Chapter 2

For a few seconds, no one moved.

Then the room broke open.

Chairs scraped against the floor. Someone gasped loud enough to cut through the silence. My father stood so quickly my mother had to reach for his arm, and Margaret Mercer's face turned the color of the roses behind me.

"What do you mean he left?" she asked.

I didn't answer.

There were too many people watching, too many mouths already forming questions. The wedding planner hurried over with a pale professional smile, asking whether I wanted the guests moved to cocktail hour, whether someone should call Elliot, whether there had been a medical emergency.

I almost laughed.

There had been an emergency, apparently.

It just hadn't been mine.

Then Robert Mercer, Elliot's father, pressed one hand to his chest.

At first, I thought he was only shocked. Then his knees buckled.

Margaret screamed.

The next hour blurred into pieces.

Someone called 911. Someone else cleared the aisle. My father helped Robert lie flat while a guest who said he was a cardiologist checked his pulse. The string quartet packed up in silence. Guests slipped out in small embarrassed groups, whispering behind their hands, pretending not to stare at the bride standing beside the altar with ruined makeup and no groom.

By the time the ambulance arrived, the wedding was already over in every way that mattered.

I went to the hospital with them.

Robert had a history of heart problems. Whatever Elliot had done, his father had been kind to me for seven years, and I couldn't leave Margaret alone in an emergency room with shaking hands and a dead phone battery.

A nurse cleaned the scrape on my shin and wrapped my swollen ankle. I sat in the curtained bay with my wedding dress gathered awkwardly around me while strangers looked twice and then quickly looked away.

My mother found me there.

"Nora," she said, lowering her voice as if I might shatter if she spoke too loudly. "Tell me what happened."

I looked at her face and suddenly couldn't breathe.

She had been so happy that morning. She had cried when she saw me in the dress. She had told me my father barely slept because he was afraid he would forget the steps down the aisle.

I had wanted to give them a wedding.

I had wanted to give Elliot the baby news after the reception, maybe in the hotel suite, when the noise was over and we were alone. I had imagined his face, the way his eyes might soften, the way he might pull me close and laugh into my hair.

After the nurse wrapped my ankle, I asked whether the hospital had someone from obstetrics available.

My mother heard me before I could lower my voice.

Her face changed.

"You're pregnant?"

I pressed one hand lightly against my lower stomach.

"It was supposed to be a surprise."

"Nora…"

"I fell," I said, because that was easier to say than everything else. "And I've been cramping. I just want to make sure…"

My voice gave out before I could finish.

She sat beside me and took my hand. There were already tears in her eyes, but she did not ask me to explain the wedding again. She only said, "Then we'll get you checked."

That kindness nearly broke me.

My phone rang from an unknown number.

For one stupid second, I thought it might be Elliot calling from someone else's phone because his had died, because he had realized what he had done, because he was finally on his way back to me.

I stepped into the hallway before answering.

"Nora."

It was him.

The hospital corridor was cold and bright. Nurses moved past with charts. A child cried somewhere behind a closed door.

Elliot sounded tired, but not frantic.

"My phone died," he said. "I couldn't get a charger until now."

I closed my eyes.

That explained why no one had been able to reach him. It did not explain the five hours he had left behind him.

"How is everything there?" he asked. "Were you able to keep people calm?"

For a moment, I didn't understand the question.

Then I did.

He thought the wedding had been paused. Managed. Held in place like a meeting running behind schedule.

I gripped the phone so hard my fingers hurt.

"It's been five hours, Elliot. It's dark outside. What exactly did you think I was doing all this time?"

Silence.

Then he sighed, low and weary, the way he did when a client refused good advice.

"I know I handled it badly."

"Handled it badly?"

"She was spiraling, Nora. I couldn't just leave her in the parking lot."

"You could have called an ambulance."

"I did what I thought was necessary."

Of course he did.

Elliot always had a sentence ready. It didn't have to comfort anyone; it only had to make him sound reasonable.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"At the hospital."

His voice sharpened. "Are you hurt?"

I almost told him about his father. I almost told him about my ankle, the dress, the guests, my mother's face, the appointment I had just made. But the next thing he said stopped me.

"Listen, whatever you told everyone, please don't drag Tessa into it. She's already blaming herself, and she's fragile right now. She doesn't deserve to be humiliated over a misunderstanding."

A misunderstanding.

Something inside me went very still.

"We're done, Elliot."

"Nora."

"I mean it. Don't call me again."

I hung up before he could answer.

Only after the call ended did my legs start to shake. I leaned against the wall, one hand pressed over my mouth, and cried so quietly my chest hurt from holding the sound in.

A notification appeared while my vision was still blurred.

An Instagram message request.

Tessa Lane.

I stared at the name until another message appeared below it.

Nora, I'm so sorry. I never meant for you to misunderstand me and Elliot. I just wanted to explain.

I should have deleted it.

Instead, my wet thumb brushed the screen and opened the request.

A photo loaded.

It had been taken through the glass wall of an emergency room bay. The reflection was faint, but clear enough.

Elliot stood with his arms around Tessa.

His head was bent toward hers. One hand rested against the back of her hair, the same careful way he used to hold me when I cried.

The image disappeared a second later.

Message unsent.

Then came another one.

I'm sorry. That sent by accident.

I swear nothing happened between us. I had a panic attack and my stomach started cramping, so Elliot brought me here. He only stayed because I was scared.

Please don't be mad at him on your wedding day. You two have been together so long. I would hate myself if I ruined something that important.

I looked at the screen until the words stopped meaning anything.

Then, because apparently grief made people cruel to themselves, I tapped on her profile.

Her account was public.

Most of it was harmless. Coffee cups on her desk. Elevator selfies. Photos of the courthouse steps with captions about surviving another day in litigation.

Then I saw a post from last week.

A picture of a paper cup, a heating pad, and a neatly folded cashmere scarf I recognized immediately.

Elliot's scarf.

The caption read:

When your boss pretends to be all serious but still brings you tea and a heating pad because cramps are trying to murder you. Maybe good men do exist.

I remembered that day.

I had called Elliot from the pharmacy parking lot with a pregnancy test sitting in my bag and my heart beating so hard I could barely speak. He had declined the call, then texted me twenty minutes later.

In a meeting. Is it urgent?

I had typed yes.

Then deleted it.

I told him it could wait.

Apparently, he had been busy taking care of Tessa.

A voice behind me said my name.

"Nora?"

I looked up.

Elliot stood at the end of the corridor, his tuxedo jacket gone, his bow tie loosened, his hair no longer perfect. For the first time that day, he looked genuinely startled.

Tessa was behind him, wrapped in a hospital blanket, one hand still gripping the sleeve of his shirt.

Elliot's eyes moved from my face to the wedding dress gathered around my legs, then to the papers in my hand.

"Nora, why are you here?" he asked. "I thought you were waiting for me at the venue."

I tightened my fingers around the early-pregnancy assessment forms before he could see the words printed across the top.