“What about those who don’t know?” I ask.
Logan reflects for a second, and sighs. “Man, you must figure that out for yourself.” He pauses. “And if I can make a suggestion? Do it before it’s too late.”
Twenty-one
Summer
With every passing minute, I become more nervous. The moment to move to the chapel quickly approaches, and I swear I’m more on edge than the bride. Dread at having to face Archie makes my stomach burn, and my only consolation is not to be the maid of honor. A small mercy that will spare me from having to walk down the aisle arm in arm with the best man. Instead, sweet Tucker will be my escort.
I glimpse at my reflection in one of the illuminated mirrors at the back of the room. At least I have my best, contoured poker face on. The makeup artist pulled off a miracle. My cheekbones are highlighted to death, and the bluish bags under my eyes have been vanquished, while my cheeks have a healthy rose tint. And my lips shine with pink gloss. The hair is amazing, too, swept back in a romantic updo. Softly plaited at the sides and collected at the nape. The style isn’t too polished, with loose, curly tendrils left astray while tiny white baby’s breath flowers have been woven in strategic places. Lana’s hair is the same, while Winter’s is a little more elaborate, and she has ivory roses instead of baby’s breaths.
The bridesmaids’ gowns are out of a dream as well. Like any bridesmaid who’s ever watched 27 Dresses, I was worried my sister would pick a monstrosity. Not a period costume or a Beverly Hills fuchsia mini skirt, but she could’ve gone down the road of a drab olive-green color or the beaded prom dress from hell.
Instead, I’m wearing a one-shoulder illusion gown in a perfect blush shade, with soft, sweeping ruffled flanges cascading down the skirt. A smooth, shimmering sash at the waist completes the outfit.
Winter’s wedding dress is next-level dreamy, though. My sister has always been the tomboy out of the two of us, but getting married has really brought out her inner Disney princess. Her gown is a caged A-line marvel covered in punched floral appliqués that start at the illusion neckline, continue to the notched bodice, and cascade down the tulle skirt. But nothing, not the hair nor the dress, can compete with the radiance of her smile.
Gosh, what it must be like to be that happy. Because no matter how perfect I look on the outside, inside, I’m slowly fading out.
A knock on the door makes me jump and causes my stomach to tie up in even more knots.
Tucker peeks his head into the room. “Ladies, are we ready to go?”
“Yes.” Winter beams at him. “Where’s Logan?”
“The groom is already at the altar. All the guests are seated, and Archie is waiting in the chapel’s side room, from which we will make our entrance.”
Even hearing his name mentioned in passing makes me want to puke.
“What about my dad?” Winter asks.
“He’s with Archie. We’re good to go.”
Winter nods, and follows Tucker out of the room.
As we’re walking down a hall to reach the elevators, Lana grabs my arm, gently pulling back. “Are you okay?”
Her kind eyes are genuinely concerned, so I tell her the truth. “Right now my biggest life’s goal is not to puke on this beautiful dress.”
Lana chuckles, saying, “Take this,” and hands me a small wrapped candy.
“What is it?”
“Ginger. I’d gotten them in case Winter became queasy before walking down the aisle or something, but you seem to need it more than she does.”
We both glance ahead of us to where Winter is bouncing down the hall in a tulle cloud. Yeah, I need the ginger more than my sister.
We take the elevator down to the lobby, reach a back exit, cross a narrow patch of garden, and stop near the side entrance to the small waiting room leading into the chapel. Everyone is supposed to go inside, but I don’t want to share such a confined space with Archie, even if there’ll be a dozen other people as a buffer between us. So, I let go of Lana’s arm, whispering, “You go ahead, I’ll be right in.”
She pulls me in for a small hug, saying, “Everything will be okay.” Then she disappears inside, helping bring in Winter’s train.
After a short time, the music starts. The melody streams out of the walls as if coming from the strings of a thousand violins. I count to ten. Archie and Lana must be already walking down the aisle, so I take a deep breath and walk in, taking my position at Tucker’s side without meeting anyone’s eyes. If my sister noticed my small cop-out, she’s too busy with her own walking-down-the-aisle jitters to comment.
Tucker offers me his elbow with a warm smile. “Ready?”
I take his arm and nod.
We exit the room and reach the start of the long aisle. Before us, a white carpet runway stretches to the altar where, out of the corner of my eye, I can make out Archie’s silhouette. He’s tall and in a black tux, but everything else is out of focus if I don’t stare at him directly, and I’d better not.
Tucker gives my arm an almost imperceptible tug, and we start our walk. I hold my head high and keep my gaze straightened ahead. I’m focusing on the forehead of the minister waiting at the center of the altar. As we pass the various rows of benches, my eyes don’t stray once toward snickering ex-friends or perfect strangers, and they never drift to the right of the minister to where Archie is standing.
The best man is looking at me; I can feel his gaze burning into my skin. Archie has kept his eyes glued to me from the moment I walked into the chapel.
The closer Tucker and I get to the altar, the harder it becomes to ignore Archie’s insistent stare. It’s like his mere presence is exercising an irresistible pull on my soul, compelling me to look at him.
I won’t look at him. I won’t look at him, I chant in my head, trying to keep my resolve. But as we near the final two rows of guests, my willpower wobbles, and I give in to the inescapable tug and shift my gaze to meet his.
A mistake.
The moment our eyes lock, time ripples. It stops, while simultaneously moving faster. In the few seconds it takes me to leave Tucker’s side and go take my position next to Lana, I study every detail of Archie’s face. The icy-but-burning light-blue of his irises. The hair, combed back in a Sunday-at-church, good-boy sweep. The soft beard that I’ve come to love. And the lips underneath that I yearn to kiss just one more time.
He’s devastatingly handsome, and the ultimate fantasy: Archibald Hill in a black tux waiting for me at the altar. Only this is not our wedding day, and he’s not here to marry me. We’re just spectators to somebody else’s happily ever after, while our futures head in two opposite directions.
The first notes of the wedding march fill the airy room, followed by a collective intake of breath, no doubt caused by my sister making her entrance. But I don’t look away, and neither does Archie.
We’re trapped in each other’s stares.
Twenty-two
Archie
When the time finally comes to move out of the groom suite, I’m impatient. I want to see Summer, know that she’s okay, and talk to her. Tucker guides us down the hall, where we make a quick stop to collect the father of the bride, and then continue outside the resort and across the garden up a small hill to the white chapel.