Chapter 30
The Wedding
Despite concerns that it might rain, sunshine breaks through the steel clouds, revealing blue skies in the distance. Rows of white chairs stand out amid the wide expanse of emerald lawn, and ivory rose petals lead the way to a crumbling stone wall draped in elegant bouts of ivy where, any moment now, Allison and Collin will say I do .
In the center of the wall stands Collin, a nervous smile on his lips, looking practically good as new in a black tux and white rose boutonniere.
“Collin cleaned up nice,” I whisper to Jack, standing beside me as we await our cue to walk down the aisle.
“You’d hardly believe we found him in a trough a few hours ago,” he whispers back.
I smile and he mirrors the expression, a brief flicker of solidarity passing between us, but I can feel the hesitation behind the upward turn of his mouth.
We haven’t spoken since our moment in the hall—nothing more than awkward hello ’s and you look nice ’s—and I can’t help the ache in the pit of my stomach, the reminder that this is what it will probably be like from now on. Tentative smiles and detached conversation.
“Thanks again for your help,” I say after a beat.
He nods. “Anytime.”
“Well, maybe not anytime,” I say. “Hopefully it doesn’t happen again.”
Jack laughs and I let my gaze drift back to Collin, who’s practically bouncing out of his tux, hands flexing and curling.
“He looks nervous,” I whisper.
“He is,” Jack agrees. “But in a good way. Promise,” he adds, eyes latching to mine, and even now, after everything, the thump of my heart steadies under the pressure of his gaze.
“I’m happy for them,” I say. “I think they’re going to be good for each other.”
“I think so too,” he says, eyes holding mine.
I try to smile, but my mouth won’t quite make the shape.
In a way, it’s almost ironic. Allison and Collin are about to walk toward each other, toward their new life together. A life of love and partnership. Meanwhile, Jack and I are walking toward a different kind of finish line. One of final goodbyes and increasing distance.
Right on cue, the music starts, and the bridesmaids and groomsmen proceed down the aisle.
“Ready?” Jack asks, holding his tuxedo-clad arm out to me.
“Ready,” I say back, looping my arm through his.
He forces a tight smile, and I can feel him trying and hesitating to say something, but whatever it is he doesn’t get the chance because the music swells and the event coordinator gives us the signal.
At the end of the aisle, Jack holds my arm a beat too long, eyes meeting mine in one last lingering look. It’s not quite regret, but something adjacent.
I wish I could parse it out. That I could untangle each crease of skin and ridge of muscle, but the look lasts just a second before we break away and Jack takes his place beside Collin. They thump one another on the back in a bro-ish hug just as the music changes for the bride’s arrival.
Everyone stands up as Allison and Bill come into view. She is absolutely radiant and my heart swells.
I don’t realize I’ve also started to cry until a tear makes its way down my cheek. I wipe it away and reach out to accept her bouquet—white roses and baby’s breath. Our eyes meet and she gives me a big, toothy grin before turning to face Collin, who’s frantically banishing his own tears, which only makes me more weepy.
But it’s not the tears, or even the gentle murmurs of oooh and aww as Jack hands Collin a handkerchief, that get me. It’s the look on Collin’s face. Like Allison is the only one here. The only one who matters.
As I watch Allison and Collin’s first kiss as husband and wife through the cloudy blur of tears, any lingering traces of fear recede. Instead, I’m filled with a sense of hope. Not just for Allison and Collin. But also for me.
If Allison can find her Mr. Right , then so can I.
Maybe not now, not today, but someday. Someday I want someone to look at me the way they are looking at one another. I want to look at someone and know that forever won’t be easy. But we’ll choose it anyway.
After the ceremony, everyone heads to a big white tent overlooking the lake for dinner, dancing, and the usual fanfare.
I croak my way through my maid of honor speech, trying (and failing) not to cry. Meanwhile, Jack leaves everyone in stitches with a story about how he and Collin once took Collin’s dad’s car for a joyride in the middle of the night when they were fourteen.
Everyone’s still choking back laughter when Jack launches into the story of how Collin and Allison met, a story I realize I’ve never heard before.
“Everyone knows that a great meet-cute has two components,” Jack says, eyes bouncing across the hall of candlelit tables. “Bad timing. And bad luck. And fortunately for Collin and Allison, they had both.”
A chorus of chuckles echo around the tent.
“I still remember Collin texting me the night he met Allison at the Mariners game. The first thing he said to me was, ‘I think I just spilled beer all over my future wife.’ Followed by, ‘Also, on an unrelated note, do you happen to know any good home remedies for stain removal?’?” Jack pauses for titters and I watch out of the corner of my eye as Collin whispers something to Allison and she throws her head back with laughter.
“If you know Collin, then you know he’s a romantic guy,” Jack continues. “The type of guy to write love notes and buy flowers just because it’s Wednesday. But I’d never seen him fall this hard. Or this fast,” he adds, followed by more laughter.
“At first, I was dubious. I mean, how well did they know each other? What if they were rushing into things? But in the last two hundred and six days these two lovebirds have been together, they’ve shown me time and time again that real love doesn’t have deadlines or timelines or expiration dates. That when it’s real, when you’ve really found the one you want to be with, you don’t let anything stand in the way.” Jack pauses, eyes turning more serious. “They’ve shown me that real love isn’t waiting for the right time. Or the perfect moment. That real love comes when you least expect it. And I can’t help but think that the odds are better for all of us because they’re together.”
Jack lifts his champagne flute toward Allison and Collin, who both beam back at him. “Please join me in toasting the bride and groom.”
Everyone raises their glasses in unison.
“ To beating the odds,” Jack says.
“To beating the odds,” the rest of the room repeats.
As I lift my glass, Jack’s eyes drift in my direction, hovering for just a second, before snapping back to Allison and Collin.
After the toasts, the DJ announces it’s time for the bouquet toss and everyone turns their attention to the dance floor, where Allison stands, bouquet in hand. I can’t think of anything I’d like to do less than broadcast my singleness to an entire tent of family and strangers, so I take advantage of the distraction and slip into the cool night air.
Gravel crunches under my feet as I follow the sound of tinkling water into a nearby rose garden. It’s too dark and shadowy to see much until I reach a circle of raised hedges surrounding a stone fountain, the basin illuminated by stripes of moonlight falling across the inky water like yellow lines on a desolate highway.
My feet are totally killing me, so I remove my heels and dunk my bare feet in the dark water. The cold instantly calms the angry red blisters on my toes and the back of my heel.
“Hey.” A familiar deep voice cuts through the quiet.
I look up and see Jack’s tall frame casting long shadows along the water. His bow tie is loosened around his neck and his shirtsleeves are rolled up. In his hand is a bottle of whiskey.
“Hey,” I say back.
He rakes a hand through his hair before he asks, “Is it okay if I join you?”
I nod and Jack sits down beside me and begins to untie his Oxfords. He dips his bare feet into the murky depths.
“Your speech was great,” I tell him.
“Thanks. So was yours.”
Jack offers me the whiskey bottle, but I shake my head, and he tilts it to his mouth, granting me a view of his forearm. My breath catches when I see it: the compass drawing.
“You didn’t wash it off,” I say.
He follows my gaze down to his arm. “No,” he says after a beat. “I didn’t.”
Our eyes meet, and I can practically feel the heavy press of unspoken thoughts passing between us. Finally, he says, “I want you to know that I don’t regret last night…or this morning.”
“I don’t regret it either.” I hesitate, swallowing. “But I thought about what you said earlier. You were right.”
His brow furrows, scrunching against the moonlight. “About what?”
“That I’m not ready to jump into something right now. And neither are you.” My breath wavers as I reach for the next words. “It wasn’t fair of me to expect things to work out between us.”
A hot, heavy exhale rushes out between parted lips. “It’s not a matter of not wanting you, Ada. Because I do. A lot.” He pauses, eyes drawing me in like quicksand. “I’m just…not in a good place right now. And I swear to God that’s not a line.”
Maybe it’s the pale moonlight, or the collage of shadows taking up residence across his features, but there’s a weariness I didn’t notice earlier.
He doesn’t just look tired after a long day of wedding activities. He looks worn down, like a sculptor’s taken a chisel and whittled away at him, piece by piece, and perhaps for the first time I see him clearly without the tint of lust or what if clouding my vision.
He’s still devastatingly handsome, but the same features that once delighted and intrigued me now suggest something different.
Gone is the beaming best man who had the room hanging on his every word. Instead, he looks defeated. Miserable, even. A hollow, carved-out ghost of the person I’ve spent the last few days with. Or perhaps that’s not true. Maybe this is the real Jack, the one hiding behind flirtatious smiles and teasing jokes. The one I’ve only seen pieces of until now.
Maybe it’s the wrong thing to do, maybe I’m misreading things, but I take his hand and give it a squeeze. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I understand.”
His gaze softens, mouth turning up in the corners as he squeezes back. “I wish you knew how much the last few days meant to me. That before you, I was dreading this wedding. That I couldn’t stand the thought of showing up and pretending to be happy when I was so fucking miserable. Then you came along, and you were beautiful and funny and smart and just so happened to need somewhere to stay. I thought it was fate.”
Fate. There’s that word again. But it doesn’t feel the same way it did last night. Not when I know how the story ends.
“I knew there was nothing I could do about the wedding or the pretending to be happy part,” he goes on. “But maybe sleeping with the hot girl from the hotel lobby would make it suck less.”
Heavy eyes find mine through the darkness, and even now I can’t help the way blood rises in my cheeks.
“I wasn’t supposed to see you again. You were supposed to be a Band-Aid on a wound that wouldn’t close. But suddenly we were thrust together in this ridiculous situation, and I got to know you, and being around you made me feel things I never thought I’d feel again.
“We might have been stranded for the night, or in a broken-down car. But it didn’t matter because for the first time in a long time all the voices in my head telling me I’d never be happy again weren’t so loud. For the first time in a long time, I felt like everything would be okay. Like I was okay.” He shakes his head, fear and hope warring behind his gaze. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that when I’m with you, I feel a little less fucked up.”
My eyes skitter up to meet his. “I feel that way too,” I tell him, voice cracking.
The corners of Jack’s mouth inch upward but don’t quite make it into a smile.
For a long moment, he doesn’t speak, and we stay there, holding hands in the dark until, finally, he says, “I wish I could be the guy who is all in. The guy willing to crawl over broken glass for you. I wish I could hold your hand on a crowded street and take you on dates and make plans with you. I wish I could be all the things you deserve.”
My heart cracks under the weight of his words. Though I can’t tell if it’s because of what Jack’s just said or because I can hear the but coming.
“But I can’t,” he says, voice fraying around the edges. “I can’t crawl over broken glass for you because I fucking am broken glass. And I can’t be Mr. Right .”
I search the heaviness of his expression, the deep lines bracketing his mouth. It’s the second time he’s brought up Mr. Right . The first time he said it, I figured he was making fun of me for being naive enough to want something akin to the hero in a Hallmark movie. But now, the wounded look in his eyes makes me think I was wrong. Maybe he sees himself as incurably flawed, unable to be the person he wishes he could be. Like he’s somehow letting me down by not being Mr. Right .
The thought brings a fresh pang of hurt to my chest.
If this were a movie, I’d be able to fix him. My dazzling personality and quirky sense of humor would be enough to heal his trauma and show him he’s worthy of love. That he doesn’t need to be Mr. Right .
But this isn’t a movie. This isn’t something the love of a good woman can solve. And these aren’t the types of issues we can look past because we have feelings for one another and the sex is good.
I can’t save him. I can’t fix him. And I can’t make him be with me.
All I can do is let him go.
I hadn’t wanted to cry, at least not more than I already had, but my eyes well with tears and the emotion I’ve been trying to keep at bay finally spills over.
He runs his thumb along my jaw, flicking away a tear. “Ada.” The way he says my name, a little desperate, a little hungry, makes me feel like delicate glass cracked right down the center. “Please don’t cry,” he whispers.
But I can’t stop.
I don’t even really know what I’m crying for. Maybe it’s the slow, steady release of the tension I’ve been holding in all this time. The relief of finally hearing how he feels. Or maybe it’s because I know it’s not enough. That we still have an expiration.
Jack pulls me into him, letting me bury my face in his chest.
“I’m sorry,” I sob. “I’m getting your dress shirt all wet.”
“It’s okay,” he says, stroking my hair. “It’s not the first time I’ve had to change shirts today.”
I make a noise that’s somewhere between a sniffle and a laugh.
“I’m gonna miss you,” I say.
Jack squeezes me tighter. “I already miss you.”
He presses his lips to the top of my head, leaving a delicate kiss, and I feel the words behind the gesture, the hollow, carved-out goodbye that neither of us is saying.
I’m not ready to break away and neither is he.
His hands shift, sliding farther down my back. Not quite low enough for it to be like that , but low enough to remind me of last night. Of memories of tangled limbs and brushed lips and hungry murmurs whispered against damp skin.
I try to stockpile the moment. The way he smells. The breeze tickling the backs of our necks. The weight of his hands molding around my hips, grounding me to him. I try to memorize everything so that when it’s over, when I’m back home, sleeping alone, I’ll have something to revisit. A mental tattoo whose lines I can trace over and over.
The thought jogs a memory, and I pull back. “I have something for you,” I tell him.
Jack’s eyes flash with uncertainty as I reach into my clutch and pull out a folded piece of notepaper with the hotel logo on the top. Below the logo is the same drawing of a compass I’d drawn on Jack’s arm, though this time with cleaner lines and shading.
I’m not sure what I mean by it. Maybe it’s a peace offering. Or a thank-you gift for everything he did for me. Or maybe I’m hopeful he’ll get the tattoo and prove that even if we have an expiration date, our memories don’t. That they can live on in the ink on his skin.
Jack takes the paper, frowning. “What’s this?”
“I don’t know if this is weird, and if it is, please just throw it away or whatever, but in case you actually wanted to get the tattoo, I made you a sketch.”
I brace myself, waiting to see if he’ll tell me he doesn’t want it, that he didn’t mean what he said last night. Instead, his mouth slingshots into a smile. “Thank you, Ada. I love it.”
“It’s okay if you don’t want—”
“I want it. Really,” he adds.
Maybe it’s the warmth in his eyes or the way the tightness in my chest unspools, but I feel brave enough to ask, “What about our pact?”
He blinks. “Our pact?”
“The pizza pact,” I say, reminding him of the promise we’d made at Mrs. Poyevich’s inn.
Understanding slogs through his features. “You mean us going to Italy together?”
“Is that still on the table?” I ask.
His mouth parts, eyes widening with surprise. “Do you want it to be?”
I’m not sure how to answer him. Of course it’s what I want. I brought it up. But as my eyes skate from the crease between his brows to the tension held captive in his posture, I wonder if he thinks I’m asking to make him feel better, to dull the sting of goodbye, and now he’s offering me an out, a way to leave him behind, free and clear. If he thinks I’m like Lexi. Or his dad. If he thinks I’m looking for an excuse to leave.
I take back his hand, threading his fingers through mine. “I know this is cheesy. Pun intended,” I add, mouth creaking out a grin. “But what if in one year, if we’re both single and we’re still interested in this ”—I gesture between us—“maybe we can meet there? At the pizza place you told me about?”
Slowly the tension drifts from his features and he dips his chin into a nod. “I’d like that.”
I smile and he smiles too. It’s not a promise or a guarantee. But it’s filled with hope. And maybe, for right now, that’s enough.
Silence swells between us, the moment filling with echoes of laughter and the clinking of glasses floating through the night air. The DJ starts to play a vaguely familiar melody I can’t quite place. It’s soft and a little melancholy, and we both turn our attention toward the tent, where dancing shadows stretch like ghosts across the lawn.
“We should go,” I say, pulling my feet out of the water and shaking them dry before sliding them back into my heels. “Allison and Collin are probably wondering where we are.”
I doubt they even remember who we are. Last I checked, they were so tightly wound around one another on the dance floor, they’ll need to be surgically removed. But I need an excuse to end this moment before I no longer have the willpower to do so.
As we walk back to the tent, an indulgent silence filling the space between us, I can’t help but feel lucky. Lucky that our paths crossed. That he picked up that stray tampon. That he asked to buy me that drink. That I said yes. That he invited me upstairs. And every wonderful and terrible thing that happened after that. Most of all, I feel lucky that we had last night, even if it was just a fleeting moment.
Maybe this is all it can ever be. But maybe that’s okay.
The rest of the reception goes by in a flurry of bad dance moves and one too many pop remixes. Then Collin and Allison are given a sparkler send-off to a chorus of cheers, and just like that, the night is over.
After the last drink has been poured and the final candle blown out, Jack walks me to my room.
“Well, this is my stop,” I say, leaning back against the door, but making no effort to open it.
His gaze lifts, eyes pulling mine. Then he leans in and places a gentle kiss on the side of my cheek. The gesture doesn’t linger, as though he doesn’t quite trust himself. And right now, neither do I.
“Good night, Ada,” he whispers, face still close to mine.
“Good night,” I tell him. But neither of us moves.
I grasp for something to say, something to stretch out this goodbye a little longer.
“Have fun in Italy,” I tell him. “Eat some pizza for me.”
His mouth wavers into an almost-smile. “I will.”
My brain wants to skip ahead to what’s next. To whether we’ll see each other again a year from now. Whether we’ll talk before then. But I push the thought aside, instead trying to focus on this moment right now, this final moment I can hold on to. If this is all I get, I want to savor it.
I focus on the hard lines of his jaw, and the way his mouth is soft in the dim light of the hallway. I focus on every beautiful inch, trying to draw him in the sketchbook of my mind, and based on the way he’s looking at me, eyes sharp with a kind of intensity that feels almost indecent, I can guess he’s doing the same. But hidden behind his blown-out pupils and the tick in his jaw, I see something I didn’t see earlier. Fear.
I expect the realization to give me a sense of solidarity, a knowledge that we’re both afraid to walk away, to find out what’s next for our lives, to leave the bubble we’ve inhabited for the past few days. Instead, it makes me sad and honestly a little angry. Angry that the people he loved chewed him up and spit him out. Angry that he doesn’t feel good enough. Angry that he doesn’t see himself the way I do.
I reach out, letting the pad of my thumb trail down the side of his face, cupping his cheek. “You deserve someone who would crawl over broken glass for you too,” I whisper.
Our eyes lock. He breathes. I swallow. Another beat passes. Then he lifts his hand, thumb catching the underside of my chin.
“Goodbye, Ada.” He keeps his thumb there a second longer before pulling it back.
My eyes burn with tears, but I force them back, determined not to cry again. “Goodbye, Jack.”
There’s no passionate meeting of mouths, no slamming of doors and unbuttoning of clothes. Only quiet good nights and the kind of dull emptiness usually reserved for the day after Christmas. Then he steps back and gives me one last look before turning and disappearing down the hall.
We’re doing the right thing, both of us , I remind myself. And yet, there’s still a part of me that craves the happy ending—the glittering final scene, the grand gesture, the sweeping kiss right before the credits roll.
But I have to let that go. It’s over now.
Instead, I have a whole new life ahead of me.
Maybe I’ll go to Paris. Maybe I’ll reopen Sleeve It to Me 2.0. Maybe I’ll fall in love.
I don’t know. But for the first time I feel okay not knowing.