Chapter 27

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'snot 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."

Sara frowns, raising her cocktail and correcting him. "Excuse you, I'm a happy drunk."

"Bloody American vernacular." He stands in front of her, bending until he's closer to her eye level and makes a tally on his fingers. "Sloshed. Smashed. Wasted. Pick your favorite, but you are undeniably drunk."

"It's a party! You're s'pose to drink at parties."

"It's a wedding," he hisses back, looking over both shoulders as if checking to see if they were still alone. "And you're the maid of honor!"

A giggle escapes her. "You're funny."

"And you're bloody well screwed. Did you forget you have a speech to deliver?"

Sara pales. Seth curses.

"We come on this day,"Seth drones, a step behind her, "to celebrate the joining of two wonderful people."

Sara raises her glass of champagne, all too aware of the crowd of eyes watching and forces a smile through her nausea. "We come on this day, to celebrate the joining of two wonderful people."

She repeats his every word faithfully, copying his every intone. It's not until she's about halfway through, that she realizes the speech she's giving is the very same one she has written on fancy stationery in the bridal suite. She wonders, drunkenly, how he managed to memorize it.

When she finishes, raising her glass and calling for a toast, the crowd follows suit and cheers. Sara takes the smallest sip out of respect (and perhaps a little superstition) for the couple. She never was a fan of champagne.

When she finally gets home,she barely gets her heels off and her dress replaced with an oversized t-shirt before collapsing into bed.

"Thanks. You know, for helping," she murmurs into her pillow. She can feel her mascara catching on the cotton. She should probably wash her face, but she can't summon the motivation. Her body—her eyelids—feel so heavy, she can't bring herself to look at him. "Was sorta nice of you."

He scoffs, but the sound is soft—more affectionate than anything. "Oh dear, is my devilish reputation suffering? Shall I tell you, my reasons were purely selfish and I merely couldn't stand the thought of suffering such second-hand embarrassment?"

"Seth," she groans, "Shut up now."

A soft chuckle. "Very well, Princess."

A few moments, a hair"s breadth away from her subconscious wading into sleep, and a thought distracts her. A nagging little thing she can't bring herself to leave alone. "What did you do?" she mumbles, forcing her eyes open.

It's too dark for her to see much more than the shadowy outline of her dresser, but (somehow) she knows he's still there. She can feel him, hovering just outside of her vision.

He takes too long to answer, and when he does, it's too vague to be completely honest. "Nothing you need to concern yourself over. Now go to sleep, Sara. God knows you'll need it to face the hangover you'll be feeling tomorrow."

She forces herself to sit up with a groan. Even with the pounding headache at her temples, and the fuzzy feeling on her tongue, she's sober enough now to know this is important. Knows it with the same certainty that his answer is complete bullshit. He's a shadow at the foot of her bed, but there's just enough light for her to make out his expression—blank.

The same neutral mask he always wears when he wants something hidden.

She glares at him. "What did you do?"

"There... might have been an unfortunate incident in regards to the family dog."

Sara thinks of the floppy-eared basset hound David used to fuss over. The one that was so old he could barely hear. "Freddie?" The implication dawns, and the fatigue evaporates under her horror. "Oh my—what did you do?!"

Seth raises his hands in… surrender? Mercy? Sara's past caring she's so livid. "He's unharmed! He just got... conveniently lost."

"You lost their dog?!"

"Only temporarily."

She falls back into her bed with a groan, face in her hands. "I can't believe you."

"Well, I'm terribly sorry if you don't approve of my methods, but it worked."

Sara peeks at him between her fingers, not entirely surprised to find him looking completely unrepentant. "Why?" she murmurs.

"Well, it's not like I could distract them myself, could I?"

She shakes her head. "No, I mean, why'd you do it. I could have handled it."

"Maybe," he says, voice soft in the dark. She wishes she could see his face; read his expression. "But you shouldn't have to."

Curling onto her side, a pillow hugged to her chest, Sara murmurs, "You're right." Her eyes are so heavy, it feels like lashes are covered in lead instead of mascara. "But neither should you."

If he replies, the words are lost between them—buried in the darkness behind her eyelids and the unconscious pull of sleep.

There'sa text waiting for her when she wakes—the number unknown, the message vague enough to feel threatening.

Hope you had fun.

Sara deletes the message, blocks the number, and tries to calm the racing of her heart.

She doesn't tell Seth.