Chapter 8
NOAH
The Maple Bean still smells the same as it did when I was eighteen. Like butter surrendering on a hot skillet, dark-roast coffee sharp in the air, and the faint sugar-dust of Claudia’s famous cinnamon rolls drifting from the pastry case.
For a second, if I close my eyes, I could almost trick myself into believing I’ve stepped back in time, before everything cracked in two. Back when Sunday mornings meant greasy plates, Rhett’s thigh brushing mine beneath this very table, and the world still felt wide open.
But then the memory shifts, and I hear him in my subconscious. Low. Rough. Frayed by bourbon and something darker. You miss us, Noah. You miss me.
I stab at my waffle, cutting it into neat squares that I have no intention of eating, then drag a soggy piece through syrup just to keep my hands busy.
My smile stays glued in place—the one I perfected on tour, the one that convinces strangers and cameras and even my own mama that I’m fine.
Just enough teeth. Just enough shine. Never enough truth.
Next to me, Sage is radiant in a butter-yellow sundress, in full storyteller mode, waving her fork like a conductor’s baton. “And then Cole swears the goat winked at him. He squealed like a pig and nearly dropped the whole bucket of feed. I thought I was gonna choke from laughing.”
Grandma Jo cackles so hard her mimosa sloshes onto the table, the bubbles fizzing against her hand. “That boy’s got the swagger of a ranch hand but the nerves of a Sunday school girl.”
Mom shakes her head, trying to smother a grin behind her napkin, but her eyes give her away—bright, delighted, soft in a way that makes my chest ache. They’re happy. They’re whole. And I’m sitting here pretending I’m not splintering apart one smile at a time.
Because inside, I’m not in this booth at all. I’m still outside Boozin’ Boots, the truck door digging into my spine as Rhett cages me in with his body, his mouth crushing against my lips like he had something to prove.
My chest is still split wide from it, ribs creaking like they’re trying to hold in a storm that refuses to stay put.
The diamond on my left hand catches the sun, flashing in my eyes like a spotlight. I tilt my hand into shadow, but the reminder lingers, bright and cutting. A promise I’m supposed to be grateful for. So why does it feel more like a chain disguised as a gift?
Sage leans in, her shoulder brushing mine.
Thankfully, she hasn’t pushed too much on the subject of Rhett, but deep down I know she feels caught in the middle.
The two of them have gotten closer in the years I’ve been away.
He treats her like his ornery little sister, and she leans on him like she once did Jonah.
I’m glad she had him to help her through, but a part of me feels bad it wasn’t me.
I should have been here for her. I wasn’t.
And now that Sage is dating Kade, they’re basically family.
I never want her to feel like she has to pick sides between us.
Sage glances down at her phone screen. “Oh, shit. Is that the time?” Her grin widens, mischief lighting her eyes. She practically bounces on her chair. “It’s almost eleven. We’d better get a move on if we want to make our appointment at BeDazzled.”
My stomach knots tighter, twisting in protest. I press the rim of my flute to my lips, let the bubbles fizz and burn, and swallow hard enough to keep the lump in my throat from spilling out as tears.
“Right.” I force my stage smile back into place, the one that hides everything I can’t say. “Let’s do this.”
We emerge from the cafe into late-morning sunshine, the kind that warms my shoulders and makes the air smell like cut grass and diesel from the trucks lined up on Main Street. Sage loops her arm through mine, tugging me along the sidewalk with a skip in her step like we’re headed somewhere magical.
BeDazzled sits only a few doors down, wedged between a boutique selling wind chimes and a florist. The bridal shop’s windows glitter with crystal-beaded gowns posed on faceless mannequins. They gleam in the sun like they’ve been waiting just for me, and my stomach clenches so hard I almost trip.
The bell above the door tinkles as Sage pushes it open, ushering us inside.
Cool air greets me, perfumed with fabric starch, roses, and the faint chemical tang of hair spray.
Everything is white. White walls, white carpet, white orchids in tall glass vases.
Even the light feels scrubbed clean, refracting through the chandeliers.
A woman sweeps toward us in a swish of silk trousers, her smile polished to perfection.
She looks about forty, with a sleek bob, pearl earrings, and a clipboard tucked under one arm.
“Welcome to BeDazzled! You must be the bride-to-be.” She holds her hand out for me to shake.
“I’m Elena, and I’ll be taking care of you today. ”
Before I can so much as open my mouth, she’s popping the cork on a chilled bottle of champagne and filling flutes with practiced precision. “Every bride deserves a little sparkle.” She presses a glass into my hand as if it’s supposed to steady me.
“Follow me, ladies,” Elena continues, heels clicking against the marble tile.
She leads us down a short hallway into a private fitting suite.
Mirrors line one wall, floor to ceiling, angled so there’s no place to hide.
A pedestal sits in the center like a stage, waiting for me to climb up and perform.
Too bad I’m not in the mood. A couple velvet couches face it, already scattered with tissue boxes, as if they’re prepared for tears.
I take one cautious step inside, the champagne flute trembling in my hand. My reflection catches in the mirrors, and I swallow the lump forming in my throat.
Elena gestures grandly to me and my entourage. “Why don’t you all get comfortable? Noah, darling, we’ll chat before we dive into the gowns.”
I perch on the edge of the couch beside Sage, the champagne glass still balanced between my palms like a prop.
Elena settles opposite, crossing one elegant ankle over the other.
“Now, normally, I’d ask about your wedding.
The aesthetic, the venue, the vibe you’re going for.
Then we’d talk silhouettes, necklines, and of course”—her smile widens—“budget. But your fiancé and wedding planner have already spoken with me.”
The word fiancé scrapes across my skin like sandpaper. And wedding planner? Does she mean Bradley’s assistant, Annabel?
Elena beams, oblivious. “They wanted to surprise you. So your planner curated ten gowns, specially chosen to reflect the vision you’ve mapped out for your big day.”
Sage clasps her hands together like it’s the sweetest thing she’s ever heard. Mom lets out a soft, misty sigh. Even Grandma Jo gives a slow nod, lips twitching with approval. Little do they know, Bradley’s organized everything, and I’ve had no say in any of it.
My smile stays fixed, unyielding, though inside it feels like the walls are pressing in. Of course Bradley has already chosen. Of course he’d turned even this into another decision I don’t get to make.
Elena rises gracefully. “Let me just bring them in.”
The rack appears with a faint squeak of wheels, ten immaculate gowns swaying like ghosts on their hangers.
Satin gleams beneath the lights, lace spills over delicate tulle, and beads scatter pinpricks of color like shattered glass.
Each dress is more expensive than the last. Flawless, and everything I am not.
Sage lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Bradley pulled out the stops. These are gorgeous. Very VIP.” She rises, brushing her fingers over the nearest gown like it’s spun from clouds.
Mom’s hand flies to her chest, her eyes glassy already. “Oh, sweetheart, they’re beautiful.” She squeezes my arm, the kind of touch that confirms this is really happening. Her voice trembles with awe. “I can just picture you walking down the aisle.”
Grandma Jo squints at the lineup, tilting her head. “Pretty’s one thing. Wearable is another. Some of these look like you’d need a crowbar to sit down.”
Their laughter is lighthearted, joy filling the space like music.
And me? I keep my champagne glass poised at my lips, hiding behind the fizz, pretending the knot in my throat is nothing but bubbles. My chest is too tight, my ribs straining against the weight of dresses I didn’t choose and all the decisions I didn’t make for myself.
Elena gestures toward the fitting room. “Shall we begin?”
The air thickens as she guides me down the hall, the others settling back on the couches like an eager audience.
Once I’m inside the fitting room, Elena fusses with zippers and hangers, laying the first gown across her arms with practiced reverence. “This one’s a classic ball gown. Timeless elegance. Perfect for a grand entrance.”
I step out of my clothes, skin prickling under the fluorescent light, and let her fasten me into someone else’s idea of a dream dress.
The fabric is heavy, stiff against my ribs.
When she turns me toward the mirror, a stranger stares back, cinched waist, flared skirt, sparkling bodice. Perfect. Dazzling. Hollow.
Elena beams. “Exquisite. Should we showcase?”
My throat closes, but I nod anyway.
Within a few seconds, I’m back in the suite.
I climb onto the pedestal, the hem of the gown whispering across the carpet.
Sage claps, Mom gasps, Grandma Jo says something about needing a forklift to get me into a truck in that getup.
Laughter ripples around me, warm and real, and for a moment, I want so badly to feel it too.
But the weight of satin presses down like a prison sentence.
One dress down. Nine to go.
Elena slips me back into the dressing room, her hands brisk and efficient as she peels away the ball gown.