2. Caroline #2
The words hit like a physical blow. I open my mouth to respond - to defend, to deflect, to do what I always do - but one of the bridesmaids chooses that moment to appear in the doorway.
“Caroline! The photographer wants group shots before the processional. Like, right now. Mrs. Hawke is getting impatient.”
Of course she is.
Marie squeezes my hand once more before the chaos swallows us. “Remember what I said. Any time. I mean it.”
It lands like love now. Later, I’ll understand it was a lifeline.
***
I escape the photographer after twenty minutes of forced smiles and artificial poses, slipping away while the bridesmaids argue about lighting and angles.
The cathedral is enormous, all vaulted ceilings and stained glass, and I find a quiet alcove off the main corridor where I can breathe without being watched.
I’m not alone.
Sean is leaning against the stone wall, his hands shoved in his pockets, looking every bit as uncomfortable as I feel.
He’s in his tuxedo now, dark fabric stretched across broad shoulders, his hair actually tamed for once.
He looks devastating - there’s no other word for it - and I hate myself a little for noticing.
He looks up when I approach, and something shifts in his expression - surprise, then concern, then that careful neutrality he wears like armor.
“Shouldn’t you be somewhere?” I ask, stepping into the alcove’s shadows.
“Probably.” He doesn’t move. “Shouldn’t you?”
“Definitely.”
We stand there in silence for a moment, the distant sounds of the wedding preparations muffled by the thick stone walls.
There’s something almost forbidden about this - the bride and the best man, alone together, hiding from the event that’s supposed to define my life.
The light through the stained glass windows paints patterns on the floor between us, colors shifting as clouds move across the sun outside.
“Nervous?” Sean asks.
“Should I be?”
“Most brides are.”
“I’m not most brides.” I don’t know why I say it. Don’t know why I feel the need to differentiate myself, to prove that I’m something more than the role I’m about to assume.
“No,” he agrees quietly. “You’re not.”
The sincerity in his voice makes my chest tighten. He’s looking at me the way no one else does - like he’s seeing past the dress and the veil and the carefully applied makeup to the person underneath. The person I’m afraid I’m losing.
“Can I ask you something?” I hear myself say.
“Anything.”
“Do you think I’m making a mistake?”
The question hangs between us, heavier than I intended. Sean’s expression shifts - surprise, then something careful and guarded. He takes a long moment before answering, and when he does, his voice is measured.
“I think you’re the only person who can answer that.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No, it isn’t.” He meets my eyes, and there’s something raw in his gaze, something he’s usually better at hiding. “What I think doesn’t matter. What matters is what you think. What you want.”
“What if I don’t know what I want anymore?”
“Then maybe that’s your answer.”
The words land like stones in still water, sending ripples through everything I thought I knew. Before I can respond, he speaks again.
“You look beautiful.”
The words come out rough, scraped from somewhere deep inside him. He’s not looking at my dress or my carefully styled hair. He’s looking at me, at my face, at something beneath the surface that I didn’t know was visible.
“Sean-”
“I know.” He cuts me off before I can say whatever I was going to say, his voice strained. “I know. I just... needed to say it. Once. Before...”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
Before you belong to someone else. Before this moment becomes impossible. Before we have to pretend this never happened.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He nods, a single sharp movement, and for a moment neither of us speaks.
The air between us feels charged, electric, heavy with things that can’t be said.
I’m aware of how close he’s standing, close enough that I could reach out and touch him.
Close enough that I can smell his cologne - something woodsy and warm that makes me think of fireplaces and whiskey and long conversations in quiet rooms.
A passing guest - one of Graham’s elderly aunts in a hat the size of a small aircraft - appears at the end of the corridor, and we step apart too fast, too obviously.
The aunt’s eyes narrow for a moment, her gaze flickering between us with the sharpness of a lifelong gossip cataloging material, before she continues on her way.
We’re left standing in the wreckage of a moment that shouldn’t have happened.
“I should go,” I manage.
“Yeah.” He’s still looking at me with that intensity, that focus that makes me feel seen in a way Graham hasn’t managed in months. Maybe years. “You should.”
I leave him there in the shadows and walk toward my wedding on legs that don’t feel entirely stable.
Graham has never looked at me like that.
The thought arrives unbidden, unwanted, and I shove it down as deep as it will go.
***
Hundreds of guests. A string quartet playing Pachelbel. Ten thousand white roses because Kristi decided ranunculus was actually too trendy after all, and the Hawkes don’t do trendy, they do timeless.
The cathedral is beautiful and suffocating, all vaulted ceilings and stained glass and the weight of generations of Hawke family weddings pressing down on my shoulders.
The pews are filled with faces I don’t recognize - business associates and society connections and distant relatives who probably couldn’t pick me out of a lineup.
Somewhere in the back, my parents sit stiffly in their best clothes, looking uncomfortable and underdressed.
Marie is with them, her eyes finding mine as I approach the altar, her expression asking a question I can’t answer.
When I reach the altar and Graham takes my hands, I feel less like a bride and more like a sacrifice being prepared.
He’s smiling at me, that perfect practiced smile that photographs so well, and I search his face for the man I fell in love with - the charming stranger who pursued me relentlessly at the diner, who made me feel like I was worth pursuing - but I can’t find him beneath the performance.
The officiant begins speaking, and the words wash over me like water. Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today... I’ve heard these words a hundred times in movies and TV shows, but hearing them now, directed at me, feels surreal. Like I’m watching this happen to someone else.
Graham’s vows are eloquent and slightly generic, the kind of polished words that could apply to any bride, any wedding, any love story that looks good on paper.
“Caroline, from the moment I met you, I knew you were special,” he says, his voice carrying perfectly through the cathedral’s acoustics. “You’ve brought so much to my life, and I promise to cherish you always.”
The words are pretty. They’re also completely impersonal. He could be talking about anyone. He could be reading from a template.
My vows are different. Personal. Too personal, maybe. I wrote them myself, late at night when I couldn’t sleep, trying to capture what we were before we became this.
“Graham, you saw me when I felt invisible. You walked into my life when I was working double shifts and dreaming of a future I wasn’t sure I’d ever reach, and you made me believe I was worth pursuing, worth fighting for.
I promise to be your partner in all things - to see you, really see you, even when the world is looking.
To choose you, every day, not because it’s easy but because you’re worth it. ”
When I finish, I see something flicker across his face - surprise, maybe, or discomfort. Like he wasn’t expecting something so raw. So real. He squeezes my hands, but his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.