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It’s just awful that my heart is leading me down a path away from the man I love.
But he’s the one choosing something else over me. Or maybe, instead, I simply need to think of it as him following his heart too. Just like he can’t tell me what makes me happy, I can’t decide for him either.
Though I still think that he’s doing what he is for other people, perhaps that’s just what makes him Frederick. Sacrifice. Loyalty. Generosity. All the things I love most about him are the things that are taking him away from me.
I squeeze Lauren’s hands and we start our descent down the deck-side steps. I walk in front of her to slightly block the view of her from Topher. Of course, he saw her earlier when they took photos, but this walk … it hits different. This is the last time she will ever walk toward him as something other than his wife.
And when I split off and grab a spot standing between Lucy and Marilee, I watch my brother as he catches sight of his bride.
The wonder, the awe, the joy that flashes across his face—it was worth all the heartache they faced, all the trials, to get here.
My gaze veers slightly to the right, to the front row where I feel a heated gaze. And it’s Frederick, watching me. He’s impossibly handsome in his tuxedo and bow tie, his short hair gelled to perfection, his shoulders as firm and strong as ever. My chest aches at the sight of him, at the emotions displayed in full force in his eyes.
Ragged heartache that matches mine.
Wanting, longing, untapped desire.
Anything but joy.
He didn’t tell me he loved me back last night when I stupidly tried one last-ditch effort to get him to stay. When I reverted back to that girl who begged Troy not to leave me. But as soon as I realized I’d done it, I backed off. Remembered the words Frederick himself had spoken to me that night four years ago in the garden:Don’t let the fear of what others think hold you back. Surround yourself with people who know you, who are in your corner. Determine your own worth, Princess, and fight to keep it.
So that’s what I’m doing. As Lauren reaches Topher and hands her flowers to her sister in the front row, and the audience takes a seat, I take Lucy and Marilee’s hands in my own. They both smile at me. Lucy winks.
And I know I’m home.
The wedding unfolds like a dream and despite my determination not to think about Frederick, everything reminds me of him.
The way Topher cries when he says his extensive vows to Lauren—which she teasingly calls a tome—reminds me of Freddy crying last night when we said goodbye.
When Lauren calls my brother SuperThor and he responds with a “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Tiger?”—I can’t help but think of Muscles and Princess. The people we were before yesterday, when we became the people with broken hearts.
And when the sun is gone over the hills and the cheer goes up from the crowd and Topher swoops in to kiss the woman he loves, I remember that first real kiss between me and Frederick. The all-consuming, never-going-to-top-this-but-we’ll-try kiss in the rain that was the beginning of our real love story.
I hate this, that everything about this wedding that was supposed to be all about Topher and Lauren has made me think about something I will never have again with Frederick.
I also hate that I can’t hate him. That I never really will, because I understand. He’s not choosing something over me—I have too much worth to believe that. He’s just doing what he thinks is best for him and his family.
And that’s what I have to do too. Would I rather do it with him? Yes, of course. A thousand times yes.
But he hasn’t made that an option.
So as Topher and Lauren are declared man and wife and a whoop goes up from the crowd, I pull my mobile from my purse and send Rhonda a text:I’m in.
twenty-six
FREDERICK
She looks so beautiful, it hurts.
And I was wrong, back when I thought there was nothing more torturous than lying close to Chloe and not being able to have her.
The more torturous thing is having her—knowing the taste and feel of her—and then giving her up. Because the real thing was far better than the imagined.
And now I’ll know for the rest of my life what I’m missing.
Yet here I sit at the end of a long picnic table, all alone, nursing a glass of Scotch and unable to pull my gaze from her. She’s dancing to some pop song with Lauren, Lucy, and Marilee, and they’re singing along—yelling along, more like—tossing their hair and bouncing to the beat. Chloe is vibrant and alive and doing a much better job of faking happiness than I am in this moment.
And sakes, that dress … talk about killing a man slowly.
