33. Chapter 33
Cate
Present
Trevor watched from the driver’s seat until I got the door open.
Not in a sweet way. Not in a protective way. In the way you watch something you don’t quite trust not to break when you turn your back.
I gave him a small wave like that would make it normal. Like I wasn’t wearing tomorrow on my skin.
The taillights disappeared down the street, and the quiet rushed in to fill the space he left behind.
My townhouse was dark when I stepped inside - every curtain drawn, every blind shut.
It wasn’t even fully dark yet, but I’d been living like sunlight was something that could find the soft parts of me if I let it.
I kicked the door closed and leaned my forehead against it for a beat, letting the cool wood steady me.
“Why did I let him take my car,” I muttered, slurring the words before I even realized I was slurring.
Trevor had insisted. He always insisted. It was supposed to be our house tonight. One last night before we became “us” in a way that couldn’t be undone.
But I hadn’t wanted to go.
Not because I didn’t love him. Not because I didn’t intend to show up tomorrow. But because I needed… something. A pocket of air. A last, selfish breath where I didn’t have to perform okayness for anyone.
I stumbled into the kitchen and tossed my purse onto the counter. The silence was so complete it felt like it had weight.
I kicked off my shoes. One landed upright. The other toppled on its side like it had given up.
My phone sat heavy in my purse. I could feel it without touching it, buzzing in my imagination with the things I didn’t want to know - last-minute questions, confirmations, cheerful voices asking if I was so excited.
I didn’t want excited.
I didn’t want tomorrow.
Not because I didn’t want the wedding - because I did. Or at least, I wanted the version of it that didn’t require me to amputate a decade of grief to make room for vows.
I opened the cabinet I’d been avoiding for months - the back corner of the top shelf, where I’d shoved everything I didn’t trust myself around.
The whiskey was still there.
A squat bottle with a label that had started to peel, like it had been waiting long enough to get bored.
“Hello, old friend,” I whispered, and the sound of my own voice in the empty house made my throat tighten.
I found a glass, one of the cheap ones I hadn’t bothered replacing because I barely used it, and poured a generous splash. I stared at it for half a second as if I might change my mind, then tipped it back.
The burn hit first. Then warmth. Then a looseness that had nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with surrender.
I poured another.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I heard Amy’s voice, Don’t. Not tonight. And Trevor’s, Cate, please, just come home. And then my own, It’s one night. Let me have one night.
I drank the second one faster.
I should’ve gone to bed. Should’ve washed my face. Should’ve been the woman who cared about weddings.
Instead, I stood in the middle of my kitchen with my hand wrapped around a glass and felt the edges of myself blur.
I poured a third and carried it to the living room, then stopped halfway there because something flickered in my peripheral vision, a dull pulse from my purse.
I blinked, annoyed. Confused.
Then I remembered…
My phone was off; it couldn’t be doing anything.
Unless…
I went back to the counter and dug my phone out, fingers clumsy. My thumb hovered over the power button for a beat, my stomach tightening like I already knew what I’d see on the other side.
I pressed it and the screen lit up.
For a second, it was just the boot logo. Innocent. Neutral.
Then it loaded, and everything I was avoiding came rushing in.
Missed calls stacked like a staircase.
Voicemail notifications.
Texts.
My chest tightened so fast it felt like my ribs were closing.
I should’ve set it down. I should’ve turned it off again. I should’ve let morning deal with it.
But the little voicemail icon sat there like a blinking wound.
I stared at the screen, breathing shallow, and told myself they were wedding things. Catering. The florist. Someone confirming seating charts I didn’t care about.
My finger moved anyway.
I pressed play.
The first voicemail was exactly what I expected - a bright, professional voice, cheerful and oblivious.
“Hi, Cate! Just calling to confirm tomorrow’s reception. Please give us a call back tonight if you can to finalize timing. Congratulations again!”
I laughed once, harsh and humorless.
Congratulations.
I ended the voicemail before it finished and dropped the phone onto the counter like it had offended me.
I poured another drink.
I didn’t need to hear the second one. I already knew what it would be. Another confirmation. Another reminder. Another voice assuming I was a normal bride about to have a normal day.
But the second voicemail sat there like it had weight. Like it was different. Like it had a pulse.
I shouldn’t.
I did.
My thumb hit play.
“Cate.”
Just my name. No bright tone. No false cheer.
My body went cold.
It took me a second to place the voice, because it didn’t belong in my present life.
Because it had lived ten years back, in that other world, the one with John’s laughter and Baby’s nails clicking on the hardwood and the smell of rain in the garage.
“Cate, it’s me. Seth.”
My grip tightened on the edge of the counter.
“I know I’m the last person you want to hear from right now,” he went on, voice low, rough around the edges like he hadn’t practiced saying these words out loud. “I got the invitation. That’s not why I’m calling.”
My heart hammered once, hard enough to make my vision flash.
There was a pause, just long enough for my brain to start screaming no, for my body to brace for something it didn’t have language for.
Then Seth said it.
“They found John. Call me as soon as you get this. We need to get down to the police station.”
I didn’t move.
I couldn’t.
The air in the room felt wrong, like pressure before a storm. Like the house itself had shifted on its foundation.
I hit replay.
“They found John.”
I hit replay again, my thumb slipping, my hands shaking.
“They found John.”
My stomach lurched so hard I had to grab the counter with both hands.
The whiskey in my glass trembled, a dark ripple against the sides.
My mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Because there was only one thought in my head, loud enough to drown out everything else.
No.
Not now.
Not tonight.
Not the night before I finally said goodbye.
The glass slipped from my fingers and hit the sink with a crack that sounded like breaking bone.
I didn’t even flinch.
All I could hear was Seth’s voice, again and again, looping through my phone like a curse.
They found John.
They found John.
They found John.
And for the first time in ten years, I couldn’t tell which terrified me more…
That he was alive.
Or that he wasn’t.