31. Chapter 31
Cate
Present
Amy hugged me the way she always had, with firm arms, her chin tucked over my shoulder, and her fingers pressing slow circles into my back like muscle memory might still work.
But it didn’t.
Ten years ago, there had been hope in that hug. Back then, John had only been gone a week. Missing didn’t mean forever - not yet. Now, Amy held me like someone saying goodbye to a feeling she’d already buried.
“He’s not coming back,” she whispered, smoothing my hair.
The words landed gently. Almost kindly. I let them sit there between us without agreeing or arguing.
I pulled away first. I always did.
“Thank you,” I said, soft and careful, like gratitude was safer than truth. “What time is it?”
Amy glanced at her phone. A picture of Jim and the kids filled the screen with their sticky smiles, and sunburned noses, proof that life moved on.
“Quarter to five.”
Mr. Woo locked his doors at five-oh-one. He’d made that very clear.
“I should get dressed,” I said. “I’m already late.”
Amy nodded, relief flickering across her face. Movement. A plan. Something normal.
I stood and went to my bedroom before she could say anything else.
The dress Trevor had chosen for the rehearsal hung over my closet door, pristine and waiting. I slipped it on without looking at myself, careful not to disturb my hair. I didn’t need the mirror to tell me I looked fine. Looking fine had never been the problem.
When I stepped back into the living room, Amy smiled. “You look perfect. Trevor will love it.”
She handed me a pair of flats. I slid them on and nodded once.
“Thanks.”
We drove in silence.
Mr. Woo’s shop was dark when we pulled up.
I laughed under my breath. “Of course.”
“Want me to come in with you?” Amy asked.
“No.” The word came too quickly. I softened it. “I’ll be right back.”
I should have been worried.
The dress. The timing. The fact that it was the night before the wedding and I was standing outside a darkened shop.
But part of me didn’t care.
What was the worst that could happen?
I knocked, the sound hollow against the glass. “Mr. Woo?”
Nothing.
On impulse, I tried the handle.
The door opened easily, the bell jangling sharply overhead. I flinched, glancing back at Amy before stepping inside.
The shop was dim, quiet except for the rustle of plastic somewhere in the back. Light spilled from beneath the office door.
“Mr. Woo?” I called again.
The back door swung open, and he appeared holding a garment bag high over his shoulder, scowl firmly in place.
“You late, Miss Larkin,” he scolded.
I startled upright, heat rushing to my face. “I know. I’m sorry.”
He stepped forward and pressed the bag into my hands. “Go. I lock up now.”
“But…”
“You no be late rehearsal,” he added, steering me gently but firmly toward the door. “You go.”
I smiled despite myself.
He always pretended to be gruff, like kindness embarrassed him. But he’d stayed. He hadn’t left when he could have.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
He waved me off, already turning away.
Outside, the bell chimed again as the door shut behind me. I stood there for a moment, the garment bag heavy in my arms, before carrying it back to the car.
On the drive to the church, the phone rang.
Then again.
Florist. Caterer. Someone from the church.
I let them all go to voicemail.
Amy glanced at me but didn’t say anything. She’d learned, over the years, which silences were off-limits.
When we pulled into the church parking lot, the sun was already dipping low, staining the sky the color of old bruises. I searched the lot without meaning to.
Amy touched my arm. “You okay?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Just tired.”
She pulled my makeup bag from her purse. “Close your eyes.”
As she worked, I stared at the church doors in front of us, tall, heavy, and unyielding.
Once, a long time ago, I’d stood in front of doors like these and believed love was enough to keep someone from disappearing.
I knew better now.
When Amy finished, she leaned back and smiled. “There.”
I reached for the garment bag at my feet and held it a little closer.
“Ready?” she asked.
I took a breath.
Not steady. Not calm.
Just enough.
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go.”