Chapter Thirty
Rehearsal breakfast is on! said the text, which Layla looked at for a long time, unsure about that exclamation.
On the one hand, Manon was an exclamation-type person: how she delivered compliments, welcomes; how she received gifts, new people, news. So getting a text from her with one—a group text, no less, sent to all the guests—was not surprising.
On the other hand, Layla simply could not grasp how it was an exclamation-type morning.
Not after the looks on everyone’s faces at the open house last night, once it was clear that Michael and Emily were leaving, looking taut and pale and doomed.
Not after knowing what Michael had to tell Emily.
Even if they had patched it up—and Layla genuinely hoped they had—the breeziness from Manon struck her oddly.
Still, she was resolved as she walked back to the rental: freshly showered and back in her spreadsheet-planned outfit (“Rehearsal Morning: cream cardigan, olive green midi, beige heels”), prepared for what certainly sounded—judging by that exclamation—like a long day of pre-wedding and actual wedding events.
Were it not for the man walking beside her, she might have mistaken herself for the Layla of a few days ago, determined to plaster on an amicable smile, wearing her neutrals and wanting to go along, to get through it.
But she was not that Layla anymore.
And Griffin was beside her.
Quiet—increasingly, concerningly quiet—but still.
Beside her.
She stopped at the last turnoff, the one that would take them the remaining few steps to the apartment, and turned to him.
“I can go in first. If you want.”
A double-checking, that’s what she was doing. Earlier this morning, before she’d left his room to go back to her own, he’d been the one to suggest it—them going in together.
It’s not a secret, he said. I’m tired of secrets.
She’d been happy to say yes. Relieved and also strangely hopeful—as though their shared decision to show up to the breakfast together would somehow be the right sort of omen for how it worked out between Michael and Emily, free of their own secrets now, too.
Newly committed, about to be newlyweds.
Now, though, only a few steps away—already running a few minutes behind—Layla could not be sure he hadn’t changed his mind. It was his reticence, but it was also something else. Last-minute nerves, insecurity, cold feet. Like a groom on his wedding day.
“No,” he answered, which—even after every other interaction she’d had with him—seemed unusually curt.
Something must’ve shown on her face, and he reached up a hand, scrubbed it over the right side of his own.
“Sorry. Just, you know. Not sure what we’ll find in there. Would’ve rather—” He broke off, dropped his hand and cleared his throat. “Would’ve rather heard from Michael.”
She nodded, getting it. His own way of being bothered by that exclamation point. She waited for whatever his next move would be, but fortunately, she didn’t have to wait for long. After only a few seconds, he stepped forward and took her hand in his before they continued on their way.
Almost as soon as they walked in, though, Layla was no longer hopeful.
Not at all.
The space had been reset since last night—the couches and chairs no longer in the large living room, all of it replaced with a long, rustic wood dining table.
That might’ve been a good sign, a place for the breakfast they were meant to have after quickly running through the ceremony program in the courtyard, but the problem was, the table was totally blank. No centerpieces, no place settings.
And then there was the company. Griff and Layla didn’t seem to be the last to arrive—she didn’t spot the Nantes cousins, nor Miranda and Finance Guy. Michael’s uncle and cousin—she’d met them briefly last night—were there, but Damaris and Abram weren’t.
Most importantly: neither were Michael and Emily.
And those who were there did not look as though they expected the bride and groom to arrive anytime soon.
Or ever.
A quick scan of faces revealed varying degrees of bewilderment and concern, and that was before any of them even noticed Griffin and Layla.
Once that happened, at least a few expressions transformed: Rosie with an eyebrow raise, Fitz with a jaw-clench, Jamie—with his eyes drifting down to their joined hands before coming back to Layla’s face—with a frown of…
of something. Judgment or disappointment or worry or some other thing he had no right to.
Robert cleared his throat, breaking the silence.
“Layla,” he said, the lack of nickname as sure a sign as anything else. “Michael and Emily are not here.”
I see that, she didn’t say.
“Their things are also no longer here.”
Layla swallowed, feeling Griff’s hand dampen in hers. Yesterday, after the spa, Emily and Michael both were relocating most of their things to their rooms here. Certainly all the things they would need for today’s events.
“Oh,” she said, and silence fell again, which she guessed meant that she was now as caught up as everyone else who’d arrived here this morning.
Layla darted her eyes to Rosie, who no longer had her eyebrows raised in surprise at seeing Layla and Griffin together. But still, her expression was speaking: not quite as concerned as everyone else’s. Carefully neutral.
A very not-Rosie-like expression, and that’s when Layla knew.
That’s when Layla knew that Rosie—the maid of honor, of course the maid of honor, that’s how it always should have been, from that very first morning after—already knew whatever was about to happen next. Rosie had probably been the one to tell Manon that the rehearsal was on, to get everyone here.
As if on cue, Layla’s phone blared again in her purse—god, she’d forgotten the pager notification noise—and she rushed to the chair where she’d set it, rifling through the front pocket to get to her phone.
As she did, she became aware of other notifications, too: a ding there, a vibration over there, a trilling bell close by.
Everyone was getting a message.
Even Griffin.
They were no longer holding hands—he’d dropped hers, or she’d dropped his during the frantic phone-silencing—and Layla’s were shaking as she swiped across her screen.
As she scrolled in silence over the same message she assumed everyone else was seeing, too.
Dear family,
Michael and I are so sorry to tell you that we have mutually decided not to be married today.
We owe you all a much longer explanation and a much fuller apology for bringing you so far away for this magical week, only to have it end this way. We promise we will be in contact with each of you individually to do that, as soon as we are able.
I have asked Rosie to begin canceling various services that were set up for today, and I insisted that she not inform anyone until we sent this message.
Breakfast will still be served at the apartment shortly, and we ask that you do your best to enjoy yourselves and one another’s company in our absence.
By the time you receive this note, you should know that we are no longer in Paris. We are taking some time to make a decision about our respective futures.
We love you, and we thank you for supporting us throughout this past week, and in whatever comes next for us.
Emily & Michael
Layla was aware, as she read, that there were reactions—a gasp giving way to a little sob from Manon, a soothing cluck from Robert.
A “Well!” from Céline, a whispered “Which one is Rosie, again?” from Michael’s cousin, an unpleasant, gurgly squeak from someone whose sounds she did not know well enough to identify.
But mostly, she was focused on her own.
Her own, and Griffin’s.
She’d brought her hand up to her mouth as she read, lingering over the words that seemed to matter most—some that she wanted to see as optimistic, some that insinuated a more permanent severing.
Today.
We.
A decision.
Respective.
But Griffin had not moved at all. Not beyond looking—quickly, there was no way he could have read the whole thing—and sliding his phone into his back pocket.
Now, he was a statue. Like he would stay here forever, waiting.
After a few more seconds—when everyone seemed to finish reading—the room exploded with conversation, with movement.
Snippets of reaction while reading now became full-on sentences of disbelief, coming from all corners.
Which one is Rosie, again? transformed into a lot of questions aimed directly at the woman in question, who had clearly prepared herself to repeatedly say, “My job is to do what Em wanted.” Manon was crying in full punctuation now, Robert and Céline flanking her.
Poor Samantha had slumped into one of the chairs, shaking her head, Jamie setting a hand on her shoulder.
What do you mean, breakfast will be served?
Did they leave the country?
Rosie, are they somewhere together, at least?
My goodness, all this money spent!
It was like being inside a dishwasher cycle. And all Layla wanted was to go.
Almost as soon as she thought it, she realized—she could, in fact, go.
She did not have to stay for this. She loved Manon and Robert.
She could even admit that she still loved Jamie, if not in the same way she thought she had when she’d arrived here in Paris.
But the person that meant the most to her in this whole mess was Emily, and Emily was not here anymore.
Emily would be in contact. Emily was taking some time.
She would be there for Emily, when the time came.
But for now, she and Griffin could go.
She and Griffin could—
Suddenly, a voice burst forth above the others. Hard and unexpectedly close.
“What did you do?”
Fitz.
He was standing almost directly in front of her, but with his body turned toward someone else.
“What did you do, Griffin?” he repeated, brandishing his phone, screen lit, Em’s message there like an accusation. “What did you do to her?”
“Fitz,” said Paula softly, coming up from behind, taking her husband’s elbow. “Let’s not—”