Chapter 7 #3
A low murmur rolls through the guests. I see it happen in real time, like a ripple across water. People start looking around, trying to guess what he means. Trying to find the story inside the speech.
Jason gives them one.
“I’m grateful Sarah chose love,” he says, turning toward her with a glowing look that makes her soften, makes her eyes shine. “I’m grateful she chose courage. That she chose not to listen to negativity.”
Sarah smiles at him, proud, touched, completely taken in.
My chest aches. I want to reach across the aisle and shake her. I want to tell her to listen to the way he says it, the way every sentence is a knife wrapped in silk.
Jason’s voice turns gentler, almost tender.
“There are lies that jealous people spread,” he says, and the word jealous lands like a stone. “There are people who cannot handle rejection gracefully, who hold on to old relationships that ended badly, and try to poison what is good because they cannot stand seeing someone else happy.”
My face goes hot. Not a flush, a blaze. I can feel it climbing up my neck and into my cheeks.
I keep my expression still. I try. But disgust flashes across my face before I can stop it, sharp and honest. I feel it happen, the betrayal of my own body.
Jason sees it.
His smirk vanishes. His eyes narrow for a fraction of a second, a quick flash of something mean and satisfied. Like he has confirmation that his hook landed.
Oh god.
Around me, the murmurs grow. I hear my name in pieces, not said fully, but hinted at. I catch the way heads tilt toward me. I can feel the glances landing on my hair, my dress, my face, measuring me against his story.
Bitter ex. Unable to move on. Jealous. Negative.
My fingers tighten around the glass until the stem threatens to snap.
I force myself to breathe and look up again, scanning the patio as if I am simply admiring the setup.
Long buffet tables under cream canopies.
Silver serving dishes steaming in the cold air.
Staff moving quietly with trays of bread and soup.
White roses tucked into greenery along the aisle.
Mountains beyond, bright and peaceful under a clear sky like the world has no idea what kind of rot sits in the middle of this wedding.
At the far end, a cluster of older relatives whisper behind their hands. At another table, someone’s aunt leans in to her neighbor, eyes darting to me with curiosity that turns my stomach. A cousin I barely remember watches me with open interest, like this is entertainment now.
I feel exposed. Picked clean.
Under the table, Tyler’s foot nudges mine, gentle and grounding. Marcus’s hand rests briefly on the edge of my chair, steady pressure, then withdraws. Alexander says nothing, but the way he’s watching Jason looks like he is mapping a kill.
Jason finishes with a flourish, lifting his glass toward the sky. “To family. To unity. To healing.”
Scattered applause breaks out. Not enthusiastic, but polite enough to make it worse. Like they’re clapping for my humiliation.
I keep my face still, but I feel it. Every stare lands like a thumb pressing into a bruise.
I glance at Sarah.
She’s sitting upright, hands folded in her lap, her smile frozen on her mouth like it doesn’t belong there.
Her eyes are wide and blank, as if her mind has left the room to spare her the impact of what is happening.
She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t say a word. She just sits there and lets it happen.
That hurts more than Jason’s speech ever could.
My throat tightens. I swallow, once, twice, but it doesn’t help. My chest feels too full, like there’s no space for air. I lift my glass and take a sip of wine just to have something to do with my mouth. It tastes like metal.
Jason’s eyes meet mine, and he gives me that small, satisfied smirk, the one that says he knew I would react, that says he wanted this.
I lower my gaze to the table, the white linen, the neat arrangement of cutlery, the tiny place cards that suddenly feel like props in a play I never agreed to perform in. My hands are steady only because I force them to be. My face is calm only because I have practiced calm like a skill.
Someone at another table laughs at a joke I don’t hear. A server approaches with plates. People begin to move, to shift, to turn their attention toward food and conversation as if the moment has already passed.
That’s my opening.
I push my chair back slowly, careful, controlled.
I pick up my napkin and set it on the table like I’m simply excusing myself for a minute.
Like I’m not about to fall apart. I stand while the noise rises, while the lunch begins in earnest, while other people are focused on their own glasses and plates.
No one stops me.
I walk away at a normal pace, my heels sinking slightly into the snow, my posture straight. I pass the edge of the gathering where the clumps of pine and decorative lanterns create pockets of shadow. The moment I’m out of the direct line of sight, the first tear slips free.
Then another.
Then I can’t stop them.
I keep walking, faster now, my breath sharp and uneven. I press my fingers to my face, trying to wipe them away, trying to keep it quiet, trying not to make a sound that would pull attention toward me. My vision blurs. The bright tables behind me become a wash of color and movement.
The cold air hits my wet cheeks and makes them sting.
I reach the side path that leads back toward the lodge, bordered by snowbanks that have started to slump under the morning sun. The snow looks innocent. The sky is painfully blue. Everything is beautiful in a way that feels cruel.
I blink hard, but the tears keep coming.
I hate him. I hate him so much my body shakes with it. And I hate that he can still do this to me, that he can still turn a room against me with a few well-chosen words and a sympathetic look.
Most of all, I hate that Sarah did nothing. Not even a glance. Not even a twitch of protest. Just silence.
I make it to the lodge door and slip inside, trading bright outdoor light for warm wood and dim quiet. The air smells like pine and coffee and polish. My footsteps are muffled by thick rugs. The world is softer here, but the hurt is not.
I don’t stop until I find an empty stretch of hallway, until I’m sure no one is watching.
Then I press my palm to my mouth, and I let myself breathe, shaky and broken, the sound swallowed by the walls that used to feel like home.