Free

Chapter 7

SEVEN

Charlie

Nick puts a firm hand on my back and leads me towards the exit. His touch is steady, grounding. My bare feet slap against the cold, polished floor, the sound echoing in the empty hallway like the heartbeat I can’t control. My skirt is bunched in one arm to keep from tripping, the layers of tulle and silk heavy and constricting. My heels dangle uselessly from my other hand, a symbol of everything I thought today would be and everything it isn’t. My future feels like it’s disintegrating before my eyes, one jagged piece at a time.

“You’ll regret this, Charlotte! I’ll—” Davis’s voice follows us, sharp and venomous, but the heavy slam of the church door behind me swallows his words.

The air outside is thick, humid, pressing against my skin like a crowd jeering at my stupidity as we step into the parking lot. Two hundred people are inside, waiting for me to walk down the aisle in less than an hour. Two hundred pairs of eyes expecting a perfect bride, a radiant smile, and a promise of forever. Instead, here I am, running barefoot from the latest man to break my heart—guided by the man who broke it first.

Nick’s legs are long, and his pace is relentless. My breath comes fast, uneven, as I try to keep up. The gravel digs into my soles, sharp and grounding, a painful reminder of how real this is. He stops abruptly beside a pickup truck, and I slam into his back, the collision forcing a sharp exhale from my lungs.

“You keep doing that, I’m gonna think it’s on purpose,” he says, throwing a glance over his shoulder. The corner of his mouth lifts in that crooked, familiar smile—the one that used to send butterflies flitting through my belly.

It still does. Though that might just be the adrenaline.

Nick looks different now. His dark hair is longer, almost shaggy, curling slightly at the ends. It suits him in a brooding, complicated way that makes my chest ache. His eyes, once clear and bright like the summer sky, are different too—charged, electric, like the crackle of lightning before it strikes. There’s an energy between us, alive and buzzing, and I can’t catch my breath.

Though again, it could be the adrenaline.

Instead of his dress blues, he’s wearing a suit, and though he looks good—God, he looks good—the sight makes me sad. Nick Hutton was supposed to be a Marine until the day he died. I guess part of him already did.

I force a laugh, short and brittle. “You keep putting yourself in my way, Marine. That’s on you, not me.”

The banter feels surreal. Instantly comfortable, but so out of place. Like slipping into an old song you haven’t sung in years, the words on the tip of your tongue but too heavy to say. Nick promised me “after” when he should have said “never.” And now, instead of marrying Davis, I’m standing in a parking lot, cracking jokes, like I haven’t just discovered I have the worst taste in men.

Nick hauls open the passenger door and offers me a hand. His palm is warm, steady, a stark contrast to the chaos swirling inside me. I heft my skirts with one arm, fighting against the stupid fairy-wing sleeves that tangle at every turn. As I settle into the seat, the familiar scent of old leather and faint cologne surrounds me, pulling at memories I’ve tried to bury.

I put a hand on the door to stop him from closing it. My voice wavers. “Is leaving the right choice?”

Nick doesn’t flinch. His gaze holds mine, steady and sure. “Did you hear what you heard?”

I nod.

“Then it’s the only choice.”

“But what about the guests?”

“The ones who matter will understand.” His voice is calm, almost gentle, and it soothes the raw edges of my heart.

For a moment, we just look at each other. The world quiets. The buzzing in my chest softens. I nod, and Nick closes the door. He places a hand on the glass, his touch lingering before he crosses in front of the truck and climbs into the driver’s seat.

The engine roars to life, and we pull out of the parking lot. My eyes catch Davis’s as we pass him—red-faced, furious, his lips moving in words I can’t hear. A shiver runs through me, sharp and involuntary. My grip tightens on my skirts, my knuckles white.

Nick is quiet. The muscle in his jaw pulses. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel. Sweat beads on his forehead, and I don’t know why. The stress of the altercation? Spiriting away with a bride minutes before she gets married? Or is it the fact that the bride is me and somehow, I misunderstood what we were to each other and it’s only his savior complex that came to my rescue today?

“You doin’ okay?” he asks, his eyes locked on the road ahead.

I huff a surprised laugh, take a shuddering breath, intending to ask him why he cares, then suddenly find myself crying.

Nick glances over, his face softening. “Hey. Hey now.” His hand disappears into the layers of lace and tulle to grip my knee, solid and reassuring. The gesture unravels something inside me, and I turn my face to the window, swiping at my tears. Now is not the time. Fall to pieces later. But now? With Nick?

I can’t…

I just can’t…

What was I thinking? Leaving with him?

The truck slows, bumping to a stop on the shoulder of the road. A car zooms past, rocking the cabin. Nick lifts the center console, unbuckles his seatbelt, and leans over to undo mine. Before I can protest, he pulls me into his arms.

“It was a lot,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady. His hand presses to my back, the other cradling the back of my head. “Hearing what you heard, standing up for yourself, walking away. You were strong, Charlie. So damn strong. I’m proud of you.”

The words hit me like a wave in a storm-thrashed sea, and I bury my face in his chest, my fingers clutching at his jacket. “I don’t feel strong,” I whisper. “I’m scared and confused and hurt, and now I’m getting tears all over you.”

“Being strong doesn’t mean you don’t feel those things,” he says. “It means you do what needs to be done anyway. A lot of women would’ve let that asshole twist them up, make them doubt themselves. But not you. You walked away. You’re free, Charlie. That’s what matters.”

I press my cheek against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat. “Go me?” I murmur, my voice weak but edged with a small, wry smile.

“Fuck yes, go you.” His grip tightens as another car rushes past, the sound a reminder of the world still spinning beyond this small, quiet moment. I cry softly, my tears soaking into his shirt as his hand moves in soothing circles over my back.

“I’m sorry Davis cheated,” he says after a long silence.

“Me too.” My thoughts are too fast for me to catch hold of any of them. My feelings zoom through me as wild and reckless as the cars rushing past. Anger. Sadness. Grief. Relief. Confusion. It’s all too much. Too fast. Too soon.

And then there’s Nick. His scent, his voice, his warmth—they feel like comfort and home and everything I’ve missed. But they also remind me of what I’ve lost. Of what I’ll never have. Because, like Davis, Nick doesn’t want me. Not really.

I thought he did once. But he made it painfully clear I was wrong.