Chapter 67 Jillian
JILLIAN
SIX MONTHS LATER
“There you are, standing right in front of me / All this fear falls away to leave me naked”
— “Signal Fire” by Snow Patrol
The door cracks open. Rae’s face appears in the gap, eyes already glassy with unshed tears. “Okay. I’m ready.”
I slip inside and close the door behind me. Her wedding dress is hanging from a hook on the wardrobe, ivory silk with a low back that’s going to make Lukas lose his whole damn mind. Rae stands in the middle of the room in a white slip and bare feet, hands clasped in front of her stomach.
“You look like you’re about to faint,” I tell her.
“That’s because I am about to faint.”
“Please don’t,” I beg. “I don’t want to have to carry you down those stairs.”
She laughs and pinches my ass. “With all the Pilates and Barry’s you’ve been doing, that would be a breeze. Have I told you lately that you’re a bombshell?”
“You’re the bombshell,” I insist. I grab her hand and make her do a twirl. “Look at you! A dream come true. Brides across the world hear your name and instantly wither and die of jealousy. If Lukas wasn’t a hell of a lot stronger than me, I’d consider marrying you myself.”
She grins and giggles. The carefulness has mostly faded. We’re not all the way back to stealing fries and finishing sentences, but we’re close. Close enough.
“Now,” I say, “enough chit-chat. You’re stalling. On we go!”
I lift the dress off the hook and hold it open at her feet. She steps in, gripping my shoulder for balance, and I pull it up over her hips. She turns around and gathers her hair to one side. I start on the zipper.
“Suck in,” I order.
“I am!”
“Yeah, well, pretend the dress is Lukas’s dick and suck harder.”
“Jillian Rose Pierce!” She swats my arm.
“Sorry. A little vulgar, I know. Anyway, you’re perfect. The dress is the problem. Aaaand there we go. Voila.”
The zipper glides up the last two inches and settles happily at the top. I fasten the tiny hook-and-eye closure and smooth the fabric across her shoulder blades. Then I step back. Rae turns to face the full-length mirror propped against the wall. Her hand goes to her mouth.
“Oh,” she breathes.
“Yeah,” I agree. “That’s what I’m sayin’.”
She’s stunning. Glowing. Best friends look like this in your dreams, not in real life—except for she really does.
She’s proud, posture erect, eyes bright, smile undimmable.
God, I love her. I’m so happy for her, too, in the true, from-the-bottom-of-your-heart way you can only be happy for your real ride-or-dies.
Despite everything she’s been through, she’s still here.
Beautifully so. A few steps away from a happily-ever-after ending that she has more than earned.
My throat gets tight. I press my knuckle against my upper lip and breathe. Rae catches me doing it in the mirror. “Don’t you dare, missy! If you cry, I cry, and then the makeup is done for.”
“I’m not crying,” I lie shamelessly.
She turns from the mirror and takes both my hands. Her fingers are warm. Mine are freezing, per usual. I’m always cold these days. The fire in my life is gone.
“Jill…”
“Nope,” I say, shaking my head. “Don’t do the voice.”
She ignores my request as she squeezes my fingers. “You deserve this, too, you know.”
“Proper circulation in my extremities?”
“A person. Someone who sees you.” Her eyes search my face. “Someone who stays.”
I have to look away. Out the window, the garden below is strung with white lights. Chairs stand in neat rows. Lukas waits at the end of the aisle in a dark suit, hands clasped, looking up at the window like he can sense Rae through the glass.
“I’m good, Sunshine,” I tell her. “I really am.”
She squints at me suspiciously. “Are you?”
“Mhmm. I have my job. I have you. I have my health. What else does a girl really need?” I tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “Not everyone needs a person. Some of us are perfectly fine solo.”
Rae doesn’t argue. But she clearly doesn’t believe me, either.
That’s fair, honestly.
I barely believe me.
The ceremony is beautiful. Rae floats down the aisle on her brother Gideon’s arm, and Lukas watches her approach with an expression I’ve never seen on any man’s face before. I’ve known for a long time that a Lazarev man is willing to do terrible things to get what he wants and protect what is his.
This is that, yes, but it’s also surrender. Total, willing, grateful surrender.
He’d give her everything.
Including himself.
They wrote their own vows. Lukas goes first. Rae cries through every word of hers. Gideon, seated in the front row, cries harder, that big cupcake. I’m glad he’s doing well now that he’s out of rehab and back on his feet.
But truthfully, my attention is a little divided.
I can’t help scanning the garden again and again while they speak.
For the most part, it’s a lush green backdrop with a foreground of white.
White chairs, white lights, white flowers.
Lukas’s people on the left, sparse and stoic.
Rae’s side is fuller, lined with coworkers, college friends, and a few of Gideon’s recovery buddies who clean up surprisingly well in borrowed blazers.
But every glance confirms what I already knew.
No dark hair.
No gray eyes.
No cinnamon on the breeze.
He’s not here.
I knew he wouldn’t be, and I didn’t even dare to hope, not truly. But there’s one last little ember that Kir left in me that refuses to die. It hurts when it flickers, but I still don’t want it to go out. Not yet. Not quite yet.
The party moves indoors as the sun drops.
I may have gotten a little carried away when Rae put me in charge of choosing floral arrangements for the reception, because now, every single flat surface is covered in a spray of bright summer flowers.
It’s like we’re living in a rainbow. A jazz trio jams in the corner, happy and cool, and I’m just as effervescent thanks to some copious champagne consumption.
I’m standing near the bar with one of Rae’s college friends, a sweet woman named Cora who’s telling me about her toddler’s recent obsession with putting grapes up his nose.
I laugh at the punchline, or start to, but then my gaze drifts past Cora’s shoulder toward the tall glass doors that open onto the garden.
The chairs are still out there, empty now, the white fabric covers ruffling in the evening breeze.
And at the far edge of the garden, just beyond the reach of the string lights, someone is standing.
My laugh dies.
He’s leaning against the stone wall where the garden meets the tree line, hands in the pockets of a dark coat. Thin. Tan. His hair is longer, curling past his ears, and his beard is scruffy in a way I like.
But it’s him.
It’s Kir.
He sees me see him. His mouth twists up in the half-grin that melts my insides every single time.
“Are you alright?” comes a voice from behind me.
I follow Cora’s gaze to see that my champagne glass is shaking and sloshing bubbly all over the rim. I set it down in a hurry. “Sorry,” I blurt to her. “I have to— Er, just, sorry. Excuse me.”
Cora asks again if I’m okay, but I ignore her.
I’m walking—no, running—toward the glass doors, weaving between tables and chairs, bumping people on accident, not caring.
My hand finds the door handle. Evening air rakes my bare arms. I shiver even though it’s plenty warm, but I keep going, heels sinking into the soft grass, moving toward the edge of the garden.
Toward where he waits.