Chapter 33 It Doesn’t End with a Wedding
It Doesn’t End with a Wedding
— T HE D AY OF A MELIE’S W EDDING —
The hairdresser smiles at the mirror, and I return her joyful expression before averting my eyes. My stomach is a tangled mess of emotions, and since this morning I’ve held myself back from gagging twice already.
“We’re almost done,” she says, to which I distractedly nod. It’s the first moment I’m sort of alone since the day started and I was hurried out of the apartment and into a cab by Frank’s mom. She’s so nervous, it almost feels like she’s the one getting married in three hours.
“Your dress is beautiful,” the hairdresser says. I look up at the reflection of her kind eyes in the mirror, and she points at it. “I saw it hanging.”
“Thank you,” I breathe as I throw a look at the champagne princess gown. My backup dress. My voice is thin, barely audible, but she seems satisfied with my answer as she curls a lock of hair with the straightener.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to add some extensions?”
“No, only some curls.”
There’s a knock at the door and, without waiting for a greeting, Martha and Barb walk into the room. They shriek as my eyes meet theirs, and my heart palpitates. They’re both beautiful in their short, light blue dresses, but seeing those outfits only reminds me that this is happening. This is real. It’s the day of my wedding.
“How’s the bride doing?” Barb asks, dropping a kiss on my cheek.
“A little nervous, honestly.”
“That’s perfectly fine. I freaked out before my wedding. Remember?” she says.
I nod, but I can’t. She was brimming with excitement, counting down the seconds until she could walk down the aisle in her dress. She wasn’t fighting against her breakfast like I am right now.
“Where’s the photographer? Shouldn’t he be taking pictures?” Martha asks, her head bobbing to either side of the room.
“No, I think he took a billion. He was starting to get on my nerves.”
“Don’t be silly. You need pictures of you in the dress.” Throwing a disgruntled look at it, she gives me a tight-lipped smile. “Then maybe after the wedding you can explain why you went through the trouble of stealing my dress and you won’t even wear it.”
She leaves the room as I sigh, and Barb takes a seat next to me, then passes me a flute of champagne. “Happy wedding day.”
“Thank you.”
Her smile wavers. “Are you good?”
“I don’t know.” I swallow, my throat as dry as dust. Time is running out and I don’t know what to do, who can help me climb out of the spiral of panic I’m losing myself to. “What if I’m not sure? What if this is a mistake?”
She shakes her head. “No, of course not. You and Frank love each other so much. It’s jitters.”
“But what if it isn’t?” I ask, my voice cracking. “Since we got engaged, things with Frank have changed, Barb. And then… I got close to Ian, and now I don’t know if this is what I want anymore.”
Her lips part in shock. “Ian? Who’s Ian?”
“And this—today wasn’t supposed to be like this. Here, with the wrong dress, the wrong flowers, the wrong—”
“Here we are!” Martha announces, reappearing with the photographer. Both the hairdresser and Barb are wide-eyed, but when I clear my throat and smile, they follow my lead, pretending nothing happened.
“It’s nerves,” Barb whispers, her eyes fixed on mine until I nod.
She nods, too, but I don’t think the makeup artist covered my pale skin very well, because her eyes scout my face. Maybe she can see the dark circles around my eyes, my sunken cheeks. I haven’t slept properly in weeks.
Why is it so fucking warm in here? It’s only the first week of spring.
The photographer instructs me to look in one direction and try out another pose as the hairdresser completes her work. Then it’s time to fit into the dress. It takes two people and a whole lot of swearing, but in under half an hour my shoes, gown, and veil are on. Martha and Barb talk around me. They say how beautiful the location is, comment on the guests who have arrived and their outfits, and speak of how they’re looking forward to the lunch, since my dad prepared it.
Their voices don’t reach me. They echo, like I’m wrapped in a plastic bubble, isolated. Instead, one thought torments me, over and over again.
I’m making a mistake.
I can keep pretending I don’t know, that everything is fine, but it won’t change the truth. Things went to shit a long time ago, and I’ve ignored all the signs.
I almost want to hit myself. Not wanting to let go at first made sense. It’s almost excusable. But how did I get here? How did I get to the day of my wedding, knowing it’ll end in divorce? There’s no way I can go through with this. I need help. I need something— someone . Anyone.
My phone beeps, the vibration making it rattle against the table.
It can’t be, can it?
My fingers tremble so much, I struggle to grab the phone, and when I check the notifications, I find the simplest and most complicated message I’ve ever received in my life.
PFP.
It’s Ian. I don’t have his number saved anymore, but the text dispels any doubts. Does he seriously want me to send him a picture? He must know it’s the day of my wedding. Is he reaching out to check whether I’m actually going through with it?
I’d say I can’t possibly be so cruel as to actually send a selfie back, but, knowing Ian, this might well be his way of getting over me. Nothing less sexy than a bride, after all.
I point the phone at the mirror, then snap a picture. This time around, I don’t force a smile on my face. I don’t pinch my cheeks or straighten my hair. It’s always been pointless, and it’d make even less sense today.
Holding the phone in one hand, I stare back into the mirror at my champagne-colored princess wedding dress. At the laced top, the draped gown. At my long veil and flawless makeup. It’s all wrong. Everything’s so wrong.
Maybe Ian will see my text in time. He always did. Maybe he’ll text back and tell me the solution to the mess I’m in. I’m supposed to get married in two hours, and I’m floundering.
I hate this dress, this stuffy villa. Even the menu isn’t what I want, but there was no discussion with my dad. Nothing’s right, and I’d be okay with it if I were sure about the man I chose to marry, but I’m not.
“Your phone.” Martha turns to the mirror, her eyes meeting mine.
“What?”
“Isn’t that your phone?” she repeats.
I look down at the screen just as my ears stop buzzing and hear the ringtone: Ian’s number blinking on the screen. He’s calling me. Ian is calling me.
A wave of adrenaline hits me as I turn to my friends. “I need to take this. Do you mind?”
“Who is it?” Martha asks.
My eyes meet Barb’s, whose brows rise questioningly.
“What’s going on?” Martha asks as she turns to Barb, me, then back to Barb. “Somebody speak, please.”
“I need to answer,” I insist. I had no plans of talking to him today, but now that he’s calling, it feels imperative that I do. Like my life depends on it, and it probably does.
Martha stands, motioning toward my phone. “It’s Ian, isn’t it? Friends, my ass. I knew it. I knew you two were up to no good.”
“Please go,” I say, and when she doesn’t budge, I try to walk around her. “Respect my wishes for once. Just this time, care about what someone else wants instead of yourself.”
She keeps stepping left and right to block my access to the door. “Frank is my fiancé’s best friend, Ames,” she hisses.
Placing a hand on my chest, I shout, “I am your best friend!”
She crosses her arms, her head shaking stiffly, and as the phone stops ringing, I sigh.
“Get out of my way.” Moving around her, I leave the room and walk through the corridor.
“Ames—Ames, stop! What are you doing?”
“You don’t know the whole story, M.” I turn right, the corridor extending in every direction like a damn maze with ugly beige wallpaper.
She hurries after me and grabs my arm, and once I shake her off, she groans. “It doesn’t matter, Ames! You’re getting married in a few hours. What in the world—”
A bathroom. God, I’ve never been happier to see one. I open the door, then quickly close it behind me before Martha can enter. Once the door is locked, I ignore her thumping against it and grab my phone.
My fingers press on the screen, and after two wrong attempts at inserting the PIN, I tap on his contact.
Beep.
Beep.
I swallow, holding my breath as Martha shouts that I’m an idiot before finally leaving. This is definitely it. If he doesn’t pick up, then I shouldn’t have called back to begin with.
Beep.
My arm slowly settles down, nausea filling my mouth with saliva as a sheen of cold sweat covers my forehead. Leaning against the sink, I look down at the phone, which is still beeping, but the call remains unanswered.
It feels like the most effort I’ve ever put into something, but slowly my thumb presses on the screen and ends the call.
He didn’t answer.
I remain in the same position for a while, just existing. I’m not even sure I’m thinking; rather, there’s a thick smog of confusion clouding my rational brain.
A firm knock comes from the other side of the door, and the thought of letting my sadness and anger explode all over Martha or Barb sounds like as good an idea as any. I take the few steps, the weight of the dress only more constricting with each awkward stride.
“What?” I shout as I open the door, immediately freezing when my eyes meet a set of blue ones that are comforting and familiar yet kick the breath out of me. “What—Ian,” I whisper as he swallows. His usually scruffy hair is just messy today, and though he’s wearing a white cotton shirt, it’s wrinkled and unbuttoned at the top of his chest. There are dark purple hues around his eyes, and even his posture seems off.
“Amelie,” he whispers. He looks relieved for half a second, then his expression turns neutral again. “Don’t worry, nobody saw me.” He turns around to double-check, then turns back to me. “Can I come in?”
Unable to process any sound, I step back.
Ian is here, and he should definitely not be here, and there’s a sharp pain in my chest just when I feel like I can breathe for the first time in a while.
Once he enters and closes the bathroom door behind him, I’m still at a loss for words. Why is he here?
“You never gave me the name of that bakery,” he says with a half smile.
“What?”
“The bakery? The one that took care of Barb’s nuptial cake?”
Oh. My brain is spinning around so fast, it takes me a few seconds to understand he’s joking, and by the time I do, there’s no point in smiling, because his chest is heaving and there’s a wrinkle between his eyebrows that tells me even Ian knows the time to play around is over.
“I couldn’t sleep. I was—” He rubs his forehead. “So I just drove here.”
My lips quiver and, feeling my throat prickle, I nod, not even attempting to speak.
“And I sat outside, in my car, for…” Bringing a hand to the back of his head, he sighs. “For a long time. I thought—I really wanted to come in and find you.” He sighs again. “I know I shouldn’t be here. I promised I’d let you live your life. And I really tried.”
A tear moves past my defenses and runs down my cheek.
“But I couldn’t just sit there, and then I saw your picture, and you looked—” He breaks off and points at me, shaking his head. “You look… horrible.”
“Thanks?” I whisper as I look down.
“No, not… ugly.” He reaches out but his hand drops before it touches my cheek and tightens into a fist at his side. “Just… your face. Your expression. I had to come in.”
I nod, and his shoulders relax as if a huge weight has been removed from them. Maybe he was afraid I’d be upset he’s here, but I’m not. I’m shocked, afraid, hopeful. But I’m not angry.
“You’re not wearing your dress,” he says, looking down at my gown.
Uncomfortably rubbing my arm, I follow his gaze. “No. It didn’t feel right.”
“Is that the only thing that doesn’t feel right?”
There’s a moment of silence. “He’s been better,” I say, my words soaked in self-doubt. “We ended that whole open-relationship thing, and he’s been… present and sweet and—”
“It’s too late.”
I shake my head quickly, my chest heaving. “But what if it’s not? We have the rest of our lives ahead of us and—”
“It’s too late because you’re in love with me, Amelie.”
My heart stills. My everything follows. It’s like my muscles have turned stale, stiff, as if I were a mannequin and not a real person. This isn’t what I need to hear right now. “Please, don’t,” I whisper.
“I drove here not even knowing if I’d say this. If I’d have the chance to see you, if you’d listen,” he says. The corners of his lips bend downward, and there’s so much hurt in his face that it’s hard to look at. “Now you’re here, so please let me say it.”
“I can’t hear it, Ian.” I take a step back and I hold up my hands, palms out, as if they’ll somehow hold him back. “You can’t say what you’re about to say two hours from my wedding.”
“Don’t marry him.”
A sob breaks the silence that follows, and though I cup my mouth, more sobs power through.
“Don’t marry a man who doesn’t love you.” He comes closer, his fingers finding my own as he rests his forehead on mine. “Don’t marry a man you don’t love. And please, I beg you, don’t choose him over me.”
“Ian—” Another violent sob shakes me, and as I look at him through a veil of tears, I see that, through his closed eyes, he’s crying too.
“I told you I don’t know much about love, Amelie, and that’s true. But I’ve learned a lot.” His smell soothes me a little as he breathes against my lips. “Like how, when you’d do anything for someone, when their smile fuels your very soul, that’s probably love.”
His hand cups the back of my neck, our foreheads still pressed together as our quick breaths mix. “I wondered when exactly it started. If all of it, all along, was love. And I realized, since I met you, you never left my mind.” He sniffles. “And the more I tried to ignore my feelings for you, the more they grew.”
“Please,” I beg as makeup stains my face.
“I lost you, Amelie. You’ve never been mine, but I lost you already. And I’m here to get you back, because if I don’t, it’ll break my heart.”
“Stop, Ian—”
“Please don’t break my heart, Amelie.”
My legs give out, the pain too intense to bear. I just want to fall onto the floor of this bathroom and cry until this is all over. Until there’s no wedding, no Frank, no Ian, no Amelie either. Until the world has moved past us and we’re nothing but a speck in history. Until there’s no more thinking or feeling, no more love or heartache. No more anything.
But Ian’s arms hold me up against his chest, and I feel safer than I’ve ever felt before. I can’t help but think that if we’d met in another life, we would have really been something. We would have been it .
But love needs the right timing.
“You have to let me go,” I whisper. I don’t just mean the way he’s holding me, and I think he knows, because after making sure I can stand on my own, he takes a step back and turns around, his hands running over his face. “Ian, I—I’m about to get married, and—”
“You texted me back, Amelie.” He whips around. His eyes are glossy, and there’s a pink hue over his cheeks. “Why did you do it, then, huh?”
“Because—”
When I halt, he shrugs. “Because what?”
“Because I’m panicking, okay?” I bring both hands to my face, wiping my tears and probably making more of a mess of my makeup. “I’m panicking and I needed to hear your voice and talk to you because—because you’re my best friend,” I whine.
“Your best friend.” A bitter chuckle rolls out of his lips. “Really? Give me a break, Amelie.”
“But you are,” I insist. “Aren’t you? You said you’d be my friend, you said you’d—”
“We’re not just friends. We’ll never be just friends, and that’s why you dumped me after our friendly date.” His jaw sets. “Because you know that too.”
“Don’t say that. I didn’t dump you, Ian.”
“That’s not the point,” he says with a groan.
“I didn’t dump you, I—”
“That’s not the point!” he shouts. Taking a deep breath, he runs his fingers through his hair. Then he shoves his hands into his pockets. “You can’t tell me you don’t want me, Amelie. I know you do.”
My head is pounding, my heart following the quick rhythm.
He’s right, of course. I do want him. Just being locked in this small bathroom with him, breathing the same air, is intoxicating. Since my birthday, I’ve thought about our night together constantly. About all he said, about his voice and his moans and his gasps of pleasure. About the sweet words that followed.
“I—” My fists clench. “It doesn’t matter, Ian. We want different things, and just because I have a crush, it doesn’t mean—”
“A crush?”
As his eyes narrow, my shoulders sag. “No. You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do know what you mean.” He looks out the window, his fists clenched. “I just don’t know if you’re lying to yourself or if I…” He swallows. “…if I really do know nothing about love.”
I close my eyes. The need to tell him he’s much more than a crush is fighting with my awareness that if I decide that’s the truth, then I’m welcoming more heartbreak. Because there is only one truth and one alone: Ian can’t give me the thing I want the most. He can’t promise me forever. He won’t marry me.
God, what am I doing? Why am I even considering this? I can’t walk out of my own wedding. I can’t leave Frank at the altar and run away with Ian. I can’t let my father wait to walk me down the aisle. I can’t let the whole world know just how badly I fucked up.
“I’m begging you,” he pleads. He doesn’t even look into my eyes, and I can’t tell if it’s fear or shame over the fact that he’s pleading. “Call it off, Amelie.”
“Ian, Frank is—”
“Fuck Frank.”
“Every person I know and love is here. I—”
“Fuck everyone else, Amelie,” he insists as he clasps me by my forearms. His eyes burn into mine as he speaks slowly. “Stop thinking of the way you’re supposed to feel. Just feel.”
“I—I…”
His hold on my forearms lightens, almost as if he knows what I’ll say before I do.
“I can’t, Ian. You don’t want me, not the way I need you to.”
His jaw twitches as he looks down at the floor. “Is marriage so important to you that you’d choose to be his unhappy wife over being my happy girlfriend?”
“That’s unfair,” I say, my eyes fighting against the weight of my brows. “You know marriage has always been my dream. You said I shouldn’t be with you.”
“Choose me unconditionally,” he says. His lips are almost on mine, and even amid all this madness, it’s difficult not to lift my face to his and kiss him. “Choose me unconditionally, and I will choose you unconditionally too.”
When I say nothing, only whimpers and sobs coming out of my lips, he straightens, as if he’s found his answer in my hesitation. “Okay. That’s it—that’s… enough.” Tears roll down his cheeks as he blinks. “I’m leaving.”
He walks past me, and my hand clings to his shirt, my fingers gripping the soft fabric even as he gently tries to shake me off. But I can’t let him go. This can’t be the last memory I have of him—the one that’ll burn into my mind forever. “Please, Ian, wait.”
“No, Amelie.” He pulls his arm closer to his body, freeing himself from my hold. “We’re done. I’m done. Please don’t contact me anymore.”
I stare at the back of his head, as he hasn’t turned to speak, but his voice is shaking hard enough that I know he’s crying.
I’m not. What I feel at this moment, in this very instant, goes far beyond pain. Beyond guilt and regret and confusion. It’s as eradicating as death, but without the peace that comes afterward. Just darkness.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
He turns around, and the look in his eyes terrifies me. Not because it’s in any way menacing but because it’s empty. Just shallow and final and dark. “Goodbye, Amelie.”
I stare at the door but my feet are frozen on the spot, my body reaching an uncomfortably low temperature as my stomach clenches again and again, until I turn to the toilet just in time to vomit breakfast. Looks like I lost that fight. Tears roll down my cheeks as I grasp the cold porcelain, my throat burning and my head thumping with pain. Then there’s a knock at the door.
Oh my God.
Did he come back? Please let that be him.
“Ames?” Barb calls. “Can I come in? What’s going on?”
My shoulders slump as I rake the back of my hand over my mouth. Nausea still makes me feel like I’m on the deck of a boat, but the gagging has stopped, so I tentatively stand and flush.
Is marriage so important to you that you’d choose to be his unhappy wife over being my happy girlfriend?
His words echo in my mind over and over again in the same broken, distressed voice he used to pronounce them as my eyes find my reflection in the mirror. My skin is gray despite the makeup, and clumps of black mascara are gluing my eyelashes together. My lipstick is smudged and my hair is flattening out already. I’m gross and sickly, my cheekbones sticking out and my dress hardly fitting me right. The lack of sleep, the stress, the heartache—I can almost see the scars each has left on my pale skin over the past six months.
For a moment, in the silence of the bathroom apart from my ragged breathing, I forget about Ian and Frank. About everyone else too. I look at a reflection in the mirror I don’t recognize, and her eyes are asking me a single question.
Why are you doing this to me?
It’s maybe the biggest blow yet, how I’ve let myself down. At the moment, it feels unforgivable. But if there’s a path to forgiveness, I know what the first step is.
I have to call this wedding off.
I have to go after Ian and tell him the truth. That I have feelings for him, too, that I think I’ve always had them, ever since Barb’s wedding, when he sat down at my table and then danced with me. That I’ve tried to hold my feelings back, then tried to keep him out of my life so that at the very least my feelings for him would go away. But they haven’t, and it feels like they never will. Like I don’t want them to.
Just as Barb knocks again, a jolt of adrenaline pushes me to the door. Fumbling for the handle, I pull it open.
Barb looks me up and down in shock. “Ames, why did a guy just come out of this bathroom and throw this in the bin?”
Looking at the small black box she’s holding, I extend my hand. As she sets it on my palm, my heart wrenches painfully. It can’t possibly be anything but a ring, and the awareness of it almost floors me.
I made a mistake. Worse, I made the one mistake I’ll regret for the rest of my life.
I know it for a fact, and it’s not the awareness that if I had chosen him unconditionally, he would have done the same. He would have proposed. It’s realizing how close it all is to meaningless right now. I’ve wanted to get married for so long, I’ve dreamed of this day so much, and all I can think about right now are Ian’s words.
I’d much rather be his girlfriend than anyone else’s wife.
“Are you…” She swallows. “Ames, I—maybe you shouldn’t get married.”
“One step ahead of you.” I walk past her with the sharp corners of the black box digging into my hand. At this point I’ve already messed everything up irreversibly. The only thing I can do is explain it all to Frank, then call Ian and beg him to listen.
I step back out through the endless corridors of this horrible villa until I find Trevor and Martha talking by one of the many identical doors. “Hey,” I say, and as their eyes land on me, they both gasp. Right. I look like I just escaped a psych ward in a horror movie. “Where’s Frank’s room?”
They exchange a look, then Martha clears her throat. “It’s this one, but, Ames—”
I yank the door open and stride inside. I really don’t have time for her right now, but she’s someone I’ll deal with later. “Frank?” I call out, Martha following close behind me. “M, please, Frank and I need to talk in private.”
She presses her lips together, then walks to his desk. As she strides back to me, she holds out a paper, her eyes stuck to it as if she’s specifically avoiding my gaze. With my heart beating as if I’ve just run a whole marathon, I grab it, skimming the words written on it and knowing they won’t be good.
I’m sorry. I can’t.
Martha squeezes my arm when I look in her eyes for an explanation. “He…” She trails off. “Frank’s gone.”