Chapter 34
PEYTON
On Saturday morning, I go to a HIIT class at Gym and Tonic to burn off a bit of this restless energy. Liam has, of course, a home gym. But I prefer to be in a group of people, sweating together, with an instructor keeping our motivation high.
My phone rings just as I’m getting out of the shower at home. The caller ID reads: Margaret Rockwood.
A chill runs through me despite still being steamed from the shower. What does Liam’s mom want? Why is she calling me and not him?
“Hello?”
“Peyton, darling! I’m so glad I caught you,” she chirps. “I heard Liam got stuck in Sedona last night. Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“His flight is supposed to land at one. He should get home by three.”
“Oh, thank goodness, that’s wonderful.” She sounds over-relieved. “Could you swing by the house before then? I’d like to discuss something with you.”
“Can’t you, err… tell me on the phone?”
“No, this is more of an in-person type of conversation.”
Oh, gosh. The last thing I want is a heart-to-heart with my mother-in-law. But I’m also the worst at thinking on my feet when under pressure. So when I cannot find a plausible excuse not to go in the next three seconds, I spit out a reluctant, “Sure.”
“Fantastic, come over as soon as possible.”
She hangs up before I can ask what’s the urgency.
I stare at my phone. A creeping unease settles in my gut, but I push it down. Margaret is enthusiastic. She’s been wanting to do more family activities since the dinner, but between work, my parents’ visit then Emma’s we haven’t had the chance.
I dry my hair, pull on jeans and a sweater, and drive to the in-laws’. No point in delaying. If I stay home, I’ll spend the morning wondering what she wants with me. Plus, if I go right away, I’ll be back before Liam returns, and we can finally have a moment alone.
But when I get to Liam’s parents’ house, the nagging in my gut that something is wrong spikes. The first sign of trouble is the fleet of white vans parked along the circular driveway.
The second issue is the floral arrangements over-flooding the patio and being carried into the house by two men in white uniforms.
My hands grow cold on the steering wheel.
I park and walk toward the house on numb legs.
The front door is propped open. Inside, the foyer has been transformed.
Peach, pink, and burnt-orange roses cascade from every surface, their sweetness thickening the air.
Candles line the staircase. A towering cake is parked on the dining room table, five tiers of pristine fondant crowned with sugar flowers.
I’ve already seen this show. I’ve lived inside it. The flowers, the candles, the cake—all of it beautiful, all of it decided without me.
A maid comes to take my jacket, making me feel even more underdressed in my casual clothes without my outer layers. Especially as Margaret appears in a floor-length emerald-green velvet gown, her hair blown out, diamond studs in her ears.
“There she is!” She rushes forward and clasps my hands.
“Hi, Margaret.” I give her a perfunctory hug. “Are you… um… having a party?”
“Oh, darling, the party is for you. Since you and Liam didn’t have a proper ceremony, I’ve arranged a vow renewal to celebrate. Took me over a month to organize everything.”
Ah, that’s why she’s been so quiet. Lure us into a false sense of security and then spring an ambush wedding on us.
“But don’t worry,” she continues. “It’s nothing extravagant; I’ve only invited family, a few friends, and the pastor.”
Nothing extravagant. Right. Just a casual string quartet, a five-tier cake, and an event planner with a headset barking orders at a team of florists.
“And—” Margaret’s eyes sparkle. “I had a dress made for you.”
She means well, I know she does. She’s giving me a gift. But all I can hear is the front door swinging shut behind me, trapping me in. I’m too shocked to even protest as she leads me deeper inside the house to a guest bedroom on the ground floor.
The room has a queen bed, a dresser with a mirror, and a wedding gown in a clear garment bag hanging from the closet door.
It’s a sleeveless A-line gown crafted from layers of soft, flowing tulle in a neutral champagne tone.
The bodice has a deep V-neckline trimmed with a cascade of rose appliqués in warm shades of apricot, peach, and soft terracotta that cluster at the waist and trail down the length of the skirt.
It’s ethereal and harvest-chic. Perfect for a fall wedding.
Less stiff than the gown Matt’s mother convinced me to pick, much more to my taste. But I don’t want to put it on.
Not because it isn’t beautiful. But because I didn’t choose it.
Because I wasn’t asked. Because this is how it started before—one decision made for me, then another, then another, until I was standing in a church in a dress I didn’t pick, holding flowers I didn’t want, about to marry a man I was terrified of, and every single element of that day had been chosen by someone else while I smiled and said thank you.
“Do you like it?” Liam’s mom asks.
“Margaret, I— The dress is gorgeous,” I say, because it is. “This is so generous, but I don’t think—”
“Nonsense.” She waves a hand. “Every bride deserves her moment. The hair and makeup team is on the way. We have two hours before the ceremony starts.”
She leaves before I can protest, closing the door behind her. I almost expect to hear the lock click, but of course it doesn’t.
It doesn’t need to. I’m already locked in. Someone else’s will is taking over, drowning out my voice.
I stand in the center of the room, staring at the dress.
My vision tunnels. The edges go dark and fizzy. My chest constricts, the phantom pressure of a corset I’m not even wearing squeezing my ribs until each breath is a fight.
I’m back at the church with bobby pins stabbing my scalp, and Matt’s mother adjusting my veil.
I call Liam, but his phone goes straight to voicemail. He must be in the air.
Okay. Fine. I’ll handle this myself. But how? By accommodating his mother? By fitting into the shape of what’s expected?
I can’t. I can’t do it again.
It’s not the party, the dress, or the cake.
It’s that I can feel myself starting to fold.
The instinct is still inside me, alive and ready, waiting for this kind of pressure to rear its ugly head.
Weeks of trying to find myself again, and it takes one afternoon to whip me back to the woman Matt made me.
Is this what it will always be with Liam? His family’s money, his family’s house, his family’s plans—and me, somewhere inside all of it, shrinking to fit? I have feelings for him. But I want to express them in my own terms, at my own pace. Not like this.
What do I do?
Someone knocks on the door.
“Yeah?”
A woman in all black walks in and guides me to the chair in front of the dresser. I sit because my legs won’t hold me. Another woman follows her and unpacks a case of makeup. Brushes sweep across my cheeks. Fingers twist my hair. Bobby pins slide into my scalp, each one a painful memory.
The panic builds in waves, each one cresting higher than the last.
I watch my face in the mirror change as they work. Foundation smoothed over my skin. My cheekbones carved higher with a brush. My lips glossed into compliance. I sit still and let it happen because these people are just doing their job. It’s not their fault.
But the more my features morph into those of a porcelain doll, the more I realize I’m not ready to stand in front of a crowd and recite vows that aren’t mine.
It feels wrong for completely different reasons than it did with Matt. But wrong all the same.
I can’t breathe.
The stylists finish. They help me into the dress and seal me in, the bodice tightening around my ribcage. Boning digs into my sides.
They plant me in front of the full-length mirror and coo their approval before leaving me alone.
Despite the slightly less constricting dress and more romantic hairstyle, I don’t see myself.
I see the woman from a month ago. The one standing in a chapel dressing room, suffocating in silk, staring at her own terrified face, and knowing she couldn’t go through with it.
She spent two years disappearing and called it love.
But what I feel for Liam is not that. It’s so much more. Whatever is blooming between us deserves better than this.
Another knock comes at the door.
“Mrs. Rockwood?” The event planner’s voice is crisp and efficient. “Your husband has arrived. We’ll begin in ten minutes.”
Liam is here. He’s back from his trip, and he’s walked into this spectacle his mother created without consulting either of us.
Ten minutes.
I turn away from the mirror. The room I’m in has French windows facing the side of the garden.
I stare at those doors.
The last time I ran from a wedding, I had to climb through a stained-glass window in heels and nearly broke my neck. This time, at least, the exit is at ground level. I kick off the shoes they gave me and put my sneakers back on.
I text Liam instead of calling because if I hear his voice, I’ll stay. And staying would break me in a way that I don’t know how to fix—it would break us.
Peyton
Sorry, I can’t do it
I plonk the phone into my bodice and cross the room. I flip the latch on the French windows and push them open. Chilly November air hits my face—cool, clean, smelling of wet grass and freedom.
I gather my skirts in both fists, hike the fabric above my knees, and step through the doors onto the garden path.
Then I run.