop the dress bag on the floor and stand there a long moment, fingers flexing uselessly at my sides. I should shower. I should eat. I should cry. But I don’t move.
Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor until it blurs. My ears ring with the tension, and my throat feels scraped raw. From the living room, I hear the front door open. Laughter filters in, Caleb, maybe. Gideon’s voice joins it. I can’t make out the words, but I hear her too. Delilah. That soft, syrupy laugh she saves for when she wants something.
They leave a few minutes later, their footsteps fading down the hallway. The door clicks shut behind them, sealing off the world outside and leaving the apartment in a silence that feels neither serene nor comforting, just hollow. Agonized, I drag my wedding dress bag over my thighs, needing it to ground me. Remind me. Then I recline on the bed, arms sprawling across the disheveled comforter, the weight of the bag heavy on my knees, a foreboding reminder of what’s to come, not a relief. Tomorrow. The day circled on the calendar for months. Tomorrow we’re supposed to be married.
Hours later, my phone vibrates. Messages from my sister. One from my cousin. I ignore them all.
Then I open Instagram.
The first post is from Jordan: a photo of Gideon and Caleb clinking glasses.
The caption stops me cold:Nothing like celebrating old friends. ???? #AlmostMarried
Almost married.
Like it’s her milestone too. Like the hashtag belongs to them, as if I’m the footnote and she’s the headline. Like the ring could’ve been hers. Like she’s reminding everyone it still might be.
My thumb trembles. I zoom in. His head tilts just slightly toward hers, as if he’s listening only to her. He’s smiling.
I drop the phone like it burns me. My chest aches. My stomach churns.
He said it wasn’t a big deal.
He said she was just part of the group.
He didn’t say she’d sit next to him like that. Touch him like that.
