2. Caroline #3
Behind him, I catch Sean’s gaze. He’s standing at the front of the wedding party, his expression carefully neutral, but something in his eyes makes my breath catch. He looks away quickly, but not before I see it - pain, maybe, or longing, or something else I can’t name.
When the officiant asks for the rings, I turn to hand my bouquet to Amelia.
And she drops it.
White roses scatter across the altar like snow, petals crushed beneath scrambling feet as Amelia falls to her knees trying to gather them. Her hands are shaking - visibly shaking - and when she looks up at me her face is chalk-white, her eyes wild with something that looks almost like terror.
“Oh my God,” she gasps. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened, my hands just-”
“It’s fine.” I crouch to help her, gathering roses with hands that have gone numb. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay, it’s your wedding, I ruined everything, I can’t believe I-”
“Amelia.” I grab her wrist to stop her spiraling. Her pulse is racing under my fingers, fast as a hummingbird. Her skin is clammy, her breathing shallow, and up close I can see that she’s trembling all over. “It’s fine. It’s just flowers.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and there’s something in her voice that makes me pause. Something that sounds like an apology for more than dropped flowers. “I’m so sorry, Caroline.”
But then the officiant makes a joke about jitters and the moment passes, swallowed by the nervous laughter of hundreds of guests eager to move on from the awkward interruption.
The ceremony continues. The rings are exchanged. Graham kisses me with appropriate enthusiasm while hundreds of people applaud.
When we walk back down the aisle as husband and wife, I feel less like a woman beginning a new chapter and more like a door closing behind me with a final, permanent click.
***
The reception passes in a blur of champagne toasts and first dances and endless congratulations from people whose names I’ll never remember.
Graham’s college friends tell embarrassing stories that make everyone laugh - stories I’ve heard a dozen times, polished to perfection through years of retelling.
Kristi gives a speech about the Hawke family legacy that mentions me exactly twice - once to note that I’m “a lovely addition to the family” and once to express hope that I’ll “grow into the role.” The implication is clear: I’m not quite there yet. I might never be.
My parents sit at their table looking uncomfortable and underdressed, making no effort to mingle with the society crowd.
My father has his phone out, checking sports scores.
My mother keeps glancing at Amelia with a worried expression, as if my sister is the one having a crisis instead of the one who caused one.
Amelia gives a maid of honor speech that manages to be both tearful and self-centered, somehow making my wedding day about her own hopes for true love.
“I always dreamed of finding what Caroline and Graham have,” she says, her voice wavering with emotion that might be real or might be performance - with Amelia, it’s always hard to tell.
“A love that conquers all obstacles. A connection that transcends everything. I know my prince charming is out there somewhere, and seeing my sister so happy gives me hope that I’ll find my own fairy tale ending. ”
She raises her glass, and I notice that her hand is shaking. That her eyes are bright with tears that don’t seem celebratory. That she won’t quite meet my gaze.
Something is wrong. Something has been wrong all day. But every time I try to focus on it, someone pulls me away for another photo, another toast, another obligation.
By the time Graham and I escape to the waiting car, I’m so exhausted I can barely keep my eyes open.
“That went well,” Graham says, loosening his tie with obvious relief. “Mom seemed pleased.”
“She did.”
Because it was her wedding, I don’t say. Because she got everything she wanted. Because I’ve spent two years becoming whatever she thinks I should be, and even that isn’t enough.
I glance back through the window as the car pulls away, watching the guests gather on the cathedral steps to see us off. Most of them are waving, throwing rice, performing their designated roles in this carefully choreographed production.
But not Amelia.
She stands apart from the others, motionless, not waving, not smiling.
One hand presses flat against her stomach in an unconscious gesture that makes something cold slither down my spine.
Her face is pale in the fading light, and even from this distance I can see that she’s crying - not the delicate, photogenic tears she produces on command, but real tears, ugly tears, the kind that come from genuine distress.
Just nerves, I tell myself. She said she was nervous. Everyone gets nervous at weddings.
But as the car pulls away and my sister shrinks into the distance, I can’t shake the feeling that I just witnessed something I don’t understand yet. Something that will make sense later, when it’s far too late to change anything.