Third Row, Center
From It's Always Been You
Third Row, Center
Knox
Ishouldn’t be here.
That’s the only thought looping in my head as the music swells and the entire room stands. I’m stuck in the third row. Close enough to see the way the light catches the lace on her back, but far enough that I’m just another face in the crowd. A ‘supportive friend.’ A ‘reliable guy.’
Sierra doesn't look at me as she starts down the aisle. She can’t. If her eyes meet mine, this whole polished charade cracks wide open.
She’s in white. She looks exactly like she’s supposed to—untouchable, certain, perfect.
It’s a lie. I know the girl who fell apart in my arms a few months ago.
I know the way she whispers my name when she thinks the world isn't listening. I’ve spent years memorizing that sound, and now I have to sit here and watch her give it to someone else.
I keep my hands locked in my lap. If I let go, they’ll start shaking, and someone might actually notice I’m drowning in a room full of expensive champagne and forced smiles.
Everyone thinks I’m here because I’m the ‘good guy.’ Her brother’s best friend. The steady one. They don’t know I loved her first. They sure as hell don’t know I’ve loved her better than he ever will.
The groom is grinning like he just won a trophy. Maybe he did. Maybe my biggest mistake was staying quiet, thinking that ‘steady’ was what she needed.
The officiant starts in on the usual ‘forever’ speech. Promises. Choosing each other every day. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from reacting. She already chose. She just didn't choose me.
Then come the vows. Her voice wavers—just once. It’s so subtle the rest of the room misses it, but I catch it. I catch everything. I see her fingers twisting into the silk of her skirt. I see the way she inhales, bracing herself, right before she says "I do."
For one reckless second, I want to stand up. I want to be the guy in the movies who ruins everything. Say it, I think. Tell him you can't.
She doesn't.
The room erupts in applause. I stand. I clap. I swallow the bitter taste of my own pride.
The reception is a blur of toasts and bad lighting. I’m nursing a drink I don't want when I see the server approach her with a tray of champagne.
Sierra hesitates. It’s a split second, almost invisible. Then she offers a polite smile and swaps the flute for a glass of water.
I try to tell myself it’s nothing. Maybe she has a headache. But then it happens again. And again. Every toast, she keeps that clear glass in her hand. Then, her palm drifts down, resting light and protective over her stomach. She doesn't even seem to realize she's doing it.
My pulse turns into a hammer against my ribs.
I know her. I know how she counts the days on her fingers when she’s stressed. I know exactly when that night was. I do the math in my head before I can stop myself, and the numbers line up like a firing squad.
The groom wraps an arm around her waist, his hand settling low and possessive. My jaw goes tight. She doesn't lean into him. She just stands there, her own hand still curled over her belly.
Then, she looks at me.
It’s not an accident this time. Her eyes lock onto mine and stay there half a second too long. There’s no regret in them. It’s fear.
She knows I’ve figured it out. She’s waiting for me to blow her life apart.
I remember the leather-bound journal she used to keep—the one she thought I never looked at, where she’d scribble her ‘maybes’ and ‘what-ifs.’ I wonder if she’s written about this yet. Or if she’s realized that the ‘what-if’ is currently growing inside her.
I don't move. I stay steady. I stay silent.
Because this is what loving her has always looked like—choosing what she needs, even when it’s not me.
But here’s the thing: I’m not done. I never was. And if there’s even the smallest crack in this life she’s trying to build... if she realizes she made the wrong choice...
I won’t hesitate.
It’s always been her. And if I’m right about what she’s hiding?
It’s always been us.