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Chapter Thirty-Eight
Until Now
There’s not a dry eye at Miley and Rich’s wedding. I’ve never been to one, but it’s the most surreal thing I’ve ever experienced.
The aisle is set with twinkling lights, like fallen stars. A white canopy drapes across the trees to shelter from the February snap; the edge of the trees are cast in a faint, warm glow. Green vines adorn every chair, and white petals are scattered on the ground, rustling in the wake of the long train of Miley’s dress.
As I walk a few steps behind one of the bridesmaids, Chase looks up, and I see every thought leave his mind as he sees me. It’s the expression of someone forgetting why they walked into a room. His smile collapses entirely as he drinks me in, his lips parting. I see the breath whoosh out of him, and my own breath is short in my lungs as I takehimin.
He’s absolutely devastating in his black suit and bowtie. Gone is his tousled, sleep-mussed hair; it’s slicked back with a cute little wave in the front. His hands are clasped in front of him; they clench into white-knuckled fists.
He doesn’t look away as I walk up the alter and stand on the other side of it across from him. I stare at the tattoo on Miley’s shoulder, feeling his gaze burn everywhere it touches, sending shivers skittering over my skin as surely as if he’s touching me with his fingers.
I meet his eyes.
I don’t look away.
Neither does he.
Not even as vows are spoken and exchanged. Everything melts away—the audience and the bride and the groom. Until it’s just Chase and I standing there, the vows echoing into this distant, faraway world where only the two of us exist, as if those vows are spoken for us. Only us.
Eloise parades down the aisle in a pretty green dress of her own, bows tied in her red hair. She holds out a little palm with two wedding bands on it. Applause erupts as the newlyweds kiss, and I blink back my tears because I’m a terribly ugly crier.
The rest of the night is a blur. Of music and cake and speeches, laughs and cries and congratulations.
I should feel happy witnessing such a surmountable display of love, but my chest is hollow. I don’t regret Archer. I don’t regret learning what love isn’t. I don’t regret realising my worth and what I’m willing to settle for. I feel my own strength, my resilience, and it’s all thanks to him. But the pang that goes through me as I watch the bride and groom have their first dance is because that’s something I envisioned for myself. Something I hoped Archer and I would have one day.
I can’t shake the envy I feel for Miley. She has everything I want.
But I can have that happiness. That love. It’s in the palm of my hand, and all I need are those twenty seconds of courage.
The same courage I used to hug my mum.
The same courage I used to apply for college two days ago.
Chase leaves tomorrow.
I have to tell him tonight. Everything. All of it.
I’ll either be rejected and everything will carry on as normal, or…
No. There’s no point in wishful thinking. I just have to tell him, to stop my feelings eating at me.
I watch him dance with Eloise, who beams at the attention. After a few more twirls, she bounds off to sit on Miley’s lap. Chase glances around as if he’s looking for something, and when his eyes land on me, he starts forward, determination set in his shoulders—but Rich catches up to him.
I can’t hear what’s being said, but Chase appears disgruntled. Still, he inclines his head at me, signalling for me to follow him.
My mind is quiet, focused, steady, even though my heart wants to burst from my chest. A small crowd disperses outside to sit around a little fire. Chase puts his suit jacket around my shoulders and perches on a tree stump, adjusting the strings on his guitar. My eyes fall on the pick between his lips, the strain in his arms as he rolls up his sleeves, the curl that flops over his forehead as he bends to watch the movement of his fingers.
He offers the crowd a little smirk, and my breath catches at the position of his legs. That manspreading I love for absolutely no reason at all. He’s pulled his bowtie away from his throat a bit, unfastening the first two buttons of his white shirt, exposing the column of that beautiful throat.
Oh, how I want to kiss it.
Rich, holding Miley in his lap, makes a remark. People chuckle. I barely hear it.
So Chase looks at me, and begins to play.
I come undone at the first strum. It ignites something deep in my stomach. His fingers move exquisitely, drawing out the notes, bleeding into the air. The melody is sweet as it is devastating, a cacophony of rising and falling chords, swelling and retreating like a tide.
