Chapter 4 - There Is No Wedding
The ring clicked when it hit the altar step.
I didn't see where it landed. I heard it. Dad's hand was empty now, white skin showing where the gold had been, and he didn't look down to find it. Claire did. Her eyes dropped for half a second like she wanted to pick it up and put it back on him and make everything go back.
Nobody in the chairs moved. The flowers behind us smelled too sweet. My hair was dripping down my back and I could feel my damp shirt sticking cold to my shoulders. I kept my fingers twisted in Dad's jacket because if I let go I thought my legs would give out.
He didn't raise his voice. That scared me more.
"Show me one," he said to Claire. "Show me one message I wrote."
Claire shook her head. Her veil had slipped a little to the side. "Daniel — please. Not here. Not in front of them."
"They're my daughters," he said. "You told me they were in Portugal."
A sound came out of the front row. Someone stood and then sat back down again. The lights were still warm and bright on the white arch, and it didn't look right with how quiet it had gotten. Like the room was still set for pictures.
Claire lifted both hands, palms out. "I never wrote a word of it," he said before she could speak. He wasn't looking at her anymore. He was looking out at the people. "I never wrote a word of it."
I felt his jacket shift when he breathed in. My sister was somewhere to my left, I knew, but I wouldn't turn to check. I couldn't take my eyes off Claire's face.
Then Dad said it plain.
"There is no wedding."
It didn't sound like something in a movie. It sounded tired. It sounded finished. A woman in the second row covered her mouth. A man near the aisle stood up with his phone in his hand and then put it back in his pocket.
Claire went pale. Her mouth opened and her eyes cut to the guests, then back to Dad, then to me, like she was counting what she was losing.
"Daniel, you don't understand," she said.
Her voice cracked on his name. She took one step toward us and stopped when Dad shifted just enough to keep me behind him. I felt the back of his hand brush my arm, not pushing, just there.
"You had six months," he said. "We're going home."
Going home.
The words hit me so hard I stopped breathing. Home meant our house with the blue door and my room and the kitchen light over the sink. Home meant before. But Claire had told us he'd sold it. She'd told us there wasn't a home to go back to, and for six months I'd believed her every time we drove past streets that weren't ours.
I froze. My fingers locked tighter in his jacket. I wanted to ask which home he meant. I wanted to ask if it was still there. My throat wouldn't work.
Claire heard the pause. She saw it. "Sophie," she said quickly. "Honey, don't —"
"Don't tell my daughter to stop," Dad said.
It was the same low voice as before, but harder now. Claire closed her mouth. Her hands dropped to her dress and grabbed at the lace like she needed something to hold.
May you like
Dad didn't walk yet. He didn't pull me toward the aisle. He just stood there between us, letting the silence sit. The arch towered over all of us, white flowers starting to brown at the edges under the lights. I could hear someone crying softly two rows back and the hum of the air vent above the doors.
I stared at the step where the ring had fallen and waited for him to move.
