Chapter 8 #2
The second dress clings to me like shrink-wrap—sleek silk, mermaid cut, a slit up the thigh daring enough to make even me blush. But, once again, I’m forced to … showcase.
I step onto the pedestal, heat crawling up my neck. Mom fans herself with a tissue. Sage grins, wolf-whistling under her breath. Grandma Jo squints over her champagne and mutters, “While it’s fabulous, it’s more suitable for a Vegas lounge singer than a bride.”
I laugh on cue, but it catches in my chest. The straps dig into my shoulders like they’re trying to hold me down.
By the eighth dress, I’m numb. Slim silk, plunging neckline, illusion mesh crawling up my chest like ivy. The others smile their approval, but all I see is Bradley’s shadow, all I hear is his voice in my ear. Smile, sweetheart. Look the part.
I fold my hands in front of me, diamond flashing. I wonder if the mirror can see through skin to the screaming underneath. My throat is raw from holding everything in, chest aching with the effort of standing tall.
Sage tilts her head, her smile faltering. “Noah, you okay?”
“Of course.” I force the words through lips that won’t stop trembling. “Just a little overwhelmed.”
Mom dabs at the corner of her eye, mistaking my strain for sentiment. “It’s okay to be emotional, baby. Weddings always are.”
Grandma Jo narrows her gaze, and I know she’s not fooled for a second by the false facade I’m presenting. I’m seconds away from snapping, and I’m surprised she’s the only one who sees it.
I swallow against the lump in my throat. “I’m fine.” But when Elena guides me back into the dressing room, the mirage evaporates into thin air. “Can I have a minute?”
“Of course. I’ll be back in five.” The curtain swishes shut.
I sink onto the little velvet bench, my head falling into my hands.
The mesh at my neckline scratches my skin, the boning digs into my ribs, and still I can’t catch a full breath.
My chest heaves, ragged. My reflection in the mirror blurs as tears gather, hot and heavy.
“What am I doing?” I whisper to the empty room, to my own reflection that doesn’t look like me anymore.
The first sob breaks loose before I can swallow it down. It scrapes out of me, ugly and sharp, and then another follows, ripping through the dam I’ve been holding back since the second I stepped foot in this store.
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, willing myself to stop, to pull it together, to paste the smile back on before anyone notices. But the harder I try, the harder the tears fall, hot tracks streaking down my cheeks.
The curtain rustles. A hand slips through the gap, gnarled but steady, holding a dress draped over one arm.
Grandma Jo’s voice comes low, the humor stripped back to something softer. “None of those uppity gowns out there are you, Noah Lane. Try this one.”
I blink up at her, startled, tears still clinging thick to my lashes. She pushes the fabric toward me, and I take it in trembling hands.
The dress is nothing like the others. No stiff satin.
No suffocating beads. It’s light, creamy lace with flower embroidery stitched along the hem, soft tulle layers that would float when I walk, not weigh me down.
A deep V-neck, delicate but free, a ribbon tie at the waist. Country boho that’s effortless and alive. Me, before all of this.
My chest caves in. The tears I’d been trying to hide spill harder, slipping silently down my face as I trace the fabric with shaking fingers.
Grandma Jo steps in fully, closing the curtain behind her, and eases down onto the little bench beside me.
Her sharp eyes cut straight through the mess of my soul.
She pulls me into her arms, her perfume warm and familiar, cedar and powder and years of Sunday dinners.
She strokes a hand over my hair and sighs. “This isn’t about the dresses, is it?”
I choke out a broken laugh that catches on another sob. My shoulders shake against her chest.
Her voice steadies, fierce and sure. “I was married to the love of my life for thirty-five years, Noah. And never once—never once—was that man the reason for a tear on my cheek. So tell me, showgirl, do you love this man you’re marrying more than you loved my grandbaby?”
Her question carves me open, straight down to the marrow. The air disappears. My throat works, but no sound comes out because the answer—the real one—is buried under three years of silence and bad choices.
And just like that, I’m gone.
The mirror, the lace, the smell of champagne—they vanish, and I’m standing in the old farmhouse kitchen again.
February. Snow piled high outside the window. The air thick with woodsmoke and grief.
Pap’s chair sits empty at the head of the table, his old Stetson still hanging by the door, like he might walk in any second and bark at his grandsons to finish their chores.
But he won’t. He’s gone. A heart attack took him quick, left the family gutted, and the weight of Black River Ranch on Rhett’s broad shoulders.
Seventeen-year-old Kade leans against the counter, hollow-eyed, pretending he’s strong enough to carry half the load. They all try to be strong enough, they really do, but it’s the eldest who everyone looks to. Rhett, who everyone expects to fix what’s broken.
And then there’s me—standing there with one suitcase half-packed upstairs, a one-way ticket to LA burning a hole in my back pocket, and a heart splitting in two.
When we’re finally alone in the safety of his room, Rhett looks at me like I’m the only thing keeping him from drowning. His hands are raw from work, dirt still under his nails, grief carved deep into his face. “Noah,” he whispers, voice ragged. “I’m coming with you. We’ll figure it out.”
I want to believe him. God, I want to. But I can see the truth plain as day. The ranch needs him. Kade needs him. His grandma needs him. His younger twin brothers need him. He’s already torn in half, and if I drag him to LA, I’ll be the one who breaks him for good.
I tell myself I’m protecting him, that leaving alone is the only way to save Rhett from having to choose between me and everything he’s ever known.
But when I look into his chocolate eyes, at the man I love more than my own breath, I know I’m lying. Protecting Rhett shouldn’t feel like tearing out my own rib cage.
He cups my face, thumb brushing tears I swore he’d never see. “I’m still coming with you, darlin’. I’m not lettin’ go. I can be home for the busy months and drive back and forth whenever I can. It’s only fifteen hours each way. We’ll make it work.”
Smiling, I promise him everything’s fine. Once he’s asleep, his arm heavy across my waist, his chest rising and falling steadily against my back. I slip out of bed, press my lips to his temple, take off his mother’s ring, and leave it on the dresser. Then, I walk away before I can change my mind.
My boots crunch over snow as I load my suitcase into the cab.
I don’t look back at the window. I can’t.
Because if I see him standing there, if I see those brown eyes begging me to stay, I’ll fold.
And I can’t fold. Not when I believe with everything in me that staying will kill him slower than leaving ever could.
I tell myself he’ll understand one day—that he’ll thank me.
But as the headlights slice through the night and the road carries me farther from Black River, one truth drowns out every lie I’ve ever tried to believe.
He’ll never forgive me.
And I’ll never forgive myself.
Just like that, the memory spits me back out.
I gasp, chest heaving as though I’ve run miles.
The mesh still scratches at my skin, but it’s nothing compared to the raw burn behind my ribs.
Tears slide hot and heavy down my cheeks; there’s no hiding them now.
They drip onto the soft fabric in my lap, wetting the boho dress I haven’t even tried on yet.
Grandma Jo’s arms tighten around me, her chin resting on the crown of my head. “He’s not Rhett,” she murmurs, not unkind, but with the sort of brutal honesty only she can wield.
I shake my head because the words won’t come. My throat is raw, my chest a hollow ache.
She pulls back just enough to tip my chin up, her sharp eyes wet but steady. “You don’t cry like that for a man you’re about to marry. You cry like that for a man you already lost.”
The words hit harder than any song lyric I’ve ever written, louder than any crowd’s roar I’ve stood in front of. They undo me completely. I crumble, leaning into her, sobs tearing loose against her shoulder.
I whisper it, a confession I’ve never dared to voice out loud. “I thought I was freeing him.” My voice cracks, splintering. “But I ruined everything.”
Grandma Jo hushes me, her hand rubbing circles on my back, grounding me through the quake. “No, darlin’. You loved him. And maybe you made the wrong call, maybe you didn’t.”
The words cut into me, sharp as barbed wire.
For a heartbeat, I want to tell her everything—that she’s right, that I’m still bleeding from the choice I made on that frozen night, that I’m standing here in silk that feels like a costume because the only man I ever pictured waiting at the end of an aisle is the one I left behind.
Instead, I swallow hard, force my throat to work, and let out a breathy laugh. “I’m fine. Really. I chose Bradley. I choose Bradley. That’s the end of it.”
The words don’t sound like mine. They feel like someone else’s script I’ve picked up and read too quickly, hoping no one notices how shaky my hands are as I clutch the dress she’s pressed into them.
“Mm.” Her gaze lingers on me, too sharp for comfort, but she doesn’t push. She just gives my knee a squeeze before sweeping back out of the booth with her mimosa, leaving the faintest trace of perfume behind.
I sit there a moment longer, staring down at the dress draped across my lap. Soft lace, wildflowers tumbling like a meadow at dawn. It’s so heartbreakingly me that it makes the tears threaten all over again.
Sage calls through the curtain, her voice bright and insistent: “Come on, superstar, let’s see it already!”
I pull the silk dress over my head, replacing it with the soft lace one Josie picked for me.
The tulle pools around me like a secret, whisper-light, nothing like the gowns out there with their stiff boning and rhinestones that scrape my skin raw.
This one floats, brushing my calves, cinching at the waist with two thin fabric strips.
For a fleeting second, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and finally recognize the girl staring back—free, soft, unchained.
Only I’m not that version of me anymore. The flash of the ring again, glinting on my finger, stark against the lace reminds me of my reality. I press my palms to the skirt to stop their shaking and try to convince the girl in the mirror she’s making the right choice. “You choose Bradley.”
Maybe it’s time I finally lay the past to rest and stop circling what could have been. There is no more Rhett Rivers and Noah Lane. We’re nothing more than a song stuck on repeat.
This dress belongs to them.
Closure. Maybe that’s all we need.