The word isn’t sharp exactly, but it’s an order. A familiar one, in the sense that Dallas has always been better at directing action than making polite suggestions.
I sit.
The same old wooden table is scarred and scuffed, one leg shimmed with a folded piece of cardboard. The place whereI carved my initials under the edge when I was thirteen, daring Clay to do the same, is still there. My fingers find it automatically, tracing the familiar grooves.
F.R. + ?
I smile, a bit sad, remembering the argument we had about what initial should follow the plus sign. Clay thought it was hysterical that I refused to pick.
“You can’t put D.M.,” he’d sing-songed. “That’d be too on the nose.”
“You didn’t change it,” I murmur now.
“What?” Dallas asks.
My voice must have carried, because he sets a mug down in front of me with a little more care than necessary.
“Nothing,” I say quickly. “Just… talking to the table.”
His mouth twitches. “You were always weird.”
The tea is chamomile; I recognize the slightly grassy scent. He sits across from me with his own mug, wrapping his hands around it as if he needs the warmth as much as I do.
“Well,” he says finally. “You wanna tell me why you were barreling down Old Mill Road in a snowstorm dressed like you lost a bet at David’s Bridal?”
A laugh bursts out of me, but it dies quickly. “It’s a long story.”
He lifts one shoulder. “Storm’s not letting up anytime soon.”
I stare into my tea. The surface trembles slightly with my shaky hands.
“I… I left my wedding,” I say. The words sound absurd out loud. “I mean, you probably guessed that part. It’s not like I dress like this for fun. No offense to the dress.”
“None taken,” he says. “You looked like you were about to pass out in it.”
“I was,” I admit. “I think I had an actual panic attack.”
“Sounds about right.” His tone is unreadable. “So you just… ran? In the middle of the ceremony?”
“Before,” I say quickly. My chest squeezes, guilt pulsing. “No one was at the altar yet. I was in the bridal suite. I just… couldn’t breathe. Everyone was fussing, and my dad was banging on the door, and Evan…”
I break off, throat closing around his name.
His eyes sharpen, picking up on the hitch.
“Evan,” he repeats. “The guy you were marrying?”
“Yeah.” I huff out a breath. “Evan Carter. He’s… well. He’s everything my dad ever wanted for me. Polished. Smart. Corporate. He says things like ‘leveraging our Q4 momentum’ in normal conversation.”
“That sounds exhausting,” Dallas says dryly.
“It is.” I wrap both hands around my mug, chasing warmth. “He’s not… bad. Or cruel or anything. He’s just… not mine.”
The words feel dangerous and relieving at the same time.
I tell him all of it.
I talk in circles at first, words tripping over each other. I tell him about the endless planning, how every decision seemed to belong to my father or the wedding planner or Evan, how I felt like I was starring in someone else’s production. I tell him about the job I never asked for, the office with no windows, the boss who still calls me “kiddo” because he’s my father’s friend.
