Failed To Show Up

Raven

I pull out my phone.

Her name is Vivienne Cole. I’d known the name long before Roman ever did, everyone knew Vivienne Cole. She was Miss America at twenty-two, she has the kind of beauty that didn’t seem real, the kind you stared at as a little girl and genuinely wondered if she was a different species of person entirely. Flawless in the specific, infuriating way that looked completely effortless.

She’d transitioned from the pageant circuit into acting and spent the last decade collecting award nominations and magazine covers and the devoted attention of everyone who had ever seen her face.

I used to watch her films curled up on the couch with mum.

I open I*******m and find her page without even having to search for it. 4.2 million followers. The most recent post is a carousel — pre-wedding photos, soft golden light, Roman in a white linen shirt looking exactly the way he always looks, and Vivienne tucked into his side like she was made to be there. Her head thrown back laughing. His hand at her waist. The caption reads: *The love of my life. Three more weeks.*

847,000 likes.

I scroll before I can stop myself and find her daughter in one of the photos. Aria. Eighteen years old, from Vivienne’s first marriage, and somehow just as devastatingly pretty as her mother, same bone structure, same easy grace, like beauty was simply something that ran in their blood and couldn’t be diluted. She was smiling at the camera with her arm around Roman’s neck and he was smiling back and something about that picture specifically sat in my chest like a stone.

He has completely replaced me and wiped every memory of my mother and me from his life.

I close the app and open it again immediately like an idiot and find the blogs instead.

*BELLERIE EMPIRE CEO ROMAN BELLERIE SET TO WED FORMER MISS AMERICA AND HOLLYWOOD DARLING VIVIENNE COLE IN WHAT SOCIETY INSIDERS ARE CALLING THE EVENT OF THE DECADE.*

*America’s sweetheart has found her match, and he has a private jet fleet and three Boston skyscrapers to prove it.*

I lock my phone and press it face down against my thigh.

He is fifty-one years old and she is thirty-seven and they are the most beautiful couple anyone has ever seen and in three weeks they are getting married in what is apparently the event of the decade and I am twenty-one years old on a transatlantic flight trying to remember how to breathe normally.

The seat belt sign blinks on.

I straighten up and tuck my hair back and go through the list of sensible things. I am twenty-one years old. I have a life. I have a degree half finished and a future that exists entirely outside of Roman Bellerie and everything he made me feel in a bedroom three years ago. I am going home for a wedding. I am going to smile and be normal and watch him marry a woman the whole world is already in love with.

I am fine.

The captain’s voice comes over the intercom, smooth and unbothered, beginning our descent. I watch Boston come up slowly through the clouds, grey and familiar, full of things I packed away a long time ago and never went back for.

He promised he’d be there. Two weeks ago, the last time we spoke, he’d said it so simply. ‘I’ll be there when you land.’ Like no time had passed. Like three years of careful distance had just been a minor inconvenience we could set aside at arrivals.

‘I’ll be there when you land.’

I’d held onto that more than I should have. I’d played it back more times than I’d ever admit.

The wheels touch down hard and I close my eyes and press my palms flat against my thighs and tell myself it’s just adrenaline. Just nerves. Just the body doing what bodies do.

Inside, the terminal is loud and bright and smells like coffee and recycled air. I move through the crowd with my carry-on and my heart is doing something completely unreasonable. Three years and I still know exactly what it will feel like to see him — the way my whole body will go quiet and loud at the same time. I’ve thought about this moment for weeks. What I’ll say. How I’ll look. Whether he’ll notice I’ve changed.

I scan the waiting faces beyond the barrier.

And I don’t find him.

I look again. Then again. The crowd thins as people find their people and drift away and still no Roman. Nothing.

Then a man in a dark suit steps forward with his hands folded and a look of practiced politeness.

“Miss Bellerie.” He dips his head slightly. “Your father sends his apologies. He wasn’t able to get away by himself. He’s asked me to bring you directly to his office.”

I stare at him for a moment.

James. Roman’s personal driver. I’d known him since I was twelve years old.

“His office,” I repeated.

“Yes, miss.”

I look back at the barrier one more time. At the space where he was supposed to be standing.

Then I pick up my bag and follow James out into the grey Boston morning, and I tell myself the feeling settling in my chest right now is relief.

I almost believe it.