Page 64 of Ladybirds

Her stomach drops. Immediately, she thinks of the odd way he was acting weeks before—remembers his promise to tell her if something was worth worrying about—and feels her fear bow down to her fury. She stomps over to him, the sound of her feet making up for the silence of his. Sara doesn’t stop until they're so close he has to look at her. “What is wrong with you?! How could you keep that from me?!”

“Because I don’t have any proof!” he growls, eyes sharp—accusing. “How could I possibly come to you with my suspicions without it? You, who place your precious David on a pedestal of false hopes?”

“I never—“

“Don’t,” he bites, eyes closed and lips twisted. “Do not stand there and lie. Not when I’m denied the luxury of doing the same.” He exhales sharply, his hands flexing sporadically at his sides. When he opens his eyes, they’re alight with a bitterness that is more fire than frost. Sara wonders how long that flame has been burning.

She swallows down the urge to defend herself, tucks it behind the twinge of pain his accusations stir. “I would have listened,” she says, words soft but gaze firm.

He breathes a laugh, but it’s sharp at the edges. The heat in his gaze cools, the tension in his body softening into resignation. “You won’t even allow yourself to admit he’s gone, Sara.”

It’s a blow, as physical as words could ever hope to be, and made all the more painful because he’s not wrong. Her lips part, but her voice is stuck somewhere between the lancing pain in her heart and the tightness in her throat.

Seth shakes his head. Somehow, the blank expression he wears still can’t hide his disappointment. “I have no proof,” he repeats, a soft murmur. “But I would not have you endangering yourself if my suspicions prove correct.”

Sara sits, her hands threading through her hair and her palms pressed against her temples. “If Jen tells him not to come, he probably will anyway. She—I can’t let this ruin their wedding. I can’t.”

“It is just a day—”

“No,” she says, meeting his eyes and begging him to understand. “It’s their day. One they’re going to look back on forever and I want—” she sucks in a calming breath, wets her lips. “I want it to be happy. They deserve that.”

“I don’t disagree,” he murmurs, kneeling down in front of her. His hands are flexing again, as if he’s unsure of where to place them. They settle on his lap. “But you know as well as I do, what they would wish.”

The smile she gives him is thin, weighed down by so much emotion she could almost choke on it. “I’ll live.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Seth was right.

It’s a big deal.

She’s jumpy, flinching every time someone enters the venue and simultaneously trying to look out the window and stand in front of the box fan so she doesn’t walk down the aisle drenched in sweat. Jen keeps watching her, painted lips pursed with worry when they should be smiling because it’s her wedding day.

Sara stays away from the window after that, but she can’t help the nervous energy buzzing beneath her skin. When one of the bridesmaids—Miles’ other sister, Kate—offers her a croissant, she takes it only because she knows it’ll draw the bride’s attention if she doesn’t. She nibbles at the flaky crust, each tiny bite tastes like chalk, her throat is so dry. It feels heavy, leaden, when it hits her stomach, but she manages to force down half.

Jen keeps watching from the corner of her eye. Sara hides behind strained smiles, until it’s finally time for the ceremony to begin.

When the music starts and she leads the rest of the bridal party down the aisle, she forces herself not to look at the sea of faces on either side. Instead, she keeps her chin high and a smile in place, and stares straight ahead and offers Miles as genuine a smile as she can manage. He returns it with a nod, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. There’s no nervous edge in his gaze, only a giddy excitement that Sara would find absolutely adorable if her own heart wasn’t on the verge of beating out of her chest.

When she finds her marker and turns toward the crowd, she finds safety in the arched doorway where Jen is still waiting for the song to change. She looks absolutely beautiful in her red gown, the satin material hugging her body before flaring at the hip. Sara tries to concentrate on Jen’s happiness, lets her best friend’s beaming smile act as a balm for her frayed nerves.

By the time Jen makes it to the altar, Sara’s trembling, near faint from the strain, when Seth appears at her elbow. Sara has more than half a year’s worth of practice by now, but it still takes everything she has not to look away from the bride and groom. He must know, because he moves into her line of sight with purpose—putting himself between her and the ceremony so she can see his face. His expression is gentle, sympathetic.

“He’s not here, Princess,” he says, eyes soft. “You’re safe.”

A small, hiccuped breath escapes her, but it gets swallowed up by the cheering of the crowd. Seth steps aside, and Sara catches the tail end of her best friends’ first kiss as husband and wife. The relief she feels is so great, she can’t even be angry about missing it.

Sara’s not sure if it’s the lingering anxiety or the mother-of-the-bride that drives her to the bar immediately after the bridal party finishes with the photographer (both, it’s definitely both). Regardless, she’s quickly making good on the fully stocked bar Miles and Jen paid for.

She’s really liking the red cocktail Jen picked out—she’s pretty sure it’s pomegranate she’s tasting underneath the bite of vodka. Giving the bartender a beaming smile, she takes her (fourth?) glass from him before navigating through the sea of bodies surrounding the bar. Miles and Jen are still busy doing their photos, and everyone else already seems too tied up in conversations she’s probably too drunk to follow anyways. She makes her way to the back door—propped open to let some of the heat out from the hundreds of bodies crammed into the room—and slips outside.

The air is freezing, snow reflecting the moon’s glow with a gentleness that borders on peaceful. Sara wraps her arm around her waist while the other hand lifts her drink to her lips. She forgot her shawl inside… somewhere. The cold bites at the exposed skin of her arms and neck, but she’s glad Jen at least chose bridesmaid dresses with a halter so her chest could escape the worst of it.

Sara sees him before he speaks, which is unusual actually. Perhaps he’s decided she’s had enough surprises for today. “Lovely ceremony,” he says, leaning against the railing across from her. The leather of his shoes almost touches the pink satin hem of her dress. “Care to place a bet on how long the ceremonial love tree survives?”

Sara stares at him, trying to repeat his words in her head and failing. “What?”

He looks at her—a dawning realization lighting his eyes. “You’re pissed.”

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