40. Chapter 40
Cate
Present
The church felt smaller than I remembered.
Not physically, nothing had moved, but the air was thicker, heavier, pressing in on me as I stood behind the closed double doors with my mother’s hand clasped in mine. The music had already begun. The low murmur of guests settled into a hush. Somewhere out there, Trevor was waiting.
There was no stopping this now.
Amy’s son, Tim, came through first, clutching the satin pillow with the rings like it weighed more than he’d expected. Her daughter Grace followed, scattering rose petals with solemn concentration, as if she understood the importance of every step.
Amy appeared beside me and pressed a bouquet into my hands.
Pink and white roses.
I stared at them, forcing a smile. I had never liked roses. They were stiff, traditional, something every other wedding had. I’d asked, once, about carnations instead. Peonies. Something softer.
Trevor had said no.
Amy must have seen something cross my face, because she didn’t rush away like she was supposed to. She stepped closer, lowering her voice.
“Hey,” she said gently. “You’re doing great.”
I huffed out a quiet breath. “That’s not exactly how I feel.”
Her smile softened. “You don’t have to feel any particular way today. You just have to take the next step.”
I looked at her then. Really looked. Was it my best friend talking, or Trevor’s sister in law?
“Thank you,” I said.
She squeezed my arm. “No matter what happens, I’ve got you. Okay?”
I nodded, my throat tight.
“And for the record,” she added lightly, “if you do decide to run, I will absolutely help you hide the evidence.”
I laughed, an actual laugh, and for a moment, the pressure in my chest eased. That was the best friend I knew.
“Ready?” Amy asked, cautious like she half expected me to bolt.
“As I’ll ever be.” I smoothed my hands down the front of my dress, wishing, absurdly, that I were wearing jeans. A t-shirt. Something that felt more like me.
She headed down the aisle, joining my sister and the bridesmaid Trevor had insisted on - someone from the club, someone who “fit.” I hadn’t argued. I hadn’t argued about most things.
My mother squeezed my hand.
“Sweetheart,” she said quietly, “if you’re not ready… people would understand. After everything…”
“I’m okay,” I said quickly. Too quickly. I smiled up at her, blinking hard. “Really.”
The music swelled and a moment later the doors opened.
And suddenly, everyone was standing.
I lifted my chin and stepped forward with my mother, the sound of our footsteps echoing softly beneath the music. Faces blurred together as I moved down the aisle - friends, family, strangers who felt entitled to witness this moment. I focused straight ahead.
On Trevor.
He stood tall at the altar, impeccably dressed, every detail in place. When our eyes met, his expression shifted.
For a heartbeat, he looked like the man I’d fallen for - steady, composed, so sure of us. The man who held doors open and remembered my coffee order.
Then his gaze moved over me, slow and deliberate.
He smiled.
It was flawless. Warm. The smile of a man who looked exactly as a groom should. But his eyes lingered a fraction too long, sharpening just enough to make my breath hitch. Not displeased, but measuring. As if committing the moment to memory, already deciding how it should have gone.
My mother squeezed my hand, grounding me.
I drew in a breath, lifted my chin, and smiled back at Trevor as we kept walking.
Halfway down the aisle, my focus wavered, just for a second. Long enough to remind myself I wasn’t alone.
Seth stood near the back, tall and still beside a woman who had to be his fiancée. His expression didn’t change when he saw me, but his eyes softened. He gave a small nod.
No judgment. No questions.
Just a silent, I’m here.
By the time I reached the altar, the reverend’s voice had faded into background noise. Trevor took my hands, closing the space between us - between everything.
His grip was warm. Steady. Familiar.
For a moment, everything held still - the music, the murmurs, the air between us. Like the room was waiting for him to speak.
I searched his face, trying to find something - certainty, comfort, a sign that this was right.
“Trevor,” the reverend prompted, “you may begin.”
He smiled at me, soft and confident, the smile that always reassured other people. The one that said I know what I’m doing.
“Cate,” he said, his voice carrying easily through the church, “from the moment I met you, I knew you were someone special. You’re thoughtful. Loyal. You bring calm into every room you walk into.”
A few guests murmured approvingly.
“I promise to take care of you,” he continued. “To protect what we have. To build a life where you never have to doubt where you belong.”
My chest tightened, not painfully, just… strangely.
“I promise to be patient when things feel uncertain,” he said, squeezing my hands. “To guide us when the path isn’t clear. To always put us first, even when it’s hard.
“I promise that you’ll never have to face the world alone again,” he finished. “You’re my wife now. My family. And I’ll make sure you’re always safe.”
His smile deepened as he said it, proud and certain.
The church was quiet as the reverend turned to me.
“Cate.”
My mouth felt dry. I swallowed and nodded, tightening my fingers around Trevor’s hands like they were an anchor.
“I, um…” I cleared my throat. “Trevor… you’ve always been someone I could rely on. You’re steady. You show up. You make plans and follow through.” A small, nervous laugh slipped out of me. “You remind me that not everything has to feel so complicated.
“I promise to stand by you,” I said, my voice steadier now. “To support you. To work through the hard days, even when it feels uncomfortable.”
Especially then.
“I promise to choose us,” I continued. “To keep trying. To be honest. To grow - together.”
My throat tightened, but I pushed through it.
“And I promise to love you,” I finished softly. “The best way I know how.”
Trevor squeezed my hands again, satisfied.
The reverend smiled. “By the power vested in me...”
I barely heard the rest.
“See?” Trevor murmured. “That wasn’t so hard.”
His hands were firm at my waist as he dipped me, his kiss practiced and assured. Applause rose around us.
“Mr. and Mrs. Reeder,” the reverend announced.
The name felt strange, like it didn’t quite fit, but I smiled anyway.
After all, that was what I did.
We turned toward our guests, smiling, waving, playing our parts. Applause followed us down the aisle, warm and loud and meant for someone else. Relief washed through me, sharp and unexpected. Was that normal? To feel relief instead of joy when it was finally over?
The moment we cleared the aisle, Trevor’s hand found my arm. Not rough. Not gentle. Just direct and claiming.
I barely had time to register it before a voice cut in, bright and efficient.
“Perfect, don’t go anywhere,” the photographer said, stepping into our path just beyond the sanctuary doors. “We’ll start right here.”
Trevor didn’t hesitate. He released my arm only long enough to reposition himself, already angling us toward the light streaming in through the tall windows.
“Of course,” he said easily. “Let’s get the family first.”
Not a question.
Guests lingered nearby, shifting, waiting to be called forward. The wedding party gathered behind us, bouquets adjusted, jackets straightened. Someone laughed. Someone fixed my veil. Time stretched, rearranged around the lens.
Trevor’s hand settled at my waist, firm and guiding, turning me slightly before I could move on my own. He smiled without effort, the version of himself meant for rooms full of people.
“Relax your shoulders,” the photographer instructed. “Chin up. Beautiful.”
I did as I was told.
Trevor’s fingers tightened, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me where I was supposed to be.
“Closer,” the photographer said.
He pulled me in, his arm solid around my back. Close enough that I could feel his breath shift when the camera lifted again. I smiled because everyone was watching. Because this was the part I knew how to play.
“Smile,” Trevor murmured, so softly only I could hear.
The shutter clicked.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
I wondered, distantly, how many years it would take before someone noticed how tightly he was holding me.
When the photographer finally stepped back, satisfied, Trevor’s hand slid from my waist to my arm again.
“Come here,” he murmured, steering me toward a side room away from the doors, away from the waiting guests.
“Trevor, everyone’s…”
“It’ll just take a second.”
The room smelled faintly of crayons and old hymnals. Sunday school posters lined the walls.
He stepped back and looked me over.
Slowly.
His expression didn’t harden, but something sharpened.
“Why didn’t you wear the dress?” he asked.
I glanced down at myself. “This is a wedding dress.”
“The other one,” he said. “The one I left for you in your dressing room.”
“I couldn’t,” I said quietly. “I told you that.”
His jaw tightened, then smoothed. “You could have tried harder.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. Out in the hallway, I heard Amy’s voice. Laughter, people waiting.
“Everyone’s expecting us,” I said. “Can we… can we talk about this later?”
He studied me for another second, then smiled. The version of him everyone liked.
“Of course,” he said. “You just caught me off guard.”
Relief loosened something in my chest.
He offered his arm and I took it.
Outside, the limo waited - white, polished, and perfect.
Trevor waved to the guests as he held the door open for me, smiling easily, the picture of a groom who had everything exactly as it should be. Once inside, the door shut with a soft, final sound.
The noise disappeared all at once.
Silence filled the space between us, thick and unfamiliar. The car lurched forward, smooth and steady, carrying us away from the church.
Trevor leaned back, loosening his tie just slightly as he exhaled.
“What’s been going on with you, Cate?”
I stared out the tinted window, watching the crowd blur into colorless shapes.
“What do you mean?”
“The rehearsal dinner. The distance. The dress.” He shook his head, not angry, just puzzled. Like he was trying to solve something that didn’t quite make sense. “I just don’t understand.”
I swallowed. The champagne sat untouched between us, bubbles slowly fading.
“I’m sorry,” I said. The words came automatically. “About last night. I didn’t mean for things to get… messy.”
He nodded. “I know.”
He paused, taking a deep breath.
“But I need you to talk to me,” he continued. “I can’t fix things if I don’t know what’s wrong.”
Fix things.
The phrase settled somewhere heavy in my chest.
I turned toward him, forcing a smile. “Nothing’s wrong. I just needed… time.”
He studied my face for a moment longer than necessary, as if weighing my answer. Then he leaned in and pressed a kiss to my forehead - tender, familiar, unmistakably possessive.
“You look beautiful,” he said softly.
His eyes dipped briefly, evaluative, before he smiled again, reassuring and sure.
“We’ll be fine.”