Chapter 42 Sophie
SOPHIE
Everything feels scattered.
The wedding is only a few days away, and it’s like every tiny detail Claire planned months ago is suddenly unraveling at the same time. My phone has basically turned into a panic button.
Claire: Do you think we need extra candles for the reception?
Claire: I can’t find the lavender ribbons for the centerpieces.
Claire: What if the flower girl trips?
I love my sister, but if she sends me one more text about table runners, I might actually scream.
Add in my mom basically writing off everything I told her about Halloween, claiming I’m simply “over exaggerating” and that is was simply a “miscommunication” and you could say my day isn’t really going super well.
By the time Beck and I slide into a booth at the little gluten-free café I found off campus, my brain is already halfway to a meltdown. He’s still in a T-shirt and joggers from morning weights, hair damp from a quick shower, looking annoyingly calm while I juggle a dozen mini crises in my head.
He slides a plate of fries toward me. “You look like you’re about to either cry or commit arson.”
I shoot him a flat look. “Both are on the table.”
He chuckles, leaning back with that easy grin that always manages to cut through the noise in my head. “Eat something first. Then burn things.”
I’m about to steal a fry when my phone buzzes again. I sigh. “If that’s another panic text about the cake—”
It’s Claire. Calling this time. I answer automatically. “Hey, what’s wrong now? Did the baker cancel?”
“Um, not exactly,” she says. Her voice sounds tight, a little breathless. “Are you alone?”
I glance at Beck. “No, I’m with Beck. Why? What happened?”
She exhales shakily. “Mom refused to uninvite the Pierces from Thanksgiving.”
For a second, I think I misheard her. “Wait—what?”
“And…” Claire hesitates, voice dropping, “she wouldn’t let me take them off the wedding guest list either.”
The words hit like a cold wave.
The Pierces. Zach’s parents.
I grip the phone tighter. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I tried, Sophie. I really did. I told her how you felt, what happened, that it wasn’t right to have them there. But Mom kept saying it would ‘cause unnecessary drama’ to change the guest list this late. She said we just need to ‘be civil.’”
My stomach twists. Civil. As if what Zach did upstairs at that party was just some uncomfortable misunderstanding instead of a reminder of every reason I don’t want him anywhere near me.
Beck’s watching me carefully now, the playful look gone, replaced with quiet concern.
“Okay,” I say finally, my voice clipped. “I’ll…figure it out.”
Claire sighs. “I’m sorry, Soph. I’ll do whatever I can to keep them out of your way, but—”
“I know,” I interrupt softly. “It’s not your fault.”
She hesitates again. “You still okay for the rehearsal dinner Friday night?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “I’ll be there.”
We hang up, and I set my phone down a little too hard on the table.
Beck reaches across the table and covers my hand with his. “What happened?”
“My parents,” I say, staring down at the salt shaker so I don’t have to look him in the eye. “They’re still inviting Zach’s family to Thanksgiving. And apparently, my mom also refused to let Claire take them off the wedding guest list.”
His jaw tightens immediately. “What?”
“Yeah.” I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Because apparently being ‘civil’ is more important than me not wanting to be around the family of the guy who cornered me at a party.”
The silence between us stretches. He doesn’t try to feed me empty reassurances. He just holds my hand a little tighter, thumb brushing against my skin like he’s grounding me there.
“I hate that you have to deal with that,” he says quietly.
“Me too,” I whisper. “But it’s not like I can stop the wedding.”
“No,” he says slowly. “But you don’t have to deal with it alone. I’ll be there, and I’m pretty sure Ava is just waiting for you to give her the green light to go absolutely insane on him.”
The unexpected comment punches a quiet laugh out of me, and some of the tightness in my chest loosens. “You’re probably not wrong. She’s been suspiciously calm lately.”
“She’s plotting,” he says with mock seriousness. “It’s what she does best. You say the word, and I give it twenty minutes before she’s on a mission.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “God, she would, too.”
His grin softens into something more careful. “Are you still planning on going to your parents’ place for Thanksgiving?”
The question sits between us for a second. I hadn’t even let myself think that far ahead—past the wedding, the rehearsal dinner, the mental gymnastics of seeing Zach’s family again.
“I don’t know,” I admit finally, “I need time to think about it. I can’t picture sitting at that table and pretending everything’s fine. But…it’s Thanksgiving. It’s complicated.”
He nods slowly, not pushing. “That’s fair. Just…whatever you decide, I’ve got you.”
My throat tightens a little, but in a good way this time. I squeeze his hand back. “I know.”
The waitress drops off the rest of our food, and Beck immediately starts stealing fries off my plate, like nothing in the world has changed. And honestly? Sitting here with him, it feels like I can handle the chaos waiting for me. Maybe not all at once. But piece by piece.
By the time we leave the café, my chest doesn’t feel quite so tight. Beck has that effect on me—calm, and just ridiculous enough to keep me from spiraling.
We walk toward the athletic complex, the late autumn breeze carrying that sharp bite that hints winter’s right around the corner.
I’ve swapped my jeans for leggings and pulled on my warm-up jacket, ponytail swinging as we cross the lot toward the stadium.
Beck’s gear bag is slung over his shoulder, his free hand brushing against mine with every step.
He glances down at me. “Hey…you know you’re always welcome to crash my family’s Thanksgiving, right?”
I blink up at him. “What?”
He shrugs, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. If you don’t want to deal with the Pierces or the awkward forced politeness, you can come hang with my crew. It’s a full house, but that’s kind of the point.”
My heart does a weird, fluttery thing. “Who’s all going to be there?”
He starts ticking them off on his fingers. “Dad, Caroline, Joey, and Alyssa, obviously. My grandparents on Caroline’s side—they come every year. My cousins. Then my mom’s parents are driving up from a few hours away, and her brother’s coming too. It’s…a lot. But it’s good.”
I stop walking without meaning to. “Wait. Your mom’s parents?”
He nods, like it’s no big deal. “Yeah. They’ve always come. Even after everything. They visit her at the hospital sometimes too.”
The way he says it is so matter-of-fact, but it hits me right in the chest. There’s no bitterness in his voice—just quiet acceptance. His family doesn’t cut people out. They hold them close, even when things are complicated.
“That’s…really beautiful,” I say softly.
He looks down at me, eyebrows slightly raised, like he hadn’t even considered that it might be remarkable. “Yeah. I guess it is.”
Something in my throat tightens. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent so much time lately feeling the edges of my own family—where their expectations cut and where they smooth things over for appearances.
The contrast between that and this—Beck’s family, choosing inclusion, making space—makes my chest ache in a good way.
He bumps my shoulder lightly. “So, if you decide you want to skip the awkward family politics, there’s always a spot at our table. Caroline makes way too much food anyway.”
I laugh quietly, but there’s a sting behind my eyes that has nothing to do with the wind. “Thanks, Beck. That…means a lot.”
He gives me that soft, slightly lopsided smile that always gets me. “Anytime.”
The sound of the whistle echoes faintly from the field ahead, pulling us both back to the moment. He grabs my hand for just a second before letting go.
“C’mon, Prescott,” he says with a grin. “Try to keep up.”
I roll my eyes and jog after him, heart a little lighter than it was this morning.
By the time practice wraps, the sky’s turning that dusky purple that makes everything feel a little softer, like the day’s exhale.
Ava and I grab smoothies on the way to my dorm, laughing about some of the football guys’ botched stunt attempts since they finished a little before us tonight, then haul her garment bag inside.
The room smells faintly like lavender from the little sachets Claire insisted I hang in my closet to keep my dress “wedding ready.” I unzip mine carefully, pulling out the deep plum, maid of honor gown.
It’s sleek and elegant with a sweetheart neckline and just enough structure that I can breathe and not feel like I’m being stuffed into a corset.
Ava flops dramatically onto my bed. “I’m just here for moral support. And snacks. Mostly snacks.”
“Of course,” I say dryly. “Your true calling.”
She sticks her tongue out at me, then pushes off the bed to help zip me up. The dress slides into place perfectly—thank you, multiple fittings—and I turn toward the mirror, smoothing it over my hips.
“You’re going to make the rest of the wedding party look like background extras,” Ava says, propping her hands on her hips.
I roll my eyes, but warmth blooms in my chest anyway. “Claire’s the one who picked it, not me.”
“She nailed it,” Ava declares. “Ten out of ten. Maid of honor material.”
Once I’ve twirled enough to satisfy her, Ava pulls out the deep green dress she’s wearing as my honorary emotional support person for the weekend. She steps into it and turns so I can zip it up for her.
As I smooth the fabric down, my gaze catches on the inside of her upper arm—just beneath the curve of her shoulder. There’s a dark bruise there. Not the kind you’d expect from a tumble or bumping into a doorframe—it’s oddly placed, like fingers had wrapped around her arm too tightly.
I frown. “Hey, what happened here?”