13. Hallie
HALLIE
The dress fits perfectly. Of course it does. My sister made sure every single detail of this wedding would be Instagram-worthy, hashtag blessed, a curated collection of moments designed to make everyone who wasn't invited feel like they were missing out on the event of the decade.
The pale pink silk clings to my curves in ways that should make me feel confident, but instead I just feel exposed. Like everyone can see through the fabric to the girl underneath who's pretending her heart isn't actively bleeding out in her chest cavity.
"You look gorgeous." My sister appears behind me, a vision in white lace and tulle.
She's glowing the way brides are supposed to glow, all happiness and anticipation and zero awareness that her Maid of Honor is currently having an internal meltdown.
"Though you might want to fix your face. You look like someone died."
"Just practicing my serious expression for the photos." The lie slides out smooth as glass, well-worn from years of being the reliable one, the one who doesn't make waves. "You know me. Resting funeral face."
She laughs and adjusts her veil, already moving on to the next item on her mental checklist. "Well, snap out of it before we start.
I need you smiling in those processional shots.
And try not to trip when you walk with Kyle.
I know things are awkward, but just... fake it for a few hours, okay? For me?"
Fake it. Right. Because I'm so good at that.
I've been faking it my whole life. Faking confidence when Kyle introduced me to his colleagues as "the librarian," like it was something quaint and vaguely embarrassing.
Faking indifference when he broke up with me over FaceTime because he'd "found himself" in Rome and apparently himself didn't include me.
Faking friendship with Caius for years while secretly writing scenarios in my head that would make my book club clutch their pearls and demand I share the AO3 link.
And then, for one brief, shining moment, I stopped faking. I let myself want something. Want him. Let myself believe that maybe I could be the main character in my own story instead of everyone's favorite supporting cast member.
Look how well that turned out.
"Hallie?" My sister's voice cuts through the spiral. "You're doing the thing where you mentally write yourself into a corner and panic. Stop it. Deep breaths. You've got this."
I force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace and nod. She's not wrong. I do mentally write myself into corners. Occupational hazard of being both a librarian and a secret fanfiction author with abandonment issues and a tendency to overthink literally everything.
The wedding coordinator pokes her head in, clipboard in hand, expression all business. "Five minutes, ladies. Bridal party needs to line up."
My sister squeezes my hand once before gliding out, leaving me alone with my reflection and the growing certainty that I'm about to walk down an aisle next to my ex-boyfriend while my actual heart is currently packing a duffel bag and fleeing the state.
I wonder if Caius is already gone. If he threw some clothes in that battered backpack he keeps in his truck and just drove until the town was a speck in his rearview mirror. Part of me hopes he did. At least one of us should get to escape.
The other part, the part that's apparently a glutton for punishment, keeps replaying the way he looked at me in the library. The way he said my name like it meant something. The way he touched me like I was precious, like I was worth the risk.
And then threw it all away the second things got complicated.
"Get it together, Miller," I mutter to my reflection. "You've survived worse. You can survive four hours of smiling for photos and pretending your heart isn't actively disintegrating."
My reflection doesn't look convinced, but she straightens her shoulders and heads for the door anyway.
The church is packed. Every pew filled with familiar faces, people I've known my whole life, all dressed in their Sunday best and clutching programs printed on cardstock that probably cost more than my monthly car insurance payment.
The groomsmen are already lined up at the altar.
Ryan stands next to the groom, looking handsome and serious in his tux.
His jaw is tight, shoulders rigid. I can see the bruised knuckles from here, the evidence of what he did to his best friend last night.
The guilt ripples through me fresh and sharp.
This is my fault. All of it.
And then there's Kyle, standing at the end of the line with that self-satisfied smirk he probably practices in the mirror. He looks good and he knows it. The kind of good that comes from expensive haircuts and a gym membership and absolutely zero consideration for other people's feelings.
The wedding coordinator appears at my elbow like a well-dressed specter. "You're up, Hallie. Remember, slow and steady. Count to three between each step. Smile. And whatever you do, don't lock your knees or you'll pass out."
Kyle offers his arm, all charm and teeth. Up close, I can smell his cologne, the same designer brand he wore when we were together. It used to make my stomach flip. Now it just makes me nauseous.
"Ready to play pretend?" His voice is low enough that only I can hear, pitched to sound casual. Friendly, even. But there's an edge underneath, sharp enough to draw blood. "Try not to look so miserable. People are watching."
The organ starts. That traditional wedding march that's supposed to sound romantic but really just sounds ominous, like a death knell for bad decisions and questionable life choices.
We start moving forward, my hand resting lightly on Kyle's arm because that's what the wedding coordinator told me to do, what the photographs will require, what this whole elaborate performance demands.
One step. The organ swells, filling the church with sound.
Two. My heels sink slightly into the white runner they've laid down the aisle.
Three. I count silently, mechanically, the way I was instructed, trying to focus on the rhythm.
The aisle stretches out in front of us like a runway, lined with flowers and candles and the expectant faces of everyone I've ever known. They're all watching, all waiting for the picture-perfect moment they can later post about on social media with captions about true love and happily ever afters.
Nobody's looking at me like I'm the main character. I'm just the accessory, the narrative device designed to make the bride look good by comparison.
"You know," Kyle says conversationally, keeping his voice pitched low and his smile firmly in place, "I actually did you a favor last night. Exposing the whole fake dating thing. Saved you from an even bigger embarrassment down the line."
My fingers tighten on his arm. Keep walking. Keep smiling. Don't make a scene.
"I mean, did you really think someone like Caius O'Connor was going to stick around?
" He's warming to his theme now, enjoying himself.
"Come on, Hallie. Be realistic. You're a nice girl.
Sweet. Reliable. But you're not exactly the type guys lose their minds over.
You're the type they settle for when they're ready to stop having fun. "
"And Caius?" Kyle continues, oblivious to the way my breathing has gone shallow, the way my vision is starting to tunnel.
"He's always going to be a mechanic with grease under his nails.
You think he's got a future? He's exactly where he was ten years ago, and that's exactly where he'll be ten years from now.
You were smart to keep it fake. At least you didn't actually waste time on him. "
We're halfway down the aisle now, our footsteps falling in rhythm against the rose-petal-strewn runner.
Everyone's still watching from their white-ribboned chairs, faces turned toward us with benign interest. Still smiling those soft, indulgent wedding smiles reserved for happy couples and romantic moments.
Still waiting, I realize with sudden clarity, for me to play my part. To be sweet, reliable Hallie who never makes waves, who swallows her hurt and keeps walking with a smile painted on her face like good girls are supposed to do.
"Told you he wouldn't stick around," Kyle says, and there's genuine satisfaction in his voice now. "Guys like that don't change. They don't suddenly become relationship material just because some librarian decides to slum it for a while."
Because Kyle isn't just wrong. He's fundamentally, devastatingly, cosmically wrong about everything that actually matters. About Caius. About worth. About what makes a person good enough, valuable enough, deserving enough of love.
And suddenly, like a camera lens snapping into focus after years of deliberate blur, like the moment in a story when the protagonist finally understands what the whole damn book has been trying to tell them—I realize something with perfect, crystalline clarity.
I'm done.
Done with this. Done with Kyle's poisonous assessment of everyone around him disguised as helpful advice. Done being the reliable one who nods and smiles and accepts whatever scraps of affection people decide to toss her way.
Done being the reliable one. Done playing supporting character in everyone else's story. Done letting people like Kyle define what I deserve and who I'm allowed to love.
Done faking it. Done pretending I'm fine with less than I deserve. Done nodding along while people who don't know what the hell they're talking about tear down someone I love. Done walking away from the only thing that's ever felt real in my carefully constructed, meticulously pleasant life.
My feet stop moving.
Just stop. Right there in the middle of the aisle, halfway to the exit, with Kyle still rambling beside me about Caius's inevitable failures and my supposed narrow escape.
Kyle takes another step before he realizes I'm not with him, then turns back with confusion flickering across his face. "What are you?—"