“It’s like my life became this curated thing,” I say, struggling for words. “Events and outfits and social media posts my dad’s assistant approves before they go up. He says he’s protecting me. But I don’t feel protected. I feel… managed.”
Dallas watches me over the rim of his mug, eyes hooded. He doesn’t interrupt, but his jaw flexes once, a tight little clench that tells me what I’m saying is landing harder than he’s letting on.
“And my mom and Charlotte didn’t come to the wedding,” I add, the old hurt stirring. “I think they just didn’t want to watch me do something that felt wrong.”
“Did you want to?” Dallas asks.
“Want to what?” I stall, even though I know.
“Marry him.” He pins me with that intense blue gaze. “If your dad wasn’t in the picture. If there wasn’t a job you hate and a life you’re describing like a brochure you never ordered. Would you have married him?”
The question lays me bare.
I think of Evan’s card in my hand, his neat handwriting.Can’t wait to begin our life together.I think of sitting across from him at dinner while he took call after call, squeezing my hand absently without once asking how my day was.
I close my eyes.
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t think I would have even said yes if my dad hadn’t pushed. He was so happy someone like Evan picked me. Like I’d done my job right, finally. He kept saying, ‘You’re lucky, Faith. Plenty of girls would kill for this.’”
Dallas’s knuckles whiten around his mug. “Your father always liked telling people what should make them happy.”
“Mmm. I know.”
“And you just… what?” he asks after a beat. “Bolted?”
A miserable laugh escapes me.
“Pretty much. I mean, I didn’t have a plan,” I say. “I just knew I couldn’t walk down that aisle. So I drove. And I thought… Mom. If I can just get home, to her little house, maybe I can breathe. Think. Figure out what to do next.”
Dallas takes all this in, his expression giving nothing away.
“So you aimed north,” he says. “In a snowstorm.”
I wince. “I didn’t check the weather.”
“Of course you didn’t,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.
“I know it was stupid,” I say quickly. “Reckless. I just… I couldn’t stay. Everyone was calling and texting, and I just… couldn’t. So I rolled down the window and threw my phone into a snowbank.” I give him a helpless little shrug. “Which, in hindsight, was also stupid, but at the time it felt necessary. Like if I could just cut that cord, I’d finally hear myself think.”
“Faith,” he says slowly. “You drove a hundred something miles, in the dark, in a snowstorm, in a wedding dress, in high heels, with no phone.”
I flinch. “When you say it like that, I sound like I should be committed.”
He snorts. “I wasn’t going to say that.” He leans back, studying me. “I was going to say it sounds like you were desperate.”
I swallow.
“Yeah,” I say. “I think I was.”
The kettle clicks softly as it cools. A log shifts in the fireplace in the other room, sending a faint crackle through the quiet.
I risk a glance up at him.
“Are you… mad?” I ask before I can stop myself. “That I showed up here. Like this. On Christmas Eve. After… everything.”
His gaze flicks to me, sharp, then away.
“I’m not thrilled you nearly killed yourself on the bend,” he says. “That stretch is bad when it’s dry, never mind covered in ice. I’ve pulled two stranded tourists out of that ditch this year already.”
