Chapter 6
I stood in doorway of ballroom and counted chairs. Twenty tables, all full except head table. Dad's chair empty. White napkin folded on plate nobody would use. I didn't feel relief. I felt eyes.
Room was same stone as pergola outside, but glass walls and string lights overhead. Catering staff moved fast, tucked extra chairs against back wall where Ray had been escorted. Venue manager nodded at me from corner. Mark's hand stayed on my back.
My name is Lauren. That morning I had imagined walking into this room to applause.
We sat. Mark pulled chair out for me, sat beside me. His white rose boutonniere caught light from chandeliers when he leaned close. Jessica sat two seats down, phone face-up beside water glass. She hadn't looked at me since pergola.
First scene was salads. Servers brought plates quiet. Low conversation started again. My cousin tried to toast with water. Nobody knew if we should clap.
Mark whispered, "You want to step out?"
I shook head. "We stay."
Second scene came when coordinator signaled first dance. Band played slow song my mom loved. Mark stood, held hand out. I hesitated. White lace of my gown caught on chair leg. He gently freed it.
We walked to small dance floor. Guests turned chairs to watch. His hand found my waist, mine on his shoulder. White rose boutonniere brushed against my bouquet where I still held it tight.
"You don't have to smile," he whispered.
"I don't know what face to make," I said.
"Just breathe," he said. Light hit boutonniere, white petals bright against dark lapel. "I got you. We decide together. Not him."
I nodded against his shoulder. We swayed small circle. Music felt too loud then too soft. I heard chair scrape behind us but didn't turn.
Later, near dessert, I needed air. I slipped to bridal suite off ballroom — small room where I'd gotten ready that morning. Makeup cases still open, veil box on chair. I had left envelope on dresser months ago and forgot. My mom's handwriting on small cream card: For wedding day - Mom. I hadn't opened it that morning. Too rushed.
I opened it now. One folded page, blue ink, dated two years before she died.
Lauren honey - If Ray does what he always does, remember - he gave Jessica car when yours broke down and said you were more responsible so you didn't need help. He paid her rent when she quit job and told you college fund was lesson in independence. I love him but I couldn't stop him favoring her. Don't let him use your good heart as wallet. Love, Mom
My hands shook. Ink blurred edge where she'd underlined favoring her. I read line twice. Concrete history, not feeling. Car. Rent. College fund. Pattern I had told myself was just family dynamics.
I folded letter, slipped into bouquet ribbon. Chest tight.
Back in ballroom, best man stood for toast. He lifted champagne, cleared throat.
"To Lauren and Mark — who showed grace under —"
Jessica's phone buzzed loud. She flipped it, eyes wide. She stood halfway, looked toward doors to lobby where Ray waited. Then another buzz. She typed quick.
Mark saw it. He stepped forward, voice low but toast stopped anyway.
Jessica said, "Sorry — sorry —" Phone still lit. I saw preview on screen from Dad: get check now before they hide it come to lobby
Room went quiet again except band's last note fading. Best man lowered glass. Guests looked at Jessica, then at me, then at empty chair.
Jessica shoved phone in clutch. "I have to —" She didn't finish.
I walked to her, still holding bouquet with mom's letter tucked inside. "Is Dad texting you to get check?"
She wouldn't meet my eyes. "He said you promised."
"We promised nothing," Mark said behind me, calm. "Check stays with couple."
Laughter from distant table died fast.
I looked at Jessica, at guests, at empty chair. History from mom's letter sat heavy against my ribs. I understood now this wasn't one-day fight. This was years.
"We will look at money history," I whispered to Mark. "Tomorrow. County records. All of it."
May you like
He nodded. "Together."
Toast never resumed. Coordinator signaled band to play again, but tension stayed. I sat back at head table, empty chair beside me like accusation, and held mom's letter tight until knuckles hurt.
