I look at her the way I imagine a deer looks at an oncoming car, hoping for the trajectory of my future to change course, hoping that somehow, my life will right itself, and my bloat will actually be caused by too many late-night carbs and not a human being growing inside of my body. But that doesn’t happen, and then the buzzer rings.
Myla looks at me, waiting for me to go and answer. When I don’t, she jogs to the intercom. I hear a muffled voice coming through the intercom and then Myla responding.
“Yeah, we’re going to need just a minute.”
She runs back into the room, her lower lip pinched nervously between her teeth.
“The driver is here to take you to your wedding.”
As soon as the words are out of her mouth, I want to laugh. The idea is absurd. I can’t get married today. I can’t stand in front of Sebastian and vow to be his wife with this bombshell of a secret growing inside of me.
I walk past Myla into the closet and grab the ridiculously expensive luggage Sebastian bought for me to take on our “honeymoon”—a trip to Bora Bora with two separate rooms and activities booked separately.
“What are you doing?” Myla asks from the door.
I shuffle through my hanging clothes before turning instead to the drawers. I pull out a few old pairs of jeans, my favorite T-shirts, jean shorts, and two baseball caps.
“It doesn’t look like you’re packing for a tropical vacation.”
“I’m not,” I say, shoving a handful of not-Myla-approved cotton underwear into the suitcase and zipping it up. “Tell the driver I won’t be needing a ride to the venue.”
Myla’s eyebrows raise, and she can’t hide the smile creeping across her face. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
I nod. “This wedding is off.”
Chapter 14
Leon
I don’t even know why I came.
Well, I do know, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m a fool.
Grace is getting married. To Sebastian Wayde. My window of opportunity with her slammed shut the day she practically ran from my apartment, and going to her wedding to another man is like watching someone build a brick wall over the window. No chance of opening it now.
So, why am I here?
“Leon.”
A hand slaps me on the back, and I look up to see Giorgio’s tan face smiling down at me. Alessia appears at his side, and I smile up at her before I have a chance to process what I’m seeing. She is in a long purple, fitted dress, and it is fitted around a very obvious baby bump. My eyes must bug out because Giorgio laughs.
“We’ve been getting that reaction a lot. Apparently, we kept our secret too well. No one suspected our rushed wedding was because Alessia was pregnant.”
“I certainly didn’t,” I say, standing up and pulling them both into a hug. “Congratulations, you two.”
“Thank you.” Alessia rubs a soft hand across her stomach and then beams, glowing as she looks around the room.
“I thought we might see you here,” Giorgio says, pointing to the two seats next to me. “Mind if we claim these?”
“Be my guest.”
Giorgio and Alessia and every other half-friend I know from work are why I’m here. Because if I didn’t come, there would be whispers about why I declined my invitation. People would be asking me why I hadn’t made an appearance, and I’d have to make up excuses to cover up the fact that I didn’t come because watching Grace walk down that aisle would be torture. So, instead, I decided to endure the torture. At least when it’s over, I’ll be free to drown my sorrows in liquor and hibernate in my penthouse without question.
“So, is Sebastian’s fiancée pregnant as well?” Giorgio asks.
I nearly swallow my tongue. “What? No. Why would you think that?”
“It was a joke, my friend,” he says, patting me on the back. “I just meant they’ve only been engaged a short while. I wasn’t sure Sebastian would ever settle down.”
“Oh.” I nod. “Yeah, they must really be in love.”
People in the seats in front of us engage Giorgio and Alessia in conversation, and I try my best not to melt into the floor. I’m pathetic. They must really be in love. The words are acid in my mouth. Sebastian doesn’t love Grace. He doesn’t deserve her. Though, neither do I.
I had my chance to be with Grace. She was standing in front of me, wrapped in my robe, bare-faced and disheveled from the most magical night of lovemaking I’ve ever had, and I ruined it. I threw it all away. And why? Because I was afraid of rejection. Because I thought Grace would leave, go back to Sebastian, and break my heart. So, I broke it for her. I pushed her away before she could do the same to me, and now I have to live with those consequences.
Sitting there among the wedding guests—it seems like half of New York has been invited—I think I could stop the wedding. I could declare my feelings for her, make myself vulnerable, and see what happens. But I can’t. I work in close contact with a lot of the guests. If Grace rejected me in front of everyone, I’d never be able to look them in the eyes again. Even if she accepted my offer and left the wedding with me, do I really want to be known as the guy who broke up a wedding? Not particularly.
No, if I wanted Grace, I should have tried to contact her sometime in the last six weeks. I should have called her or reached out.
I thought about it more times than I can count. I imagined showing up at her doorstep, boombox on my shoulder, and confessing my feelings for her, but there were several problems there. One, she lives with Sebastian in a penthouse—I couldn’t exactly throw a rock up at her window. Second, we had one night together. One night. While it was a wonderful evening, it wasn’t exactly something to build a life on.
Could I really ask Grace to give everything up—the money, and her future—for a few more dates with me? To see where this thing goes? No. I’m a businessman. I know all about risks and rewards, and leaving Sebastian to go with me is a huge risk with only one reward—me. And sitting in the crowd, waiting for what might be the woman of my dreams to walk down an aisle and marry a man I can’t stand, I don’t feel like much of a reward.
“Did you know the bride is his assistant?” Giorgio asks, pulling me from my thoughts, his eyebrows raised.
“Yeah.”
He shakes his head. “I just saw Sebastian’s last girlfriend on the cover of a magazine. I almost can’t believe he’s marrying a commoner.”
“He isn’t royalty,” I snap, not liking the tone Giorgio is taking. “And she isn’t common.”
“I’m sure she’s a fine girl,” Giorgio says stiffly, holding up his hands and leaning away from me like I might bite him. “Just not Sebastian’s usual type.”
I take a deep breath, my hands knotted at my sides. “Maybe Sebastian finally bought himself some good taste.”
“Maybe,” Giorgio says, shrugging his shoulders. Then, he leans in, his voice low. “I’m surprised to hear you say anything even remotely nice about him. Everyone says you two don’t exactly get on. Makes sense, being competitors.”
Well, on the bright side, at least we both got one over on Sebastian before your wedding.
My words echo in my head, filling every free thought with regret and longing. Whether I advertise it or not, people know Sebastian and I aren’t friends. How much more must my words have hurt Grace knowing that? I let her leave thinking she was nothing more to me than a trophy. And worse yet, I did it on purpose.
I saw the horror and shame cross her face after I said it, and I didn’t rush to apologize. I didn’t rush to clarify my words or confess why I said them. I just let them sit between us, festering the last six weeks into a wound I can’t heal. Not with their wedding only minutes away. I blew it.
“Plus,” Giorgio continues, “I know for a fact Sebastian hates that everyone considers you a rags-to-riches story while he’s seen as inheriting his family’s wealth.”
“Where did you hear that?” I ask, neither confirming nor denying the rags-to-riches c
laim.
“The horse’s mouth,” he says with a wink. “Enough alcohol will make anyone talk.”
A petty part of me is glad Sebastian is jealous of me, but I also don’t want to be that man. Not anymore. My competition with Sebastian has already ruined what could have been an amazing thing for me. I’m not going to let it ruin anymore.
“Sebastian and I may not exactly be friends, but we’re not enemies.”
It’s true. If my experience with Grace has taught me anything, it’s that I am my own worst enemy. I am the villain in this story, not Sebastian.
Giorgio nods and may have said something else, but before he can, the members of the string quartet sit tall and begin to play.
The wedding is beautiful, if a little frilly. White chairs arranged in a lush green field behind a modern reception hall. A classic white arch covered in roses and dangling greenery hovers over the minister and, as the music begins to play, Sebastian. He walks around the right side of the crowd, waving to people with small hand circles like he is a prince, and plants two feet confidently on a white rug in front of the crowd. Large wreaths with roses and golden ribbons cap the end of each row, and I can’t help but think Grace must not have had much to do with the planning.
When I think of Grace, I see red. Red dress, red lipstick, red heels. I can’t imagine her dressed all in white, standing beneath an arch heavy with roses. And I especially can’t imagine her standing there with Sebastian. Though, I suppose I won’t have to try and imagine it much longer. Soon enough, I’ll see it for myself.
Sebastian is standing in front of the crowd, hands tucked behind his back, smiling. He doesn’t look nervous. Or excited. He looks perfectly at ease, which makes sense. This isn’t real.
He isn’t a groom waiting anxiously for his bride to appear. He is a boss waiting for his assistant. A man waiting for his business associate.
Grace deserves more. She deserves a man to weep at the altar, so excited is he by the sight of her. She deserves real passion and love, and I know right then, the hardest thing I’ll ever do is sit quietly by and let her go through with this. But I have to.
I stare at Sebastian as though I can communicate with him telepathically and tell him to care for her. To treat her well. To be nice to her. And while I’m staring at him, I see his expression change. His mouth is still turned up in a smile, but his eyes narrow and harden.
I bite my lower lip, not wanting to turn around and see who he’s looking at. Because if he’s looking at Grace like that, I’ll get up out of my seat and, consequences be damned, punch him square in the nose.
Before I can get too worked up, however, a man in a white shirt and black suspenders walks down the center aisle, a nervous smile on his thin face. He looks like an employee for the venue rather than anyone involved in the wedding. Sebastian steps forward to meet him, and the boy leans in, a hand cupped to his mouth, and whispers something to Sebastian. I watch his eyes go wide, his hands clench into fists, and he nods.
“What is this about?” Giorgio whispers to Alessia, excitement clear in his voice.
The employee practically sprints from the encounter, his face red, and Sebastian turns on his heel, says something quietly to the best man, and then calmly and efficiently walks back out of the ceremony the way he came.
“Do you think something’s happened?” Alessia asks.
“It must have. That clearly wasn’t Sebastian’s bride.”
These people don’t even know Grace’s name. It was on the invitation for Christ’s sake.
The best man says something to the Minister, and they discuss among themselves for thirty seconds that feel like years, and then the best man walks to the mouth of the aisle and clears his throat.
“Hi, everyone,” he says, raising his hand in a stiff wave. “I’m Sebastian’s cousin and the best man. Sebastian has asked me to thank you all for coming out today, but unfortunately, due to…unforeseen circumstances, there will not be a wedding today.”
Gasps and murmurs move through the crowd the way they would in a movie, and Giorgio gasps and softly claps his hands, delighted at this turn of events. I sit in my seat, numb.
“Is everyone okay?” a woman in the second or third row asks.
The best man looks like he wants to run away, but he continues smiling and nodding like a flight attendant during bad turbulence. Keep everyone calm.
“Yes, everyone is fine.”
“She isn’t sick?” a man next to the woman asks.
“No,” he answers shortly, taking a step back.
“Will the wedding be postponed?” someone else asks.
If I wasn’t so busy trying to make sense of everything, I’d feel bad for the best man. He probably expected his duties to involve hiring a stripper and sleeping with a bridesmaid, but now he’s handling a full-on public relations issue, and is obviously woefully unprepared.
“I don’t think so,” he stammers with a shrug. “We aren’t sure of anything yet.”
“Was there an accident?” the woman towards the front asks, not satisfied with his first answer.
I see the actual moment the best man cracks. People are beginning to stand up, sticking their hands up in the air like they’re school children and he is the teacher, and he backs away as if from an approaching mob, looking over his shoulder for shelter. Questions are being hurled at him from every direction, and Giorgio and Alessia are whispering back and forth. Giorgio even turns and says something to me, but I don’t hear it.
Finally, the best man waves his arms in the air to silence everyone and shouts, “She changed her mind. Okay? Thanks for coming out everyone. Bye.”
Then, he flees, questions still being flung at his back, and for the first time since the employee walked down the aisle, I feel like I can breathe.
Grace changed her mind. The wedding is off.
“Well, well. What on earth are we going to do with our evening now?” Giorgio asks, helping Alessia from her chair.
I don’t even say goodbye to them. I push past the guests to my right and cut across the grass lawn to the parking lot. The brick wall in front of the window has been bulldozed down, and finally, I can see the light. I have to find Grace.
Chapter 15
Grace
When I pull up in front of my parents’ house, it is seven o’clock exactly. In another lifetime, I would be getting married. I’d be standing across from Sebastian, vowing to love him forever. Or, in our case, two years. Instead, I’m pregnant and displaced and back at the only place that feels like a safe haven to me.
I grip the golden apple around my neck, thinking of home and what that means to me now. What it will mean to me in the months ahead. And then, with the last remaining energy I have, I climb out of the rental car, walk the short path that leads to my parents’ wooden front porch, and knock on the door.
The rocking chairs my dad made are on the porch, a citronella candle half-burnt between them. I’m still staring at the spot where I’ve seen my parents sit and laugh and talk to one another for years when the door opens. My mother screams.
“Gracie girl.” She throws her arms around me, and I can’t see anything beyond her brown curly hair. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you call? And…” She pauses, pulling back to look at me, her forehead wrinkling. “Why is your head so fancy compared to your body?”
My hand brushes over the hair-sprayed updo I’d selected for the wedding. My wedding. And the reality of the day crashes over me like an avalanche. Before I can stop myself, I’m crying.
“Oh, Gracie.” My mom grabs my shoulders, her eyes wide and terrified, and then she yells over her shoulder for my dad. “Scott, get in here.”
I hear his deep voice booming from somewhere in the back of the house, and the familiar sound of it makes me cry even harder. I’m home. For the last two and a half months, nowhere has felt like home. Myla’s apartment came closest, but even that wasn’t my space. It didn’t belong to me.
But this house? This bungalow that al
ways smells like cinnamon apples? The place that has squeaky wooden floors and drafty windows and pictures of me in every awkward stage of childhood hanging on the walls? This is home. Just being in the house feels like a warm hug, and I weep as my mom leads me straight to the kitchen table.
She sits me down in the same chair I sat in the time I got caught sneaking out of the house to meet my boyfriend. The same chair I sat in during the singing and cake portion of every birthday. The same chair my dad sat me in when my dog, Clancy, got run over. It is the table where all of our good and bad memories are made, and I know that we are about to make another one. What I’m not sure about, is whether it will be happy or sad.
“I was in the middle of fixing that blasted guest bathroom sink you keep hounding me about,” my dad grumbles from the hallway, his voice growing closer. “What’s so important it couldn’t wait two more—GRACIE!”
My dad shouts even louder than my mom did, but before he can pull me into a bone-crushing hug, my mom holds up a hand to stop him and then points to the chair.
“Sit down.”
He wrinkles his nose at her but listens, and as soon as he is sitting down, he looks at my face. Blind panic washes over him, draining the color from his usually rosy cheeks.
“What is it, sweetie? What happened? And why is your hair so fancy?”
Despite everything, I laugh. Of course my parents would notice my hair. Growing up, it was either in pigtails or unkempt waves. The only time I ever let it be styled was for my senior prom, and my mom almost made me stay home when she caught me pulling the bobby pins out of my hair in my date’s car after pictures were done. I don’t do fancy hairstyles. Especially updos.
“I’ve been lying to you,” I say, my voice thick with tears. “For a few months now.”
“How can you have lied to us? We’ve barely talked to you,” my dad says, giving me an apologetic smile. Unlike my mom, he doesn’t like to guilt-trip me, which is how I know he really means it. “We’ve missed you.”
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