Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Scarlett
The sunlight is invasive.
It streams through my bedroom window, harsh and unforgiving, forcing me awake despite my desperate desire to stay buried under the covers forever.
Three days. It's been three days since the wedding that never happened.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster. Anything to avoid thinking about what my life has become.
My apartment feels like a tomb. I've barely left this bed except to use the bathroom and occasionally force myself to eat something. The blinds have stayed closed. My phone has been on silent. The outside world continues without me, and I'm fine with that.
Except I'm not fine. I replay it constantly. Standing in that corridor in my wedding dress. The wedding coordinator's horrified face. Eric's somber expression as he delivered the news. The humiliation crashing down as everyone around me watched me fall apart.
And then... Dax.
My stomach clenches at the memory; his hands on my body.
The way he made me feel—like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
I can still smell him on my skin. Clean, masculine, expensive aftershave mixed with something uniquely him.
Even after three showers, I swear I can still feel his touch.
The sex was... I don't have words for what it was. The best of my life doesn't even begin to cover it. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push the thoughts away. Guilt floods through me. I slept with Miles's brother. Hours after being abandoned at the altar, I fell into bed with Dax Blackwell.
What does that make me?
Finally, hunger forces me out of bed. I grab my phone from the nightstand and shuffle to the kitchen in my pajamas, squinting against the daylight. The apartment is a mess—takeout containers on the counter, empty wine bottles, tissues scattered everywhere.
I make coffee, the ritual giving my hands something to do. While it brews, I pop a bagel in the toaster and lean against the counter, waiting. My phone is now on the counter, lighting up with notifications. Missed calls. Text messages. Voicemails. I scroll through.
Mom (4 missed calls)
I'm not ready to hear her voice. Not ready for the "I told you so" that's inevitably coming.
Barbara Blackwell (3 text messages)
Miles's mother has been texting me. Sweet, concerned messages asking if I'm okay, if I need anything. I haven't responded. What would I even say?:
Sorry your son humiliated me, but don't worry, I had amazing sex with your other son to cope.
Work emails flood my inbox. I took two weeks off for what was supposed to be a honeymoon. Miles never actually booked anything—said we'd figure it out on a whim, be spontaneous. That should have been the red flag. That should have told me everything I needed to know about his commitment level.
Jane and Sarah have been texting nonstop.
Jane: How are you doing? We're here if you need us.
Sarah: Just checking in. Love you.
Jane: Scarlett, please let us know you're alive.
I've been responding minimally. Short messages. I'm okay. Just need space.
They've given me three days. I appreciate that. But I know they won't stay away much longer.
And then there's Miles: His name appears again and again in my call log.
The first call came yesterday afternoon.
Then more throughout the evening. By this morning, he's left six voicemails and fifteen text messages.
I haven't listened to any of them. Haven't read the texts beyond the preview that pops up on my screen.
Miles: Scarlett please..
Miles: I'm so sorry.
Miles: Can we talk?
The coffee maker beeps. I pour myself a cup and take it black, too tired to bother with cream or sugar. The bagel pops up. I butter it mechanically and take a bite. It tastes like cardboard.
I sink onto the couch with my coffee and stare at my phone. Against my better judgment, I open the voicemail app. One listen. That's all I'll give him. I press play on the most recent message.
His voice fills my living room:
"Scarlett, I'm sorry. I know I can't explain this right now. I just... I panicked. Please call me back. We need to talk."
Panicked? He panicked?!
Three years together. One year engaged. All the planning, all the promises, all the future we were supposed to build—and he panicked.
I delete the voicemail and toss my phone onto the couch cushion beside me. I can't deal with Miles right now. Can't hear his excuses or apologies or whatever the hell he thinks will make this better. Nothing will make this better.
By late morning, I can't stand my own smell anymore. I draw a bath, making the water as hot as I can tolerate, and pour in half a bottle of lavender bath salts.
Steam fills the bathroom as I sink into the water.
My muscles relax. I close my eyes and let the tears come.
They're slow at first. Silent. Then they build into sobs that wrack my entire body.
I cry for the humiliation. For the wedding that never happened.
For the future I thought I was building with Miles.
I cry for the version of myself who believed in him.
How could he do this? How could he let me stand there in front of everyone and just... not show up?
The worst part is that I still love him. Or I think I do. Or maybe I just love the idea of who I thought he was. I'm angry at myself for even feeling this way. For wondering if there's any possible explanation that could make this okay.
There isn't.
And then there's Dax.
I sink lower into the water, letting it cover my shoulders. The memory of that night washes over me—not in fragments this time, but in vivid, complete detail.
The way he looked at me. The way he said my name. The way he made me forget everything except the feeling of his body against mine. He made me feel desired. Powerful. Alive.
Guilt twists in my stomach. I shouldn't have done it. Shouldn't have let grief and alcohol and desperation drive me into his bed.
The shame is overwhelming. What kind of person sleeps with their ex-fiancé's brother hours after being abandoned?
I don't know what I'm feeling. Guilt, yes. Shame, absolutely. But also... something else. Confusion. Because it wasn't just the sex. It was the way he held me afterward. The way he looked at me like I mattered.
I stay in the bath until the water turns cold. Then I stand and turn on the shower, washing my hair and body. When I finally climb out I wrap myself in my bathrobe, which already makes me feel marginally better. Cleaner, at least physically.
I wipe the steam from the mirror and stare at my reflection. I look terrible. Dark circles under my eyes. Skin pale. Hair is a wet mess. I need to pull myself together.
By late afternoon, I'm on the couch in sweatpants and a t-shirt, mindlessly watching whatever Netflix auto-plays. Some rom-com I'm not actually paying attention to.
The doorbell rings. I consider ignoring it. Pretending I'm not home. It rings again. Then again. Then I hear Jane's voice through the door.
"Scarlett, we know you're in there. Open up."
I sigh and drag myself off the couch. When I open the door, Jane and Sarah are standing in the hallway with wine, takeout bags, and a bouquet of flowers.
"Okay," Jane announces, pushing past me into the apartment.
"We gave you three days of mourning and solitude. That's enough. We're intervening."
Sarah follows, setting the takeout on my dining table.
"We're not leaving until you talk to us."
I close the door and lean against it.
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine," Jane says, looking around at my disaster of an apartment.
"But you will be. Eventually."
They make themselves at home, clearing space on the couch, opening the wine, unpacking what smells like Thai food.
"Come sit," Sarah pats the couch cushion beside her.
"Eat. Drink. Talk."
I sit, and Jane hands me a glass of wine. I take a long sip.
"How are you really feeling?" Jane asks gently.
"Numb," I admit. It's the truth. Underneath the guilt and confusion and shame, there's just... nothing.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to feel."
"Angry," Sarah says immediately.
"You should feel furious."
"I am." I take another sip of wine.
"I'm angry. I'm humiliated. I'm... I don't even know."
Jane reaches over and squeezes my hand.
"We're so mad at him, Scarlett. What he did is unforgivable."
"Has he tried to contact you?" Sarah asks, her tone sharp with protective fury.
"Yes. Calls, texts, voicemails. I haven't responded."
"Good," Jane says firmly.
"He doesn't deserve a response. He doesn't deserve anything from you."
"Fuck Miles Blackwell," Sarah declares, raising her wine glass.
"Seriously. Fuck him."
I almost smile. Almost.
We eat in relative silence, the food giving us something to focus on. Pad Thai and spring rolls and some kind of curry that's probably delicious but I can barely taste. After we've eaten, Sarah pulls a folder out of her bag. She's grinning, that mischievous look she gets when she's up to something.
"We have a surprise for you," Jane announces.
I look between them. "What kind of surprise?"
"You need to get out of Chicago for a few days," Jane says.
"Clear your head. Get away from all of this."
Sarah opens the folder and pulls out printouts. Hotel confirmations. Flight details.
"We booked you a trip," Sarah says, sliding the papers across the coffee table.
"Five days in New York City."
I stare at the documents.
"What? You can't—"
"Already done," Jane cuts me off.
"Grand hotel in Manhattan. Everything planned. You need this, Scarlett."
"Sightseeing, shopping, bars, shows," Sarah lists.
"Whatever you want. The city is yours."
I shake my head, overwhelmed.
"I can't afford this right now. I just—"
"It's our gift," Jane interrupts.
"We're not taking no for an answer. You need fun. You need to forget Miles and remember who the hell you are."
Tears prick at my eyes.
"You guys didn't have to do this."
"Yes, we did." Sarah leans over and hugs me.
"You're our best friend. We love you. And we're not letting you sit in this apartment drowning in self-pity for another week."
Jane joins the hug.
"Besides, we're coming with you."
I pull back, surprised.
"You're coming?"
"Of course we're coming," Sarah says.
"Did you think we'd send you to New York alone? We're in this together."
The gratitude is overwhelming. These women. My friends. The people who show up when everything falls apart.
"Okay," I whisper. "Okay, let's go to New York."
Jane grins. "That's our girl."
Later, after we've finished the wine and binged two episodes of some reality show I'll never remember, Jane and Sarah follow me into my bedroom.
"Alright," Sarah says, flinging open my closet.
"Let's pack you properly."
Jane pulls my suitcase out from under the bed.
"We're going out every night. You need sexy dresses and cute shoes."
I watch them rifle through my wardrobe, pulling out options, debating what I should bring.
"This one," Sarah holds up a black dress I wore to a work event last year.
"Definitely this one."
"And these heels," Jane adds a pair of red stilettos I've worn exactly once.
They pack for me like I'm a doll, and I let them. It's easier than making decisions right now.
"We leave tomorrow morning," Jane says, folding a blouse into the suitcase.
"Car picks us up at seven AM."
"So get your head together," Sarah adds, zipping my suitcase closed.
"Because we're getting you out of this apartment and into a city where no one knows what happened."
They finish packing, making me promise I'll be ready when the car arrives.
Then they hug me goodbye and head back to their own apartments.
I'm alone again in the quiet. I look at the packed suitcase sitting by my bedroom door.
New York City. Five days away from Chicago, away from the memories, away from Miles.
Away from the ghost of Dax that still haunts every corner of my thoughts.
I climb into bed early, pulling the covers up to my chin. For the first time in three days, I feel something other than numbness. Hope, maybe. Or at least the possibility of it.
I close my eyes and let myself imagine a version of the future where I'm okay again. It feels impossibly far away. But maybe New York will help me find my way there.