Chapter 8
Eight
Griffin
The church is beautiful.
I say this as someone who has spent the last six months analyzing structural load calculations and debating concrete strength, so my sense of beauty has become somewhat clinical.
Still, I can admit this place is something—high vaulted ceilings and stained glass that transforms afternoon light into art.
It’s… a lot. If someone told me this was Madison’s wedding, I’d say, “Sure. It feels like her.” But nothing here feels like Piper.
I slide into the pew beside Noah just as the ceremony is supposed to start.
“Don’t you look handsome today,” I tease, nudging him.
He squeezes my thigh. “Aw, you can kiss me later. Weddings always bring out my romantic side.”
“I’d ruin you, man, and you know it.”
We both laugh under our breath.
Noah looks at the altar. I follow his gaze. Ezra is already up there, flanked by his groomsmen, all of them in matching charcoal suits.
He’s also checking his watch.
“Where’s Piper?” I ask.
Noah keeps his eyes on Ezra when he answers, “On her way. She’ll be here.”
I watch the pews fill with people.
Twenty-five minutes past the hour.
Then thirty.
The string quartet has now looped back through its repertoire.
Ezra straightens his cuffs.
A groomsman leans over from Ezra’s left and says something low.
People are starting to whisper.
I lean back and look at the ceiling. It has Gothic ribbed vaulting. Probably fourteenth century, if I had to guess—definitely restored sometime in the last fifty years. The stonework in parts is newer than the rest.
“Noah?” That’s the groomsman, suddenly in the aisle beside our pew. “Have you heard from your sister?”
Noah’s voice is smooth when he answers, “Nope.”
The groomsman shifts his weight. “Can you call her?”
Noah pats his jacket. “Left my phone in the car.”
The groomsman stares at him for a second before he nods and walks away.
I wait until he’s out of earshot. “You were on your phone five minutes ago.”
“I was.” He looks at the stained glass behind the altar like he’s having a private moment of spiritual reflection. “Beautiful window.”
“Noah?”
“Mmm.”
“You’re hoping she doesn’t show up.”
“She’ll show up,” he says.
Ezra is no longer just straightening his cuffs. The poor bastard is starting to sweat.
The whispers have reached a higher pitch.
An older woman two rows ahead leans sideways and says something to her companion behind a cupped hand.
“I’ll go outside,” I offer. “See if there’s any sign.”
Noah says nothing, which is its own kind of answer.
I stand and walk up the side aisle toward the entrance. The doors open onto a wide stone landing with steps leading down to the driveway. I slip through and let them close behind me.
I step to the side, out of the main traffic, and wait.
It’s maybe two minutes before the cars start pulling up.
First is a black car that idles at the bottom of the steps. When the door opens, Piper’s mother and sisters step out.
I wait.
The last car pulls up slowly.
The driver moves around to the passenger side. Piper’s father steps out first before he turns and offers his hand back into the car.
Then Piper steps out.
And the dress…
Jesus. I wasn’t prepared for the dress.
I don’t know what I was expecting, maybe something simple and quiet, but it wasn’t that. There’s a cloud of white against the dark exterior of the car, catching the California sun and holding it hostage. She’s got the veil pinned back from her face while they sort out the train.
I need to see her face.
That’s the real reason I’m out here. I want to know if the smile she’s wearing today is as assembled and hollow as the one she wore on the balcony last night.
I’ve had sixteen hours to remind myself to stay out of it.
To accept that she’s “always fine” and that I’m no longer the self-appointed protector of Piper Callahan.
They start up the steps. Her father has her arm, and she’s slightly turned away from me, her head bowed as they navigate the stone. I take a half-step to the right, trying to catch her eyes.
Almost.
She starts to turn, but a sudden gust of wind sweeps off the coast, catching the silk of the veil. It lifts, a white wave sweeping forward across her face. I hear a small, surprised exhale as she reaches up to catch the fabric before it flies away.
Shit.
Her face is covered.
The oak doors swing open, swallowing them whole, and then it’s just me and the empty driveway.
I didn’t see her face.
She was right there, about a dozen feet away, and a literal act of God moved the fabric and blocked my view.
I exhale, the breath rattling in my chest.
Go back inside, Griffin.
I try to move my feet. They’re lead. My gut—the thing that’s never steered me wrong—is currently screaming at me to stay put. To wait.
For what? I don’t know.
But I’m not going back in there. Not yet.
Fuck.