Chapter 1 #2
At least we'll get to spend some time together before the chaos of the wedding week really begins. Maybe that'll help. Maybe seeing him, talking to him, will remind me why I said yes in the first place.
I sip my tea and try to quiet the voice in my head that keeps whispering: This should feel different. This should feel like more.
Two hours later, there's a knock at my door. I've spent the time attempting to work on a presentation, giving up, and eventually settling on mindlessly scrolling through social media. I'm still in my yoga pants and sweatshirt when I open the door.
Miles stands in the hallway, hands in the pockets of his khakis. His dark hair is slightly messy, like he's been running his hands through it. He's wearing his favorite blue button-down, the one that brings out his eyes.
"Hey." He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Hey yourself." I step aside to let him in.
He kisses my cheek as he passes, then heads straight for the couch. He's comfortable here, knows where everything is. Three years together means he has his own drawer in my dresser, a toothbrush in my bathroom, a spot on my couch that's basically his.
"How was your day?" I close the door and join him, tucking my legs underneath me.
"Long." He leans his head back, closing his eyes.
"The city council story is getting more complicated. My editor wants another round of fact-checking before we can publish."
"Sounds stressful."
"It is." He opens his eyes, turning to look at me.
"How was the wedding planner?"
"Good. Everything's confirmed. Christina says we're all set." I pause.
"My mom called."
He groans. "Let me guess. She's worried about something."
"Everything. The venue, the food, whether I'm sure about marrying you."
A flash of something crosses his face. Guilt? Anxiety? It's gone before I can identify it.
"Are you?" he asks quietly. "Sure, I mean."
The question catches me off guard.
"Of course I'm sure. Why would you ask that?"
He shrugs, looking away.
"I don't know. Pre-wedding jitters, I guess."
"You're the one with jitters?" I try to keep my tone light, teasing.
"I'm not the one who looks like I'm about to face a firing squad."
"I don't look like that."
"Miles." I reach over and take his hand.
"Are you okay? You've seemed really distracted lately."
"I'm fine." He squeezes my hand but still won't meet my eyes.
"Just work stress. And wedding stress. It's a lot."
It's a lot. That's what we're calling it now?
"Do you want to grab lunch?" I ask, changing the subject.
"We could walk down to that sandwich place you like. Get out of the apartment for a bit."
He checks his watch.
"Actually, yeah. That sounds good. Let me just..." He pulls out his phone, frowning at the screen.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Just checking something." He types a quick message, then pockets the phone.
"Okay, yeah. Let's go eat."
I change quickly into jeans and a sweater while Miles waits on the couch. When I emerge from the bedroom, he's staring at the garment bag with my wedding dress inside and he has an unreadable expression.
"What are you thinking?" I ask.
He startles slightly. "Is that the dress?"
"Yeah. But you can’t see it,” I say.
“It’s bad luck. You have to wait until Saturday,” I say with a smile.
"Right. Saturday." He stands abruptly.
"Should we go?"
The shift in his energy is palpable. Whatever he was thinking about while staring at that garment bag, it wasn't pleasant.
We leave the apartment and walk down to the elevator. The afternoon has turned cooler, and I'm glad for my leather jacket. Miles walks beside me, hands still in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched.
"Let's just walk," he suggests once we're outside.
"There's a place a few blocks from here. Italian deli."
"Sounds perfect."
We fall into step together, navigating the crowded sidewalk. On weekends, this neighborhood is always busy—young professionals grabbing brunch, families heading to the park, tourists consulting maps on their phones.
Miles and I have walked these streets dozens of times over the past three years. We have our favorite coffee shop, our favorite Thai restaurant, our favorite bar for trivia night. We've built a life together in this city.
So why does it feel like we're walking next to each other instead of with each other?
***
The Italian deli is warm and crowded, filled with the scent of fresh bread and marinara sauce. We manage to snag a small table by the window after ordering at the counter. Miles gets his usual—turkey and provolone on focaccia. I order the caprese panini.
"So," I say once we're seated with our sandwiches and drinks.
"Tell me about your week. We've barely talked."
He takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully.
"The city council investigation is consuming everything. We've got evidence of kickbacks, falsified contracts, the whole nine yards. The story's going to be big."
"That's exciting." I sip my iced tea.
"When does it publish?"
"Hopefully in a couple weeks. After..." He trails off.
"After the wedding," I finish.
"Yeah."
We eat in silence for a moment. I watch him, noting the tension in his jaw, the way he's not quite making eye contact.
"Are you going to tell me what's really bothering you?" I ask finally.
He looks up, surprised.
"What do you mean?"
"Miles, I've known you for three years. I can tell when something's on your mind."
He sets down his sandwich, wiping his hands on a napkin.
"I'm just thinking about everything changing. After next Saturday, we're not just Scarlett and Miles anymore. We're husband and wife. It's permanent."
"That's kind of the point of marriage," I say gently.
"I know. I know that. It's just..." He runs a hand through his hair.
"My whole life, I've avoided permanent. I moved to Chicago to get away from New York, from the family business, from all of that pressure.
Journalism felt like freedom, you know? I could write stories, move around, not be tied down to anything. "
My stomach twists.
"And now you feel tied down?"
"No. That's not what I meant." He reaches across the table for my hand.
"You're not a burden, Scarlett. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."
"Then what is it?"
He's quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing circles on the back of my hand.
"I guess I'm just wondering if I'm ready. If I'm the right person for this. For you."
The honesty stings more than I expected.
"Where is this coming from?"
"I don't know. Cold feet, maybe? Everyone says that's normal, right?"
Everyone says a lot of things are normal. That doesn't make them true.
"Your mom's flying in Friday morning," I say, trying to redirect.
"She'll be at the rehearsal dinner that night. I'm looking forward to seeing her again."
Barbara and I have met a few times—once when she visited Chicago last year, and I flew down to Florida with Miles for a long weekend about eight months ago.
She's warm but reserved, the kind of woman who keeps her emotions carefully controlled.
I liked her well enough, though I never felt like I truly knew what she was thinking.
"Yeah, she's excited about the wedding." Miles picks up his sandwich again.
"Dax is flying in Thursday morning too."
"I'm sure you're happy your brother's finally coming to town." I take another bite of my panini.
"When's the last time you saw him?"
His expression shifts, something complicated passing over his features.
"It's been over two years since I've seen him in person. We text occasionally, talk on the phone for birthdays or major holidays. That's about it."
"That must be hard. Only having one sibling and barely talking."
He shrugs.
"We're not close. Not really. Things changed after Dad died. Dax took over Blackwell Media Corp, threw himself completely into the business. Built it into one of the top media conglomerates in the country. He's incredibly successful. Ruthless, actually. Everything I never wanted to be."
There's something in his voice. Admiration? Resentment? Maybe both.
"Is that why you moved to Chicago? To get away from all that?"
"Partly. I didn't want to live in Dax's shadow. I wanted to make my own way, you know? Journalism felt like the right path. Something completely separate from the family empire."
I've heard bits and pieces of this before, but Miles rarely talks about his family in depth.
His father died ten years ago, around the time Miles was starting his journalism career.
His mother moved to Florida not long after.
Dax took over the company and apparently became a workaholic. The brothers drifted apart.
"What's he like?" I ask.
"I mean, I've never met him. You barely mention him."
Miles considers this.
"Dax is... intense. Focused. He's brilliant with business strategy, completely driven. He doesn't do anything halfway. When we were kids, he was always the one in charge, always making plans, always three steps ahead of everyone else."
"Sounds intimidating."
"He can be." Miles picks at the crust of his bread.
"He's not a bad guy. Just different from me. We want different things out of life."
"Well, I'll finally get to meet him this week."
Something flickers across Miles's face again. That same complicated expression from earlier.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Fine. Just hoping he actually shows up on time. He's always working. Even for this, he could only spare a few days away from the office. He flies in Thursday morning, stays through the weekend, then heads back to New York Sunday."
"He's making the effort. That's something."
"I guess."
We finish our lunch, the conversation drifting to safer topics.
The rehearsal dinner logistics. Which groomsmen are most likely to embarrass Miles with their speeches.
Whether Sarah and Jane are going to cry during the ceremony.
Surface-level things that don't require us to examine whatever strange tension has settled between us.