Page 23 of One Last Gift

“He’s on the fifth floor,” his mum called behind him.

Of course he was. Of course he’d found a way to put himself in the fucking midst of it, on the floor where the wedding was happening, where guests might see him, where he might see Jessica. Not that he’d recognize her, having never met her.

He got the lift down to the fifth floor, feeling his fingertips pulse as he marched down the corridor. Jesus, what had his dad been thinking? How dare he show up here as if he’d be welcome, as if the last twenty-five years of being let down or showing up drunk could be brushed over? Sam couldn’t even remember the last time he’d spoken to him.

He passed the Tapestry Room, which was set up for the ceremony already, and though he tried to rush past it, he still caught a glimpse, and felt himself balk at the sight of all the chairs, underneath that crystal chandelier, facing the front of the walnut-paneled room where he and Jessica would soon be standing, ready to pledge their lives to one another. Keep walking, he told himself.

He found his dad out on the terrace. It was long and narrow, all sandstone, with terra-cotta pots spread evenly along the length of it, housing what looked to be mini trees. Standing at one of the tall, round wooden tables, his dad had his back to Sam. He was smoking away, looking out at the view of London’s skyline, the top of the Shard and St. Paul’s Cathedral forming the centerpieces.

Sam cleared his throat pointedly and his dad spun around.

“Sam!” His dad hurriedly stamped out his cigarette in the plant pot in the middle of the table, then broke into a cough before beaming at him, as if they should be genuinely delighted to see one another. He was wearing a rather shabby gray suit, which clearly didn’t fit him well, straining at all the seams. His gray eyes looked tiny, almost sunken in, and the little hair he had left was combed over in a way that was clearly meant to hide his impending baldness. Jesus, what would Jessica think if she saw the kind of man he’d come from?

His dad walked over to him, swinging his arms awkwardly. “It’s the big day, then,” he said with another cough. “How are you feeling?”

Sam’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, and he shoved them into his pockets. Behind his dad, on the table where he’d been standing, stood a half-empty bottle of Becks. So, his dad had already started then.

Sam took a breath, fought for calm. It would do no good to start a shouting match that brought people running outside. “What are you doing here, Dad?”

“I wouldn’t miss it!” The fact that he wasn’t invited hovered in the air, an unsaid fact.

Sam shook his head. “I don’t want you here.” To the point was better—quicker and easier.

“But I…”

“No, Dad.” He felt heat rising in his chest. Right then, he felt the absence of Tom even more acutely. Tom would have known what to say—he’d have gotten rid of his dad and smoothed it all over in a way that didn’t create a scene and didn’t piss anyone off too much. He would have understood, without Sam having to explain what Sam needed—they’d always been able to do that for one another. Like with Amy—Sam hadn’t judged Tom for that, hadn’t made him explain. He’d figured Tom had just needed time to process. He’d gotten it, because he got Tom.

“Please,” Sam said, biting the word out. “Please leave.”

His dad ran a hand over his head. “Well, if that’s what you want, of course. But I just thought, you know, maybe we could talk.” Sam narrowed his eyes, and his dad carried on hurriedly. “I wanted to check you were doing OK, after, you know…”

“What, and you picked my wedding day to do that? Because it’s the perfect moment to have a heart-to-heart? Because I don’t have other fucking things to think about today?” He turned away, chest heaving, and went to stand at the edge of the terrace, placing his hands on the waist-high stone wall at the edge of it.

“Well, it’s not like I get many invites, Sam,” his dad said defensively.

Sam gave a hollow laugh, still looking out at the skyline of London, the city he’d made his home, through grit and determination. “Of course you’re putting this back on me,” he said with a sigh. And it was so obvious, so damn predictable, that some of the anger drained from him, giving way to defeat.

“I didn’t mean that,” his dad said quickly.

“Didn’t you? There’s always some excuse, isn’t there?”

There was a moment of silence, which Sam didn’t bother filling.

“I’ll go,” his dad said.

“Good.”

“I’ll…Right. OK. Well, congratulations and all that.”

Sam heard his dad’s footsteps, heard the creak of the floor as he stepped through the French doors. It was only then that he turned, watched his dad leave. Bitterness settled at the base of his throat. But what else had he been supposed to do? It wasn’t like they were ever going to be able to have some big heart-to-heart, hug it out. Was that what his mum had been thinking? That they’d have a moment, be hanging around together at the wedding, laughing and joking? She didn’t get it. There was no point in Sam trying to make up with his dad—he’d just be let down again later down the line.

He scrubbed his hands over his face, then left the terrace—and the lonely beer bottle—behind. He passed the room that he knew was being set up for the immediate aftermath of the ceremony—guests would be ushered here, once he and Jessica had officially tied the knot. This room was white-walled, with black pillars rising up to the domed ceiling. Another chandelier—the hotel did seem fond of them—and flowers everywhere. Christ, it must have taken mammoth organization to plan it all out. Not that he would know. He’d mostly stayed out of the wedding prep—he wasn’t even sure he could say what the menu was for dinner. Jessica had a whole team of people, though—she hadn’t needed his help. A team of people, headed by Cassie. His chest tightened at the thought of her.

He’d been drawn to a stop, staring at the life inside the room, the chaos in there, compared to the quietness of the rest of the floor. There was a cluster of people around one of the tables in the corner, and Sam jolted when he saw Jessica was one of them. She wasn’t supposed to be there—she was supposed to be in the spa, surrounded by adoring bridesmaids, putting the finishing touches on her makeup or whatever.

He backed away, but his gaze lingered. She looked stunning, his mum had been right. Her auburn hair was half up, half down, accentuating her high cheekbones, white flowers placed in the curls at the back of her head. Her dress was strapless, corseted at the back, a brilliant combination of sexy and demure. She was flushed right now, adding a totally natural rosy-cheeked glow to the heavy makeup she was wearing, and was in full discussion-mode with the member of hotel staff closest to her, gesturing emphatically. His heart started palpitating in a way that made him uncomfortable.

He backed away another step, but too late—Jessica turned, saw him loitering in the doorway. She smiled and raised her eyebrows. He knew what she meant—he wasn’t supposed to be there. She mouthed, “Are you OK?”