CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE Brandon
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Brandon
“XO” — JOHN MAYER
Present Day
It’s wedding day.
My wakeup call isn’t my alarm, but instead, Tony fucking Pratt banging on the door to my room.
“Wakey, wakey Brandon,” he bellows. “We’ve got a party to get to!”
“I swear to Jesus Christ—” I mutter as I fling the covers off and swing my legs to the edge of the bed. “Tony, it’s a wedding, not a goddamn episode of Spring Breakers with a side of emotional trauma.”
“That sounds exactly like what this wedding is,” he calls back, far too excited for this hour of the morning—especially considering the night he’s likely coming off of.
I drag a hand down my face and glance at my phone on the nightstand. I’d fallen asleep waiting for Johanna to say something else—but she never did. I tap the screen to check the time, letting myself entertain the slightest bit of hope that maybe she’d sent something else this morning.
Nothing.
Just about a billion notifications from the band group text.
I’m almost ashamed at the disappointment curling in my stomach as another knock sounds on the door—lighter this time.
“Brandon?” Eric’s voice echoes. “You alive in there?”
“Yeah,” I answer shortly.
We’re going to be together the whole fucking day. I wish they’d let me get ready in peace, but I know it’s a long shot as the door creaks open.
How the hell do they have a key?
“What the—”
“Unattended maid’s cart last night,” Tony says with a flash of his annoying, troublemaking grin. “They really shouldn’t leave the master key just lying around like that.”
Eric shakes his head. “I’m so glad we’re not touring the rest of this year, since you seem to be determined to get us banned from every decent hotel in the continental US.”
“Worth it,” Tony replies, tossing the sweatpants and t-shirt he’s rifled out of my suitcase at me. “Put those on and let’s get this show on the road.”
I do as I’m told, more out of obligation than any real desire to leave the safety of this room, before grabbing my keys and wallet from the desk.
Did she wake up this morning regretting it all?
Are we going to go back to silent avoidance today?
Eric holds the door open for us and we make our way down the hall towards the elevators.
“Grayson’s already pacing in the lobby,” he says. “I left three extra shirts in the groomsmen suite at the venue. He’ll probably sweat through the first one within the hour.”
“Of course he is,” I mutter.
I don’t know why I find Grayson’s stress about today so infuriating. Maybe it’s because he’s so fucking lucky—to stand up in front of everyone and declare how he feels about Mia without hesitation or fear. The worst part is, I know he knows it, too.
Some of us don’t have that luxury.
Some of us will suffer quietly today.
It’s torturous not knowing if the person you can’t stop thinking about really feels the same way—or if she only feels it when she has help letting go of her inhibitions.
Johanna gave me hope with those texts last night—the worst thing she could’ve possibly handed me if she didn’t mean it.
I’m really fucking ready to find out if she did.
We pile into the elevator and Eric presses the button to take us to the lobby. The doors slide shut with a soft thud, and I feel my stomach drop with the beginning of the descent.
“Alright boys,” Tony announces, clapping his hands together. “Final check. Nobody punches the groom, even if he’s being annoying as hell, and nobody cries before the ceremony. Got it?”
I groan while Eric scoffs and says, “Pretty low bar, Tone.”
The elevator comes to a stop and the doors glide open.
Tony barrels out first, already shouting Grayson’s name like he’s about to tackle him for sport.
I step out after him, but Eric catches my wrist and gently pulls me aside, steering us toward one of the oversized decorative plants lining the lobby.
“Hey, in all seriousness,” he says, making sure our eyes meet. “I know you’ve had a lot of old feelings come up in the last few days—but maybe cool it with the Johanna shit until after the weekend’s over, yeah?”
He’s not saying anything I don’t already know, but hearing it out loud from someone else makes it a lot harder to ignore.
How selfish can I be?
“Yeah,” I reply after a beat. “It’s gotta be about Gray and Mia—I know.”
Eric gives a solemn nod and releases my wrist. We regroup with Grayson and Tony before heading towards our waiting limo. Something like anticipation buzzes in the air as I slide into my seat. As we begin to move, I stare out the window and the hotel fades behind us.
Just twenty-four hours, Brandon, I tell myself. Twenty-four hours until your life changes forever.
I’ve never been part of a wedding before.
It takes me standing at an altar with my three closest friends to realize—this is the first time I’ve ever done this.
When Grayson married Lily, they eloped. None of us had any idea it was happening until they returned to the house after a few days away saying, “We’re married!”
Grayson knew how we felt about their relationship. We weren’t surprised they kept it secret until after it was a done deal.
Today couldn’t be more different.
Our jackets are pressed, collars straightened, hands are clasped in front of us like we’re all prepared to say vows today.
The glow of the evening sun pours into the open space as it catches the remnants of dust in the air and turns it soft and golden.
Guests have all found their seats on either side of the aisle, and voices echo around us as we all watch the doors at the far end of the room.
All it takes is the first creak of the wooden door, and everyone straightens in their seats and shifts their attention at once.
An acoustic version of Collapse Into You—Mia and Grayson’s duet from our last tour—begins to play as Mia’s middle sister, Macy, steps into view.
This is it.
I know I have a few moments to steady my breathing. To find my composure and pull myself together, because it won’t be long now.
Mia’s oldest sister, Makenna, follows after Macy, poised and composed like always. Then comes Rylee with her already glassy eyes, walking as if she’s holding herself together by sheer force of will.
A few beats pass before Johanna appears.
I stumble over my breath, like I’ve forgotten how to inhale.
She looks like a fucking goddess—and I know she’s not even trying.
Nothing about her is overdone. It’s quiet.
Devastating. Elegant. Her dark hair is pulled back just enough to reveal her face, calm and controlled, while the black fabric of her dress moves effortlessly with each stride.
She’s older than the girl I picked up at LAX all those years ago… but somehow, still exactly her.
She’s the only fucking thing I see in a room where there’s plenty to look at.
The only thing that matters when I know it shouldn’t—not now.
Even then, I don’t ever want to look at anything—anyone—else ever again.
Her gaze stays fixed ahead of her with the utmost precision and focus, expression unreadable.
For the first time this entire weekend—when all we’ve done is find each other in every quiet moment—she doesn’t look at me at all, but she’s not pretending I don’t exist.
She’s choosing not to want me—and I don’t know if I can survive much longer not knowing whether that choice is temporary…or permanent.