Page 3 of I Do, You Don't
“I mean,” she adds, standing now, brushing invisible lint from the train of my dress, “some guys get cold feet. Especially when there’s outside pressure.”
“What pressure?” I ask, sharper than I mean to.
Her eyes widen, faux-innocent.“Oh, I didn’t mean anything. Just, you know. Family stuff. Secrets. Complicated dynamics.”
I turn to face her fully. “Is there a reason you’re here early?” I ask, annoyed she arrived before even I did.
She shrugs. “Just wanted to see how the dress turned out. You’ve been so secretive—didn’t even show us the sketch.”
“That’s because it’s my wedding,” I say. “Not a group project.”
The seamstress falters mid-stitch. Drew, now by the window, stiffens. She sets down a tray of water bottles she didn’t need to be carrying and glances over, like she might intervene.
Delilah laughs, sharp, brittle. “Relax. You’re so sensitive lately. I was just making conversation.”
“You don’t need to make conversation,” I say. “You just need to wear the dress I picked and stand where you’re told.”
Silence. Even the seamstress freezes.
Delilah leans in, voice silk and venom. “I just don’t want you to be blindsided, Lara. That’s all. Gideon and I, we go way back. I know how he gets when he feels trapped.”
My spine stiffens. “Are you implying something?”
“No.” She tilts her head. “But if I were you, I’d make sure I was the only one he was saying I love you to.”
I freeze. Just long enough for her to see it.
The seamstress fumbles with a pin. The fabric feels too tight, like it’s holding in a breath I can’t afford to release. My sister opens her mouth as if she might speak, then closes it again. The other bridesmaids stare down at their phones.
But before I can turn away, my sister steps closer and murmurs, “Ignore her. She’s just scared you’ll be happy.”
It’s barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the tension like a blade dipped in balm.
Delilah doesn’t hear it, but she feels it. Her eyes flick toward Drew, narrowing for half a beat before her mouth curves back into that practiced smirk.
She scrolls again, her thumb slow and smug, like she’s already read the ending of a book I’m still trying to write.
I stare at myself in the mirror, not at the dress, not even at her reflection, but at a girl who once believed love would be enough to keep the wolves outside the door.
But maybe the wolves are already in the room.
Chapter 2
Lara
By the time I get home from the boutique, the smell of champagne clings to my skin, mingling with faint sweat and something sour beneath my arms, stress, maybe, or regret. My feet ache. My head pounds. And Delilah’s words still throb in my ears, like the echo of a slammed door.
“Are you sure he’s not having doubts?” she’d whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, but soft enough to seem concerned.
Then she smiled, wide and white and camera-ready.Just asking, babe. You deserve to be sure.
I should’ve said something. Should’ve told her to leave, or asked the seamstress to call security. But instead, I stood there, silent, while my sister looked at me with that helpless kind of worry that feels worse than pity. One bridesmaid started tapping her acrylics against her phone, pretending not to hear. Another stared at the floor, as if memorizing the grout lines.
I let it happen. Again.
Now I’m back in the apartment we share, and it feels off, like something subtle, invisible, has shifted while I was gone.
The kitchen is dim, lights turned low so amber streaks fall across the counters like bars. The air smells of his cologne, warm spice and something citrusy, and leftover takeout: garlic and grilled meat layered over the faint sharpness of old lemon rinds in the trash.
