THIRTY-FIVE
This is it. I’m doing the thing.
The thing I have always judged other people for doing.
It’s the kind of thing I used to laugh at – people making grand gestures for a relationship that’ll statistically end in divorce. Desperate. Pathetic. A little bit delusional.
And yet, here I am.
Ticket? Check.
Lipstick? Mostly smudged – but also check.
Emotional stability? Not even remotely close.
Let’s rewind.
It all started when, as soon as I ended my call with Ella, I stumbled on #CalFoundHisRosie on Instagram, which, yes, made me want to claw my eyes out, but also turned out to be useful. Cal – Luke’s old uni mate – posted a photo of the wedding arch with a location tag.
Rosie’s sister followed up with a blurry but unmistakable video of the hotel signage in her Stories. I mean … you really can’t hide from a woman with wi-fi.
Fifteen minutes and three Instagram deep dives later, I had a flight booked, a room reserved, and a semi-functional plan.
Step one: Get to Darwin.
Step two: Don’t pass out from nerves.
Step three: Find Luke, pull him aside, tell him I love him.
Step four: Find emotional clarity? Possibly humiliation? Maybe build a pyramid scheme? TBC.
Of course crashing someone’s wedding is insane. But I’m not here to ruin anything. I’m not here to scream ‘I object!’ in the middle of their vows or fight the bride on the dance floor. I’m here to tell the truth to the man I love. For once.
Maybe I’ll find the car park where the real rom-com moments happen – after the speeches, when everyone’s barefoot and buzzed and the air smells of house wine and new beginnings.
I climb into a taxi and give the driver the address of the hotel I memorised yesterday while eating cereal straight from the box. The ride is short. The consequences of this decision will not be.
The hotel is aggressively nice. Glass everything. Air-conditioning so cold I could cry. It’s the kind of place where people wear linen not because it’s breathable, but because it matches the aesthetic.
I walk up to the front desk and am greeted by a receptionist who probably moonlights as a lifestyle influencer.
‘Hi there! Are you here for the Williams wedding?’
Her voice is so chirpy I consider faking laryngitis. Instead, I channel indifference. ‘Nope,’ I say. ‘But curious – what time is the wedding happening?’ Smooth.
She doesn’t even blink. ‘Ceremony starts in an hour by the garden. Reception starts at seven in the function room.’
She checks me in with a terrifying amount of warmth, hands me a key card and tells me I’ve been upgraded to a room with a partial ocean view, which is exactly what I deserve – half the beauty, half the peace.
As I head to the elevator, I pass a woman in a blush-pink dress who’s laughing into her champagne flute.
A guy in a navy suit adjusts his cufflinks and flashes her a smile.
People are checking their make-up in mirrored walls and fixing boutonnieres.
They all belong here. Meanwhile, I am made of static.
By the time I reach my room, my palms are slick and my brain is glitching. I drop my bag on the floor and freeze in front of the full-length mirror.
Hair – slightly frizzed from the flight but salvageable.
Dress – wrinkled.
Emotional state – dubious.
I strip. Shower. Scrub off the travel grime and the rising panic. When I step out, I stare at myself in the fogged mirror.
‘You’re doing this,’ I whisper. ‘You came all this way. Just … say what you came to say.’
I slip into a different dress. A soft green one that I never wear because it feels too much, too noticeable. Maybe tonight, that’s the point.
Hair up. Lips tinted. Mascara – applied with the shaky precision of someone trying not to cry.
Then I rehearse.
‘I love you,’ I say, straight to my reflection. ‘I’m a mess. But I’m working on it. And I don’t know if it’s too late, but you’re not forgettable. Not even close.’
It sounds stupid and too scripted.
I try again.
‘You were the only thing that felt real, and I was too scared to admit it. But I’m not scared anymore.’
Better, kind of.
I press my palms against the cool sink. Take a breath.
‘Okay,’ I tell the mirror. ‘Worst case, I humiliate myself. Best case, he kisses me in front of a fireworks display and the director yells, “Cut.”’
I rehearse the speech again on the way down in the elevator. It’s a mantra at this point. I love you. You were the only thing that felt real. Also, hi. It’s me. Surprise.
It sounds better in my head than it did when I said it to the mirror.
I breathe in too deep, then too shallow. I try not to imagine Luke gaping at me like I’ve grown three heads. Or worse – looking at me like he doesn’t care.
The elevator dings. The doors slide open with a self-important sigh.
I make my way to the bar, which is dim and polished and already starting to buzz with activity, full of strangers in semi-formal wear clinking glasses and talking too loudly.
It smells of citrus and cologne and something expensive I can’t identify.
And here I am. Not a guest. Not quite an intruder. Somewhere in the middle.
I find an empty stool at the far end of the hotel bar and order a gin and tonic.
My voice doesn’t tremble, but my hand does – slightly – when I pick up the glass.
The ice clinks against the sides as I take a sip.
Sharp. Clean. Familiar. It doesn’t calm my nerves, but it gives me something to do with my hands.
The sun is starting to sink outside the wall of windows. Golden hour through bevelled glass – a cruel sort of beautiful.
People are trickling through the garden, towards the function hall. They’re laughing and reapplying lip gloss and fixing each other’s dresses. I don’t want to go near it. Not unless I have to.
Not unless I see him first.
‘Hey,’ someone says beside me.
I turn slightly. It’s a man. Early forties. Button-down shirt too tight around the biceps. Smiling in a way that suggests he thinks he’s doing me a favour by existing.
‘Here alone?’
I don’t even look up properly. ‘Beat it.’
He blinks. His smile twists. ‘Bitch.’
I sip my drink. ‘You’ll survive.’
He walks off and I’ve forgotten him before he reaches the other end of the bar.
Because then – then – I see him.
On the other side of the floor-to-ceiling windows, out in the garden, walking slowly, is Luke.
It actually hurts. My heart is cracking open too fast, and my body can’t catch up.
He’s in a navy suit, the tie loose enough to remind me he’s always looked best slightly undone.
His hair’s lightly mussed and golden. The kind of golden that only comes from real time in real heat.
His skin glows – the sun is casting him in some kind of unfair, cinematic light, and I suddenly want to throw my drink at something.
He laughs – full and easy, throwing his head back – and it’s so loud I swear I hear it through the glass.
His arm is looped with someone else’s.
Lauren.
Of course.
She’s wearing a coral-coloured dress that makes her look both rich and whimsical. Her arm is tucked neatly around his, her face tilted towards his shoulder, auburn curls swaying in the slight breeze. She says something to Luke. He laughs again.
That’s what does it.
That laugh.
It’s the exact smile I’ve only seen once before – when we were riding horses, and he looked at me as if I was the sun and moon rolled into one.
That smile doesn’t belong to me anymore. Maybe it never did. My throat burns. My vision goes watery. I blink hard. Then again.
Maybe if I blink enough times, the scene will change. Maybe if I squeeze my eyes shut, this version of reality will let me go.
It doesn’t.
I down the rest of my gin and tonic, hoping it might dull the ache in my chest.
It doesn’t.
Suddenly, everything makes sense. Of course this plan was never going to work. That’s the trick, isn’t it? You let yourself believe in something long enough to feel it, and then it slips through your fingers because it was never yours to begin with.
I’ve been telling versions of the truth my whole life – trimming the edges, softening the tone. Smile here. Deflect there. Make it look good. Make it sound casual. But it’s all a cover. A lie stitched together from other people’s expectations. You can’t get hurt if no one ever really knows you.
Love? Relationships? They’re stories we tell ourselves to make the loneliness not feel so permanent. Regardless of the reason, they all end the same way every time – one person leaves, and the other is left to pick up the pieces.
I used to think if I could get it right – be enough, say the right thing, hold back the messy parts of myself – it would work, and I wouldn’t get hurt. But maybe there is no ‘right’. Maybe the whole thing is built to collapse no matter what you say.
Luke saw too much.
That’s the truth I can’t say out loud.
He saw the squishy, messy parts I’ve spent years learning to hide, and it scared the shit out of me. It was terrifying. Because if someone sees all of you and still moves on – then there’s nowhere left to hide.
I get up. Quietly. No dramatics. I don’t look towards the garden again.
I walk out of the bar, past the smiling strangers, past the bell of champagne glasses clinking, past the floral arrangements and framed seating charts and wedding signage with curly fonts that all scream, This day is not yours.
I keep walking.
What else is there to do?