Page 8 of I Do, You Don't
Chapter 4
Lara
Gideon doesn’t come home.
At 11 p.m., a text lights up my phone: “Can’t sleep. Crashing at Connor’s. I’ll see you at the altar.” No call. No goodnight. Just words that sound like him, but don’t feel like him. I watch them until the screen fades to black, my reflection staring back, someone bracing for impact.
I tell myself not to panic.
He always needs space before big things. And what’s bigger than forever? Than our wedding?
Still, I wake to silence: the hum of the air conditioner, the faint rustle of my gown hanging in the closet. Everyone says weddings are chaotic. I remind myself he’s just overwhelmed. That I am, too.
But something’s off. Not loud, not clear. Just a vibration under the skin.
I move as if underwater. I choke down three bites of toast that taste like cardboard. A sip of orange juice curdles in my stomach. Passing a mirror, I catch my reflection: shoulders tight, lips pressed flat, eyes scanning for some version of me that believes this is normal.
Soon, I’m at the venue.
The space is small, alive with movement. A modest, repurposed warehouse with high, exposed beams and raw brick walls, industrial edges softened by our DIY decorations: mason jars of wildflowers, some crooked, others spilling over. Round tables and long rectangular ones fill the room, each draped in plain white cloths. The polished concrete floor bears scuffs from the hours Drew and I spent setting up. The faint sweetness of cut blooms mixes with the musty musk of old wood and stone. The space feels close, the chatter of guests and the low hum of air conditioning pressing in, making it feel fuller than it is.
Hair. Makeup. Dress. Done.
Everyone smiles too brightly, as if performing reassurance. The room buzzes with motion, zippers, hairspray, perfume, while I sit still, waiting. I feel nothing but the dress cinched tight against my ribs, each breath a reminder that I’m stitched together by threads. My skin is tacky where the makeup artist misted setting spray, and the champagne beside me sits untouched, gone warm. The room vibrates with nervous energy. I remain numb.
Gideon should be texting by now. Something silly. A picture of his socks. A heart emoji. A quick check-in.
Instead, I have only the echoes of his old messages. I scroll back to our anniversary trip: “Don’t move. I’m bringing you coffee in bed, and you’re not allowed to lift a finger today.” I can still feel the blanket’s weight that morning, the way he crawled in beside me with a mug and a ring box. Not the real ring, just a promise. “I know it’s cheesy,” he’d said, eyes shy, “but I like knowing you’re mine, even if it’s unofficial for now.”
Before that, last fall, at Connor’s cabin. I had a cold I tried to hide, but he noticed. Wrapped me in his hoodie, tucked a blanket around my legs, then ran to the gas station for cough drops while everyone else joked by the firepit. “Can’t have my girl croaking on me before I marry her,” he teased.
I remember the press of his mouth to my temple in the dark. How he hummed off-key in my ear when he thought I was asleep.
I remember believing no one had ever loved like this.
And now, all I get is silence.
My sister pokes her head in to adjust a curl. Her hands tremble, the bracelet on her wrist clinking faintly as she reaches up, her voice pitched almost too bright. “You look beautiful,” she says. “He’s going to cry when he sees you.” She smooths a strand of hair that doesn’t need smoothing, fingers fumbling near my temple. Her smile falters before she looks down and slips out.
Across the room, a bridesmaid knocks over a mimosa flute. It shatters against the table leg, and someone gasps. A splash of orange spreads across the white carpet. The photographer snaps anyway, too quick, too loud. The flower girl makes a trial run with her basket, scattering petals on the floor and squealing when someone tries to stop her.
Bryn, one of the bridesmaids, lingers at the vanity, pretending to reapply her lipstick. She glances at me in the mirror with an expression caught between pity and confusion, but says nothing.
Everything hums around me, pitched too high. The laughter is forced. The perfume suffocates. The dress cinches too tight. No one says what we’re all starting to think.
I want to believe. I want anything to make this ache feel less final.
A bridesmaid offers me lip gloss. Another asks if I need something. I smile too wide. My cheeks ache.
I check my phone again. Still nothing.
My thoughts spiral, messy, tangled, each louder than the last until they blur into static.
If he walks through the door, I’ll forget every second of doubt. I’ll laugh. I’ll call it nerves, or bad timing, or some stupid prank. I’ll pretend I didn’t spend the morning unraveling.
Maybe he’s waiting outside, rehearsing his vows. Maybe Connor lost track of time, and now they’re scrambling. Maybe it’s a wardrobe emergency. Maybe his phone died. Maybe he’s already here, but no one’s thought to check the men’s suite.
He wouldn’t leave me. He wouldn’t.
