Would he?
I close my eyes and breathe through my nose. It doesn’t help. The air is tight, cloying, peonies, cake frosting, nerves. A laugh drifts from the hallway. Music hums faintly from a distant speaker. My stomach twists.
Everything keeps moving around me. Everything pushes forward as if nothing is wrong. As if I’m not teetering at the edge of something I can’t name.
I check my phone again. Still nothing.
Please, Gideon. Just text me. Once. That’s all it would take.
I’d forgive everything.
“Lara,” someone murmurs. My sister, maybe. Her voice is too careful, as if she’s afraid of breaking me. “He’s not here yet, but he’s on his way. Probably just stuck in traffic.”
I nod like I believe her. Like I don’t already feel it in my chest, like a storm that hasn’t broken but already smells of rain.
The door creaks open again, slow, hesitant, and Delilah steps inside. Her heels click once on the tile before she shuts the door behind her with a soft snick.
She doesn’t smile the way she usually does. She shuts the door softly behind her, walks slow, deliberate, and sits beside me as if afraid to crack the silence. Her palms rest in her lap, fingers laced, like she’s rehearsed this moment.
“I know I’m the last person you want to see right now,” she says, voice low and smooth, not smug. “But I wanted to check on you.”
I stiffen, my heart kicking hard against my ribs.
She reaches for my hand. Her fingers are warm. I don’t pull away.
“Gideon’s always been my best friend,” she says. “You know that. But I’ve seen how he looks at you. And I’ve been protective. Too protective. I pushed too hard.”
She exhales, blinking fast, like she might cry.
Then she goes on: “I was wrong. He loves you. You make him happy. I see it, I do. I just didn’t want him to get hurt again. But you’re not like the others. You’re practically my sister now.” In more ways than one.
The knot in my throat tightens. Her words drip with sincerity, and I have no reason to doubt them. Maybe I’ve been seeing their relationship all wrong. What if it’s always been more like siblings? They’ve looked out for each other for years, and then I came along and stole his attention. Delilah, pouting, dramatic, fighting for her share, like a little sister left out.
Maybe I’m the problem.
“I’m sorry for hurting you,” she whispers. “And I want to make it up to you today.”
She pauses, eyes dropping to her hands as if she’s holding something tender. “You know, when we were kids, Gideon used to get left behind all the time. His mom was scatterbrained, always late, always forgetting things. Once, she even drove off without him after soccer practice. He just sat there on the curb with his backpack in his lap, trying not to cry. I remember running over, sitting beside him until she came back—almost an hour later.”
She liftsa hand, dabbing beneath one eye with her fingertip. “He never talks about that. But I think that’s why he panics before big days. He needs to know someone’s there, that he won’t be left.”
Her voice cracks, just enough to sound unguarded. “And you’ve been that person for him. You’ve anchored him in ways I never could. That’s why I was so scared. I didn’t want to lose him, but all I did was push him away.”
Her sincerity feels disarming. The kind that makes you forgive things you shouldn’t. For once, she doesn’t feel like the threat. She feels like an ally. And I want to believe her. I need someone to believe.
I’m so tired of fighting.
“He’s probably just taking a minute to breathe,” she adds gently. “You know how he gets before big things. But he’s here. He wouldn’t leave.”
I nod, slow and heavy. It’s all I have left.
She rises, smoothing her dress with deliberate hands. “Come on. Everyone’s waiting.”
I push through the dressing room door. Cool air brushes my skin, and for a moment, I falter. The hallway stretches ahead, hushed except for the faint hum of distant chatter. My feet carry me forward, though every step drags heavier than the last. My heels strike the marble tile, too sharp, too slow, stretching time until my heart stumbles to keep pace.
The air feels colder than it should. Hairspray, rosewater, and nerves mingle with the sweetness of peonies. I clutch the bouquet tighter, stems biting into my palm. The runner beneath me feels too soft, almost unstable. I want to steady myself, but my hands tremble, my chest cinches tight.
At last, I reach the double doors. They creak as they open, reluctant and loud, the sound echoing like a warning. My gown tugs me downward with its weight, but still I move, pulled toward the restless shuffle of guests, the low thrum of anticipation.
