6. Sloane
SIX
SLOANE
The morning of the wedding, I was elbow-deep in a floral emergency. One of the cascading arrangements near the altar had tilted overnight, and the greenery was drooping at an angle that made it look like a houseplant someone forgot to water.
I'd been awake since five, in my flats and a bathrobe with my bridesmaid dress hanging on the back of a chair, crouched on the floor with a roll of florist wire and a vocabulary I didn't use in public.
"If you twist the stem at the base, it'll hold."
I looked up and found Xavier standing in the aisle, hands in his pockets, wearing a white dress shirt with the top two buttons open and his dark hair still damp.
He looked like he'd been awake for a while, too.
There was a crease between his brows that deepened when he crouched beside me, frowning at the sagging arrangement, already diagnosing it.
"I'm not twisting anything," I informed him. "I'm engineering a solution."
"With florist wire."
"With florist wire, indeed. Don't question my methods."
He reached past me, caught the leaning stem between two fingers, and braced it against the frame with his other hand. His shoulder pressed against mine, the smell of his soap flooding my senses, pulling me eight years back.
Get a grip, Sloane.
I forced myself back to the present, and focused my mental energy to the wire and the work in front of me.
"Hold that," he directed.
I did as told and watched him wrap the wire twice, tucked the tail behind the greenery, and leaned back to inspect the result. The arrangement sat upright, spilling down the frame again like it had never misbehaved.
"There," he said. "Structural."
"Thank you," I said, keeping my eyes on the flowers.
We straightened up and stood there in the empty aisle. The chairs stretched out on either side of us, draped in white, still waiting for guests. The hall was silent except for the caterers setting up beyond the far doors, the faint clinking of glasses being arranged on trays.
He looked at me, then at the altar, then back at me.
"You did all of this?" he asked.
"Every arrangement."
"It's incredible, Sloane."
His words carried nothing but sincerity, and it made my heart ache a little—like he always did before. Xavier had never held back his appreciation for the things that I did. And for a second I forgot every reason I had to keep my distance.
"You should get dressed," I managed. "The ceremony starts in an hour."
"So should you." His eyes dropped to my bathrobe and the corner of his mouth twitched.
"I'm aware of my appearance. Thank you."
"I didn't say anything."
"Your face said plenty."
He laughed.
The hearty sound struck me.
I hadn't heard that sound in eight years—and of all places, it had to be in this beautiful hall, surrounded by flowers I'd arranged. The space between us was exactly the width of a friendship and about a thousand miles too small.
"I should go," he said, clearing his throat.
"You should."
He nodded once, turned, and walked toward the back exit. I watched his shoulders until he disappeared through the service corridor. Sighing, I sank into the nearest guest chair and pressed both hands over my face.
Friends.
We’re doing that sort of thing.
And I was nailing it—awfully.
An hour later, I stood still in my bridesmaid spot when the piano struck its first chord.
Across the flower-lined aisle stood Simon.
His eyes were already brimming, tears tracking down his face without shame.
The tailored suit cut him a sharp silhouette, with his broad shoulders squared and his hands clasped in front of him.
He clamped down on the emotion, but his eyes wouldn't cooperate, and after a while he stopped trying to force them.
He just stood there, open to the whole moment, letting the tears fall.
He loved her. He didn't care about the suit, the grandeur, the breathtaking room. He loved my best friend so deeply that his body couldn't hold it in anymore, and he wasn't asking it to.
Watching him, I crushed my bouquet a little tighter between my shaking hands. My chest ached, and I was grateful for the pain. She deserved this kind of love. I was so glad she'd finally found him.
But under that joy, a terrifying question I'd been ignoring finally stood up and demanded an answer.
Had I ruined mine?
I'd spent my whole life watching this caliber of love from the outside, standing in doorways, hovering on the freezing edges.
Gripping my bouquet, I wondered whether I'd sabotaged my one chance at meeting a man who could love me like that.
Had the impossible choice I made, that venomous note, those fabricated words, welded the door shut for good?
What if the epic love of my whole life had already happened, and I'd blown it up with my own two hands?
What if my only future now was standing quietly in the background, a spectator to everyone else's happiness?
The melody swelled through the hall.
I lifted my eyes.
Violet appeared at the far end of the aisle.
She looked ethereal and radiant in her white gown.
The heavy silk cinched at her waist before cascading into a full skirt, the beading glinting across her bare shoulders.
Her hair was swept up, a few loose tendrils escaping to frame her temples.
She was so gorgeous the word itself felt like an insult.
My best friend was living the pinnacle moment of her life, her cheeks flushed pink, her eyes bright, her chin high, present for every second of it.
And walking beside her, giving her away, was Xavier.
He kept his dark eyes dead ahead, his hand anchoring Violet's, matching her slow pace without a hint of hesitation.
He was pointedly not looking at me. His jaw was hard, his chin tilted up, radiating that unhurried confidence.
The room pivoted around him while he stayed an immovable force.
He never rushed. He moved through life like he expected the world to pause and wait for him, and the maddening truth was that it always did.
I'd spent eight agonizing years trying to forget that specific detail about him, and I'd failed.
He was my whole universe. Everyone else in that hall was white noise.
God, he was perfect.
And one day he'd be the one standing at the altar.
He'd be the groom waiting in the distance, his eyes welling, his hands clasped just like Simon's, and the woman walking down the aisle toward him wouldn't be me.
She'd float through those heavy doors, the piano would play that same haunting melody, the crowd would let out that collective breathless sigh, and I'd be buried somewhere in the back row.
I'd be a silent spectator, watching the only man I'd ever loved marry the woman he loved.
My vision glassed over, tears gathering thick and fast before I could blink them away.
It felt like having your lungs removed from your chest, piece by piece, at every celebratory dinner and every obligatory wedding. It was the reality of hearing his name come up in a crowded room, forcing your face into an indifferent mask, holding your breath until the conversation shifted.
I pressed the crushed stems of my bouquet harder against my collarbone and blinked fast.
Xavier's gaze finally drifted off Simon and collided with mine.
Something in me lurched toward him before I could stop it.
For one delusional heartbeat, I was the girl in the white dress.
I was the one walking up that aisle to meet him.
The tears spilled over my lashes, hot and fast. Even in the safety of my own imagination, I couldn't hold onto the fantasy.
The reality was already pressing down on me, the certainty that the bridge between us had burned to ash.
The only scrap left to salvage was friendship.
And I'd done it. I'd chosen that path. I'd drafted those toxic words, sealed that box, and made this nightmare my permanent reality.
Xavier handed Violet over to Simon at the altar. The couple clasped hands, the officiant began the vows, and the ceremony drifted on, but the whole time, my eyes stayed anchored to Xavier.
The reception roared into life, and Violet swapped her gown for something shorter, sleeker, built for the dance floor.
The wedding coordinator had stripped me of my logistical duties, leaving me stranded at a quiet cocktail table with a chilled bottle of champagne and zero responsibilities beyond existing.
I skipped the flute and drank straight from the green glass bottle.
It was my best friend's wedding night, and I'd earned it.
Xavier reigned over the opposite side of the ballroom.
My eyes had been ping-ponging between Violet's smile and his broad shoulders since cocktail hour started.
He moved through the chaotic crowd with a magnetic ease.
I watched him fall into conversation with hyperactive kids, bored teenagers, and corporate executives I'd never met.
I watched him crouch to whisper something conspiratorial to a tiny flower girl near the towering gift table.
I watched him command a circle of older men and pull booming laughter out of them.
With every exchange, I wondered what he was saying, what invisible gravity he had that made every person in the room turn toward him and open up.
He was charming, easy, impossible to ruffle, and he had all three in spades. He always had.
And I'd been his one flaw.
I tipped my head back and took another burning pull from the bottle.
Violet appeared in front of my table.
She eyed the bottle in my fist, scanned my carefully neutral expression, and said, "Get up. Dance with me."
"My feet are literally bleeding," I deadpanned.
"I don't care."
"This silk dress is a structural hazard on the dance floor."
"I don't care."
"It's your wedding night, Violet. You should be out there with your new husband."
"I'm dancing with you first." She thrust her hand at me. I sighed and took it, because it was her wedding day and there was no demand she could make tonight that I'd turn down.
She hauled me into the center of the floor and twirled me under the spinning lights.
We locked into the upbeat rhythm, uninhibited laughter spilling out of both of us.
Her hands gripped mine, her face tilted up toward the ceiling, her eyes lit with pure joy.
She glowed with it. And so did I, with no performance required.
Spinning her back in, I yelled over the music, asking how it felt to finally be a Beckett.
She froze mid-step.
She stared at me, her chin dipping, her lips pressing into a tight line before she answered.
"Simon's taking my last name," she said.
I stopped moving.
She stood still, letting the dancers blur past us.
"He told me," she started, her voice shaking as she fought to keep it steady, "that the only person with my last name I’d ever loved was Xavier. And he said he wanted to be another person I loved who carried that name."
I stared at her, speechless.
She gave a jerky nod, her eyes filling. I lunged forward and pulled her into a tight hug.
She buried her face in my shoulder, and we stood there, anchored together in the dead center of the dance floor, both of us openly crying.
Her toxic parents had cursed her with that surname and given her nothing else worth a damn.
But Simon wasn't trying to erase her painful origins.
He was repainting them. He was telling the whole room he'd be her permanent family, rewriting the legacy of the name she carried.
When my chest finally stopped heaving, I pulled back and framed her flushed face between both my hands. Her eyes were swimming, her chin trembling, her expression more open and unguarded than I'd ever seen it.
"You found one of the rare good ones," I whispered.
"Now it's your turn," she shot back, a watery smirk touching her lips.
And she tilted her chin toward the space behind me.
I turned around.
Xavier was walking straight toward us.
My pulse kicked hard enough to bruise. I gripped the stem of a passing waiter's champagne flute like a weapon. He closed the distance, his dark eyes landing on my tear-streaked face.
"You alright?" His brow pulled tight.
"I'm fine," I lied.
"Dance with me."
"I'm already dancing with Violet."
He arched one dark eyebrow. I spun to grab her arm and found nothing but empty space.
From somewhere in the crowd, I heard Violet's wicked laugh.
I turned back to face him. "Fine." I exhaled hard. "One dance."