Chapter Twenty Two
Present Day
The morning of the wedding dawned bright and clear, the kind of perfect summer day that felt personally ordered by Sloane herself. Sunlight streamed into the hotel suite, painting everything in a warm, hopeful glow that was a direct insult to the hollow ache in my chest.
I’d slept fitfully, tangled in sheets that still vaguely smelled of Theo. Sloane, in the bed next to me, had been a soft snoring presence all night. A guard against my own thoughts.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A generic weather alert. Nothing from Theo.
“Okay, troops!” Sloane’s voice, already buzzing with adrenaline, cut through the quiet. She sat bolt upright, her hair a wild halo. “It’s go time.”
The next few hours were a blur of controlled, fragrant chaos.
We moved from our room to the dedicated bridal suite, which was soon filled with the stylist, the makeup artist, Kay fluttering with a clipboard, and the low hum of a curated ‘Getting Ready’ playlist.
The air smelled of hairspray, coffee, and expensive perfume.
I became a mannequin. I sat still while skilled hands twisted my hair into an elegant updo, with a few artful curls left to frame my face.
I tipped my head back and let foundation be blended, eyeshadow swept across my lids, a color named ‘Bridal Blush’ dabbed onto my cheeks.
The makeup artist called it a ‘soft glam’ look.
I felt like I was being prepped for a role I’d forgotten how to play.
In the mirror, I watched a polished, serene version of myself take shape. The deep blue satin of the bridesmaid dress hung nearby, a slash of color against the white hotel walls. I looked… fine. Better than fine. I looked like a woman who had her life together. The cracks were expertly concealed.
Sloane was a radiant ball of energy, vibrating with joy. She kept grabbing my hands, squeezing them, her eyes shiny. “I’m getting married today, Gin.”
“I know,” I’d say each time, squeezing back, forcing a smile that felt tight at the corners. “He’s the luckiest.”
And he was. I was happy for her. The happiness was a real, warm thing in my chest, but it existed in a separate compartment from the cold, leaden weight of my own personal wreckage. I could hold both. I had to.
Once our hair and makeup were deemed camera-ready, we slipped into our dresses. The other bridesmaids, Rachel, Mia, and Sophie, helped each other with zippers and clasps, their chatter light and excited. I stood still as Sloane zipped me up, her fingers gentle.
“You look stunning,” she whispered, her chin resting on my shoulder for a second as we looked at our reflection.
The dress did look good. It hugged my curves in a respectful way, the color making my skin glow.
For a fleeting moment, I wished Theo could see me in it.
The thought was like pressing on a bruise.
“So do you,” I said, turning to face her. She was in a silk robe, her dress still preserved in its garment bag. “Your turn.”
Helping Sloane into her wedding dress was a sacred, quiet ritual.
Kay joined us, her eyes already brimming as we carefully lifted the heavy gown.
It was simple and breathtaking—clean lines, delicate lace sleeves, a whisper of a train.
As we fastened the long row of tiny buttons up her back, the room fell into a hushed awe.
When she turned to look in the full-length mirror, she pressed her hands to her mouth. A single, perfect tear tracked through her carefully applied makeup.
“Oh, baby,” Kay breathed, dabbing at her own eyes with a tissue.
I just looked at my best friend, this beautiful, fierce woman, and felt a love so profound it momentarily eclipsed everything else. “Sloane Bennett,” I said, my voice thick. “You are a vision.”
She grabbed my hands again. “I couldn’t do this without you. Any of it.”
“Yes, you could,” I said honestly. “But you’ll never have to.”
There was a knock, and Jasper’s voice, choked with emotion, came from the other side of the door. “No peeking! I just… I have something for my bride.”
Sloane laughed, a watery, joyful sound. A small, wrapped box was passed through a crack in the door. Inside was a simple, elegant bracelet and a note that made her cry all over again.
The photographer arrived then, and the next hour was a whirlwind of details—photos of the dress hanging, the shoes, Sloane’s hands holding her bouquet (wildflowers and eucalyptus, perfect for the lake).
Photos of us all laughing, clinking champagne flutes filled with orange juice, pretending to help Sloane with her veil.
I smiled until my face hurt. I laughed at the right moments. I was the perfect maid of honor.
Through it all, I was hyper-aware of my phone, silent and dead in my clutch purse. I wondered what Theo was doing. If he was hungover. If he was already packing for Milan. If he felt even a fraction of the jagged emptiness I was carrying around.
Finally, it was time. The vintage cars Sloane had rented were waiting downstairs. We gathered our things, the rustle of satin and taffeta filling the hallway. A final check in the mirror. A deep, collective breath.
“Ready?” Sloane asked, looking at each of us, her gaze finally landing on me.
I took her hand. “Let’s go get you married.”
The drive to the lake was a beautiful, surreal parade. People on the sidewalks stopped and smiled, pointing at the bride in the lead car. Sloane waved like royalty, her nerves now transformed into radiant excitement.
I sat in the back of the car behind hers, watching the familiar streets of Harrison Falls give way to the winding forest road that led to the lake.
With every mile, the knot in my stomach tightened.
This place was now a mosaic of my history—childhood summers, teenage longing, grief, and now, the fresh, sharp memory of Theo and me on the sun-warmed rock.
A memory that already felt like it belonged to someone else.
When we pulled into the old camp grounds, it had been transformed.
The chairs were all in neat rows facing the water, the floral arch stood proudly against the backdrop of sparkling lake, and the string quartet was warming up with soft, melodic notes that drifted on the breeze.
It was rustic, perfect, and heartbreakingly beautiful.
The cars pulled up near the main house, out of sight of the guests who were already being seated. The wedding party gathered in a shaded clearing—the bridesmaids in our blue, the groomsmen in their light grey suits.
And there he was.
Theo.
He stood with Jasper and the others, his back mostly to me. He looked devastating in his suit, his hair styled but still with that hint of unruly curl. He was listening to something Jasper was saying, nodding slowly. He hadn’t seen me yet.
My heart, that traitorous organ, gave a hard, painful thud.
This was it. The final act. We would walk down the aisle together in a few minutes. We would stand up there together. We would watch his sister marry the love of her life. And then, tomorrow, he would be gone.
Sloane was whisked away for a first look with Jasper. The rest of us were left to wait, to fidget, to breathe in the pine-scented air heavy with anticipation and unspoken words.
Theo turned then, his gaze scanning the bridesmaids, and found me.
Our eyes locked across the clearing. For a second, there was no anger, no coldness. Just a deep, weary recognition. He looked at me in my dress, and his expression flickered with something raw—regret, maybe, or sorrow—before the shutters came down again. He gave me the faintest, most impersonal nod.
I mirrored it, my chin dipping slightly.
The officiant clapped her hands gently. “Alright, everyone. Places. It’s time.”
We went last, right before Sloane and her dad. Theo held out his arm and I looped mine in it.
Tears began to form at the corners of my eyes and I couldn’t tell if it was happiness for Sloane and Jasper, sadness for myself or a tragic mixture of the two.
“You look beautiful.” Theo’s voice was quiet, but I heard it. I looked up at him and he looked down at me. He smiled and for a moment and it dangerously gave me hope that we would at least be able to be friends again.
Once we reached the end of the aisle Theo took his spot next to Jasper and I took mine next to Mia. Sloane looked beautiful as she walked next to Steve. They were both crying, and so was Jasper by the time they reached him.
The officiant began to speak about love and commitment, but the words were a distant hum.
Theo’s mask was back in place, his profile stern as he stared straight ahead at the officiant. But the ghost of that shared look lingered in the air between us, a silent, aching testament to everything that was, and everything that wouldn’t be.
“Sloane and Jasper have chosen to speak their own vows,” the officiant said, smiling. “Sloane?”
Sloane turned to Jasper, taking both his hands in hers. She took a shaky breath, her eyes swimming but her voice clear and strong.
“Jasper,” she began, and his name sounded like a prayer.
“When I was fourteen, you pushed me into this lake to steal my sandwich.”
A soft laugh rustled through the crowd. “And I was so mad, I vowed to hate you forever. But you swam out, grabbed my ankle, and pulled me back to the dock, saying, ‘A sandwich is a fair trade for not letting you drown.’” She smiled through her tears.
“You’ve been pulling me back to solid ground ever since. You’re my safest place. My favorite hello and my hardest goodbye. You see all the messy, complicated parts of me and you love them more because they’re mine. My vow to you is to always be the one who pulls you back, too. To choose you, and us,
every single day, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. I can’t wait to be your wife.”
Jasper’s face was a masterpiece of emotion. He blinked rapidly, squeezing her hands.
“Jasper,” the officiant prompted gently.
He cleared his throat. “Sloane. My vow to you is… to never stop trying to be worthy of the gift of you.”
His voice was thick. “You are the bravest, kindest, most infuriatingly stubborn person I know. You challenged me, you changed me, you made me want to be a better man from the day I met you. You taught me that love isn’t a quiet thing—it’s loud, and messy, and it shows up.
It shows up with grilled cheese after a bad day. It shows up to defend you in a bar fight. It shows up, forever. So I vow to show up. For every tomorrow, for every adventure, for every quiet Tuesday. I will show up, and I will love you. Loudly. Always.”
It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard. A love so sure, so fought-for, so chosen. The ache in my chest expanded, a physical pressure behind my ribs.
Summer 2009 - Age 13
My parents were dancing in the kitchen to no music I could hear. Dad’s hands were on Mom’s waist, and she was laughing at something he’d whispered in her ear.
“Gross,” I said from the doorway, but I was smiling.
“Twenty years today, kiddo,” Dad said, spinning Mom. “Twenty years of putting up with this beautiful woman.”
“Putting up with YOU, you mean,” Mom corrected, but she was glowing.
I leaned against the doorframe, watching them. This was love, I thought. This easy, comfortable, choosing-each-other-every-day kind of love.
“How do you know?” I asked. “That you want to be with someone forever?”
They stopped dancing. Mom looked at Dad, something passing between them.
“You know when being apart feels wrong,” Mom said. “When you’d rather fight with them than laugh with anyone else. When they’re the first person you want to tell everything to—good and bad.”
“And when you can be completely yourself,” Dad added. “All the messy, complicated, imperfect parts. And they don’t just accept it—they love you more for it.”
“Will I find that?” I asked.
“Oh, baby,” Mom pulled me into the dance. “You’ll find it. And when you do, don’t let fear keep you from it. That’s the only real mistake you can make—letting fear decide.”
Dad wrapped his arms around both of us. “The brave thing isn’t finding love, Ginny. It’s keeping it. Fighting for it. Showing up for it every single day.”
I thought about that conversation a lot after they died. I wondered if I’d ever find what they had.
Wondered if I’d be brave enough to keep it if I did.
As they slipped rings onto each other’s fingers, my eyes were drawn back to Theo. He was watching the exchange, his jaw tight. A single, traitorous tear escaped the corner of his eye, tracking a slow path down his cheek. He didn’t wipe it away.
The officiant beamed. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Jasper, you may kiss your bride.”
As they kissed, a cheer erupted from the guests. Confetti was tossed. The quartet broke into a joyous recessional.
Theo finally moved, turning to me mechanically, his face a wiped-clean slate except for the faint, drying track on his cheek. He offered his arm once more.
This time, as I took it to walk back up the aisle as the newly minted Mr. and Mrs. Williams recessed behind us, the touch felt different. Not like a burn, but like a brand. A final, searing connection before the cord was cut.
We walked, and I held my head high, smiling for Sloane, for the cameras, for the beautiful fiction of the day. But inside, I was already saying goodbye.