Every single head in the room turns toward me. I knew this was coming. I’ve had months to prepare for the reality of this moment, yet nothing could prepare me for the sensation of the air being sucked out of the church. The string quartet is playing something technically beautiful, but in this particular second, it feels like being escorted to my own execution.
My father’s arm tightens under my hand. “Ready?”
“Yes,” I say.
Neither of us moves. The music loops, mocking me.
“Piper?”
“I’m ready.”
I take a step.
Okay. One step.
The floor is solid. My legs aren’t made of jelly. I can do this because I’ve already decided to. And if there is one thing a Callahan is good at, it’s following through on a bad plan.
But I stop.
A ripple of hushed whispers goes through the pews.
Halfway down the aisle, Ezra stands waiting. He looks incredible—a detail I notice with the detached clarity of someone watching a movie through a window. Next to him, his best man leans in to whisper something. Ezra doesn’t even look at him.
His eyes are on me. They aren’t the eyes of a man in love. They are the eyes of a director whose lead actress just missed her mark.
Move,his stare says.You’re embarrassing me,it says.We will be discussing this later,it promises.
I tear my gaze away and look at the flowers instead. White and cream. Perfect. Colorless. Every single one was chosen from a pre-approved list I was handed after the decisions had already been made. I said they were beautiful. They are. And they have absolutely nothing to do with me.
“Piper,” Dad implores softly.
“I’m fine. Sorry. I just—”
I take three more steps. Good, forward, bride-like steps. The dress swishes, the music swells, and for a second, I think,You’re doing it. You’re actually going to go through with it.
I stop again.
This time, the ripple is a wave. I hear a child in the front row ask, “Why does she keep stopping?”
Ezra’s smile remains, but it has changed to the one that signals I’m about to face a lecture on how my actions impact everyone else.
My father bends his head closer to mine. “You want to run, baby? You run.”
I blink at him. His face is completely serious.
“Dad—”
“I mean it.”
“I can’t. Everyone is here. The flowers, the money, the… everything.” I gesture helplessly at the room, at the three yearsof my life I’ve spent trying to be the exact shape Ezra wanted. “I can’t just do that.”
“You run now, and you’re miserable for a while,” Dad says, his voice steady. “Or you walk down that aisle, and you spend the rest of your life not feeling like enough.”
The lump in my throat is threatening to choke me. I haven’t said those words to anyone. I’ve been so careful to hide that exact fear, and yet my father just looked at me and read the fine print of my soul.
Not feeling like enough.
Three years spent shrinking myself. Becoming quieter. More manageable. Three years of apologizing for the space I occupy and the opinions I hold. Three years of searching for the warm version of the man at the altar, only to discover the one who judges my worth by how well I conform.
