Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Amelia

"Your mother would be so proud." Dad's smile caves in at the corners, but he's trying so hard to keep it together.

I wish he'd stop talking about Mom. At the rehearsal dinner last night, it was hard enough. Now, when I have a very strong urge to confess I'd like to call the whole thing off, I can't take the thought of disappointing Mom. Or Dad.

Would Mom be proud?

Because from where I sit at a makeup table in the bride's room, I'm not feeling so sure.

While Dad has missed any sign of my doubts—last night or today or over the past eight months while planning the wedding—Mom wouldn't have. She'd have taken one look at me and known .

The same way she knew the moment I walked in the door after the eighth grade boy-girl party where I had my first kiss. And just like then, she would have said, "Spill," and then listened as I told her everything, supporting me no matter what.

With Dad … I'm not sure why, but I can't be honest. Maybe because he's such a fan of Drew and so excited about me getting married?

On paper, Drew is all the things I thought I wanted. Handsome, hardworking, and steady. No drama but also not boring, despite what my best friend, Morgan, said after meeting him the first time.

She says boring; I say dependable.

Plus, he got Dad's hearty stamp of approval, which means more to me than anything else.

But … maybe it shouldn't.

"Thanks, Daddy," I say, patting his hand instead of voicing my whispered doubts. Because talking about them won't bring Mom back. Or change anything. It's not like I'm going to cancel the wedding because of my so-cold-they're-frostbitten feet.

Though canceling actually sounds really nice…

I swear, thinking about making Mom proud has me actually considering the words. What if I told my dad I wasn't sure? Would he try to convince me it's just nerves?

Or would he ask why and open the door for a real conversation about why this feels like impending doom rather than the start of a happily ever after?

I'm exhausted from stamping out my feelings of disquiet like so many tiny fires. The doubts have twined with guilt over having doubts, and I've felt a big ball of ick in my stomach for a long while now.

A lot of people might say trust your gut. But usually when I think my gut is saying something, it's just hunger.

Before I can dredge up the courage to ask Dad how he knew he was sure about marrying Mom, he pulls something from his pocket.

"I know you already have something blue, but here's one more. It was your mother's."

He places a silver ring in my palm. I turn it over in my hand, swallowing down my words and a huge lump that's lodged in my throat. I don't remember ever seeing this ring, a simple design with a striking blue stone. It's dark and rich, threaded with a lighter color, almost like the night sky.

"Lapis Lazuli," Dad says, his voice gruff. "With, uh, pyrite mixed in. That's why it's colored like that. She called it her wish-upon-a-star ring."

I love it. The ring, the name—even the stone, which makes me think of The Vampire Diaries . I almost crack a joke about being able to walk in the sunlight now, but Dad scoffed at the show and any other teen drama I used to love. He's more of a Sports Center and game show kind of guy. Also, discussing vampires on your wedding day is probably bad luck.

"Does it fit?" Dad asks.

I slide the ring onto the pinky of my right hand. It's an almost perfect fit, though I bet Mom wore it on a different finger. She was petite, barely above five feet. Dad always called her his pocket Patti. I'm only average height, but even in eighth grade, the year Mom died, I was two inches taller than her.

My nose stings, and I fight back tears. Again.

I really wish Dad had kept the ring for another occasion. It could have been a present for high school or college graduation. A random birthday. National Hug Your Daughter Day.

But on this day, my wedding day, the sentimental gift only ratchets up my guilt and the ugly bramble of emotions choking out the light.

"Thank you. This will remind me of her every day," I tell him. Not that I need the ring as a reminder.

"I wish she were here." His normally strong voice is a whisper.

"Me too," I say.

Because if she were here, she would find a way to fix this. To draw out the words I can't seem to voice.

She wouldn't let me walk down that aisle—or any aisle—until I was sure .

"You're going to be so happy. Just like we were. Marrying your mother young was the best decision I ever made. You never know how much time you'll have, so?—"

"Enjoy every moment," I finish. Dad's philosophy, one he adopted after losing Mom, is pretty much branded into me.

Once again, I try to draw on my own strength to speak. Now, I've got Mom's ring like a talisman. I almost tell him I'm scared. I'm unsure. I think this might be a mistake.

But then I see Dad's wide smile, his crinkled eyes. The head he shaved just for the wedding when I kept insisting it would be better than the wispy combover he's been rocking for years.

My words evaporate as the door opens, and my cousin, Becky, walks in. There's a flash of dark hair in a black tux in the hallway that looks an awful lot like Drew, but I know he's with the guys in their room on the other side of the church. Probably just another guest.

Still—my unsettled feeling grows.

"Hey," Becky says, standing by the door uncertainly.

Dad gives my shoulder a last squeeze. "See you in a few minutes?"

I nod, then watch as he gives Becky a quick kiss on the cheek. Her smile is thin, and she glances down as he whispers something to her. Then he ducks out of the room and I draw in a deep breath, the pressure on my chest easing slightly.

"You look beautiful." Becky sounds wistful, her voice a little wobbly. "Are you doing okay?"

The pressure snaps right back like it was only bungeed away.

"Just feeling the normal nervousness," I say, meeting Becky's eyes in the mirror. "It is normal, right?"

"I wouldn't know." For a moment, she sounds bitter. But then she smiles too brightly and says, "But yes—totally normal!"

Grabbing a makeup brush, Becky swipes another layer of bronzer on her cheeks. She's going to look like an Oompa Loompa if she doesn't stop. Her eyes are red. Has she been crying?

I frown. What's there for her to cry about before the ceremony? Maybe she's also thinking of her mom, who died a few years before mine. Her dad and my dad supported each other through their losses, though Becky and I have never been close.

That bond between our dads is why Becky wears the official maid of honor title. It's a thing they decided for us—that we'd be involved in each other's weddings this way, even if we aren't really in each other's lives.

It's definitely a title only thing. Becky was barely present during the wedding planning and hasn't even been around most of the morning today. Morgan effectively took over all the big duties, which I'm grateful for. I'd much rather have my best friend helping than Becky.

Maybe if we were closer, I'd ask my cousin if she's okay. But right now, my only job is to warm up my cold feet, kick my nerves to the curb, and get my lace-underwear-clad butt out the door.

"Where's Morgan?" I ask, touching the stone on mom's ring.

Becky shrugs. "No idea."

My best friend and cousin can't stand each other, which has made all of this more fun with a capital NOPE—it's not fun when your bestie and maid of honor fight like feral cats.

"I thought you were all taking last-minute pictures," I say, and Becky's gaze slips away from mine.

"We were. I had to go to the bathroom. They're probably just finishing up," she says, still going at it with the bronzer.

I stand from the dressing table and walk to the full-length mirror, doing a final assessment. My foundation is even, covering my freckles; my lips are painted a Taylor Swift red; and my eyes are lined without me looking like a raccoon. My hair is halfway pinned up with natural curls spilling over my shoulders.

Perfect. It's all … perfect.

Then why don't I feel perfect?

The urge to run hits me again, and I eye the door leading to the parking lot. So tempting.

But Amelia Davenport Davis doesn't quit things. Or people. Cold feet or nerves or whatever, I will walk down the aisle very soon, recite my vows, kiss my groom, and become Amelia Davenport Tilly.

A.k.a. Milly Tilly.

I can't help it. I burst out laughing, bending over to clutch my stomach.

"Careful!" Becky scolds. "You don't want to rip the seams."

My laughter trails off and I turn back to the mirror. "Do you think my dress is too tight?"

I couldn't force myself to do the whole bride diet thing. But I told myself it was fine because I didn't want to get married looking like some skeletal version of myself just because society seems to equate status with skinny. Years down the road, I wouldn't want my kids to be like, "Who's that lady?" when looking at my wedding photos. Drew fell for me with my curves, and he'll marry me with my curves.

But no woman wants any part of her popping out of her wedding dress. Or to rip the seams during a bout of maniacal, possibly unhinged, laughter over a terrible last name.

"No! Sorry. You look fine. The dress is perfect," Becky says quickly. Her words sound even less convincing than my own thoughts. "You're perfect. Your marriage will be perfect."

Perfect . That word again. After a lifetime of being followed by the idea of perfection—or maybe chasing after it?—I wouldn't mind trading it in for a little messy reality.

Becky sniffs, turning away to wipe her eyes. Again, what's with all the crying? I don't know what's up with her, but something is off. I'm just about to ask when the door bursts open.

Becky jumps, but I'm used to the way Morgan enters every room—like a cyclone hopped up on speed. My best friend is soft and pretty like a peony, but is more of a Venus flytrap.

"The time is at hand," Morgan says with a dramatic flourish and a grin.

The wedding coordinator follows Morgan into the room. With her pouf of white hair, the stopwatch around her neck, and the flask she must think we don't see, the woman feels more like a caricature than an actual person.

I muster up a smile for Morgan. "Hey. I think I'm ready."

My out-loud words are followed in quick succession by silent ones: I'm not ready. I'll never be ready. I can't do this.

I press a hand to my throat.

Morgan tilts her head. "You good, Milly?"

With her lips painted an uncharacteristic light pink and her normally wild white-blond hair secured in an updo, Morgan looks like a muted version of herself. I promised her she can take her hair down and go back to her trademark red lips for the reception. For the ceremony, Morgan insisted I be the only one sporting red lipstick for maximum dramatic impact. It looks good, but also like we're both playing dress-up.

"The time is actually past," the church coordinator says. "We're six minutes past schedule."

The woman looks ready to take a ruler to my knuckles. Instead, she frowns down at the stopwatch around her neck. I briefly consider asking if I can have a sip from her flask. Though I've never particularly found much courage in the liquid variety. The effect alcohol has on me is less bravery and more stupidity. I'm a lightweight who goes from stone-cold sober to making impulsive decisions in a flash.

Morgan must see something in my expression—probably a pure shot of panic—because instantly, she's across the room, elbowing Becky out of the way so she can peer more intently into my soul.

"Why do you look like you just got fired instead of like you're about to get married?"

"She's just nervous," Becky says, fluttering around us like some kind of gnat.

Morgan swats her away without sparing her a glance. "What can I do?"

I appreciate that she doesn't just try to reassure me or blow off how I'm feeling.

Instead of answering, since there is no answer, I start spouting facts. "Google says that planning a wedding is one of the top most stress-inducing activities on the planet. I mean, aside from actual life-and-death stressors like safety and starvation."

"What have I told you about googling things?" Morgan asks.

"That TikTok is the new Google?"

Morgan rolls her eyes. "No. That you of all people should not be googling. You'll end up in a death spiral. You're supposed to call me instead. Now, what's up?"

I twist Mom's ring on my finger. So much smaller than the diamond Drew gave me, which feels like a shiny, weighty anchor.

"Dad gave me this," I say, holding out my hand to show her the ring.

Morgan softens. "Your mom's?"

"Yep."

"Aw, my sweet little Milly. Bring it in." Morgan draws me into a hug, and I giggle. "Shh—there, there. Shut up, boy."

This is a quote from The Simpsons , Morgan's favorite show. I never quite understood the appeal, but I know her most-used quotes from it, which include this one and something about being a Viking in your sleep.

Her hug does make me feel better. Sort of. It doesn't take away the weird, sinking feeling, but I don't feel so alone and panicked.

For about five seconds. Then my eyes start to burn, and I have trouble breathing.

Morgan's eyes narrow, and she waves Becky toward the door. "Out."

"You can't kick me out. I'm the maid of honor!"

"Seven minutes past," the wedding coordinator says. We all ignore her.

"Stop trying to pull that trump card like it's anything more than a title for today," Morgan snaps at Becky. "I need to talk to my best friend . Alone. Now."

My cousin, for whatever reason, seems ready to put up a fight, wringing her hands and not moving even an inch away. "I think?—"

But before Becky can finish whatever she was going to say, the door bursts open again. Even harder than the dramatic entrance Morgan made minutes ago.

If she was a cyclone on speed, this is a typhoon on bath salts.

The door actually crashes into the wall behind it, making all three of us jump and stare at the two figures entering the room, one of whom isn't coming willingly.

"Drew?"

My fiancé is being dragged by a dark-haired man at least six inches taller and so broad he barely fits through the doorway. When he looks up and our eyes catch, I'm too stunned to speak. I know that face.

Robbie —a man I've met only once but couldn't forget.

Hard to do when you have a great conversation with a stranger, the sparks flew so hard they almost singed the roof off the building, and then the guy heads to the bathroom and … never returns.

Not that I've been harboring bitterness about it for the past year or anything.

Last night when I saw Robbie at the rehearsal dinner and realized he's one of my dad's players, it only left me with more questions.

Like … did Robbie know who I was the whole time we were talking?

Or maybe he didn't know, saw my dad come into the restaurant, and then bailed.

If I had to guess, I'd go with the second one. My dad has always kept me from the teams he coached in a sort of no-crossing-the-streams situation. Dad might not be above murder or maybe just some light mutilation if one of his players so much as touched me. I'm sure he's made this known to them. He's been doing it with every team he's ever coached. It's never bothered me as I'm not into athletes.

Or, I didn't think I was. But I liked Robbie. A lot.

Until he ghosted me. I met Drew a few weeks later and, well, did my best not to think about the one who got away.

Now, though, I have new questions.

Why is Robbie here? And why is he dragging Drew by his jacket?

"Yum," Morgan whispers, clearly not as bothered by the whole fiancé-being-manhandled thing.

I ignore her. "What's going on?" As I step closer, Robbie releases Drew and gives him a light shove my way.

To my surprise, Becky darts over, steadying Drew as he stumbles.

"Oh, good. You're both here," Robbie says, glancing between them.

Both?

Becky is still holding Drew's arms, and they are standing way too close together. With the kind of body language that screams this isn't the first time they've been this close.

Or closer .

My stomach gives a sudden and violent lurch to the left. Morgan stiffens beside me. Yep, she noticed too. She emits a low growling sound, and I grab her hand. Partly for comfort. And partly to hold her back since we still don't know what's going on here.

Though I'm beginning to think I have a good idea.

Noticing the tension in the room—or maybe hearing Morgan's growl—Becky and Drew jump apart. But it's the guilty expressions on their faces that cement the picture forming in my mind.

Becky and Drew? My fiancé and my cousin?

Okay, who dropped me into my own reality show? I did not sign consent forms for this.

Swallowing, I glance quickly at Robbie, still standing inside the room with his arms crossed and a thunderous look on his face. I still don't know why he's here, but he's apparently not going anywhere.

"Your fiancé has something to confess," Robbie says, emphasizing fiancé in a way that makes it sound like he's talking about dog poop. The sneer on his lips adds to the effect.

They're nice lips. The night we met I couldn't stop looking at them as we talked. But I really should not be distracted by them right now . Not when what he's saying has nausea curling in my gut.

"I'm sorry, but why are you here?" I ask him.

"My question exactly," Drew mutters.

"Because I couldn't stand by and watch?—"

Robbie stops himself, taking the smallest step back and looking, for the first time since he barreled into the room, a little unsure.

For a moment, I'm shuttled back to the night we met, when I mentioned losing my mom. That must have been so hard , he said, which trumped the simple I'm sorry people usually offer up. His dark brown eyes met mine with a tug I felt travel up my spine like I was being unzipped and had stepped out of myself into something new. When he covered my hand with his, brushing his thumb across my palm, I felt the caress everywhere.

Then he left me , I remind myself. I turn back to the situation at hand. One I'm really getting impatient to resolve.

"Just say it," I tell Drew. "Whatever this is, say it ."

His cheeks are red, his eyes apologetic but with a slight edge of anger, reminding me of a kid who's been caught but is still blaming his little brother. Or the family dog.

Drew shoves his hands in his suit pockets and looks at Becky, who bites her lip and stares down at her pink shoes like she's hoping if she clicks them together three times she'll be sent anywhere but this room.

"Why don't we all just calm down," Drew says in a firm voice, clearly meant to placate and soothe.

Which is funny considering no one is really freaking out. Yet.

But his words turn the tension in the room up to the broil setting.

For a man who apparently has been maintaining relationships with multiple women, Drew sure doesn't understand us very well. Anyone with a frontal lobe knows telling women to calm down is the equivalent of waving a whole barrage of red flags at an angry bull. I bristle, feeling my nostrils flare and my lip curl.

Becky stamps her stupid Petal Pink shoe and gives a little, outraged scream. "Calm down?" she screeches.

"Babe—" Drew starts, then swings wide, deer-in-the-headlights eyes toward me when he realizes the confirmation in that one little word.

I sort of wish Drew were a deer and in my headlights. I'd happily mow him down.

Actually, maybe I'd swerve to avoid him, let him live his stupid deer life. Because I realize in this moment, as one angle in a lopsided love triangle, that it's not a huge loss.

"So, you two have been …" I trail off, not able to stomach the words.

Neither Drew nor Becky seem inclined to finish my sentence either.

It's Robbie who speaks. "I found them together in some office twenty minutes ago." He clears his throat, looking apologetic but also angry. "Like, together together."

"I get the picture," I snap, my face heating.

Am I humiliated? Sure.

Betrayed? Check.

Relieved? Yes. More than any other feeling, this one rises to the top.

Which makes me feel strangely guilty and giddy in almost equal measure.

"It's over," Drew says, not specifying which of us he's talking to.

The man is such a coward. I can see exactly how intentional his vagueness is. It's basically the equivalent of relationship roulette, and he's trying to place bets on both red and black to see which one earns him more.

He probably figured he'd throw those words out and see where things landed. So passive he doesn't have to make the choice himself.

You know what? I can make the choice easy for him.

"I agree," I say calmly. Every head in the room swivels toward me. "It is over."

Drew looks stunned and a little hurt, which he has no right to feel. Becky's mouth hangs open, and the church lady frowns at me like she's about to protest about messing up the schedule.

Robbie—well, he looks impressed. One corner of his mouth—which I still should not be noticing in this moment—curves up in a way that I can best describe as approval. But also trouble .

I turn away from him and that bad-idea smile, facing Morgan. She looks like she wants to give me a high five, then later tell me I told you so . Because she totally did tell me so way back at the start of my relationship with Drew. "He's too meh for you," I think were her exact words. My response was that meh wasn't a word, and then she and I fought about slang and the devolving of language, and she let me make my choice. My bad one.

Maybe I'll buy her a cake later and have them write "You Told Me So" in red icing, and we can eat the whole thing together while re-watching New Girl for the hundredth time.

"Can we talk for a sec, Ames?" Drew steps closer to me, and Robbie crosses the room to stand beside me.

Correction: to tower over me.

I'm not sure who dubbed him my protector, but he's clearly taking on that role. While I should tell him to get lost, I find myself shifting closer. If for no other reason than to use him as a physical barrier. The dude is huge, and will definitely make a good fiancé blocker should I need one.

"Pass." In a quick move, I take off the engagement ring and set it on a table, not wanting to touch him. He opens his big, dumb mouth to ask a question, but I keep going. "Unless you want to tell me how long you've been messing around with my cousin?"

No matter how relieved I am to be walking away from this, my own question makes me feel queasy. I can't think about the two of them together.

The wedding coordinator clears her throat and glances at her stopwatch. "If we're not going to proceed, we really should make an announcement."

"Is that what you want, Ames?" Drew asks. "To end this?"

And I swear, the man looks almost wistful, like he's hoping I'll say no. I don't get it. He doesn't want to make a decision, but he also doesn't want me to walk away.

I'm not the only one who notices this. Becky makes a strangled sort of shriek but is blocked from coming closer by Morgan. Robbie's low, throaty rumble makes me shiver.

"Becky, I am not your biggest fan right now, believe me," I tell my cousin. "But because you're family, I'll tell you that this is not a man you should waste any of your time on."

"Now hang on." Drew frowns and takes a step closer, reaching for me for some stupid reason. The man is honestly a walking and talking nominee for being naturally selected out of existence.

And then he does something even dumber.

Drew grabs my arm.

He circles his hand around my wrist just as my dad and Uncle Bobby walk in, just as Becky picks up an angel statue off a table and lobs it across the room.

This also happens to be the moment Robbie yanks Drew away from me.

I'm not sure who Becky was aiming for—maybe Drew and me both—but Robbie is the one who takes an angel right to the face.