Obviously—she’s a mom now. Which means there’s someone in the picture. Maybe he’s here. But I hope he’s not.
She’s definitely not here for wedding party flirtations—let alone anything real.
But I’m committed to holding myself together. Be gracious. Be a gentleman. Because she’s not wrong to look at me with contempt.
I didn’t reach out.
Not the morning after.
Not the week after.
Not even when I got to France.
And really—how hard would it have been? To send a message. To say,
That was fun. Let’s do it again.
I wouldn’t have meant just the naked part. I’d have meant all of it. The way we talked. The way we danced. The way she looked inside me, like no one else had in years.
I’m deep in it—too deep—when her voice cuts through.
“Cash,” she says. NotSpencer, but Cash.
Her tone is clipped. Businesslike. No warmth. No invitation.
“It’s time for us to get in line.”
I nod and follow her to the back of the room, heart pounding in all the wrong ways.
A woman from the wedding planner team meets us there, headset in place, clipboard in hand. She gives us a once-over and nods.
“Well, you two make a good-looking pair,” she says, already shifting into motion.
She adjusts my stance, turning my shoulder outward, and I flinch—can’t help the quick, sharp sound that escapes me as pain flashes white-hot through the joint.
Rhea notices instantly.
“You okay?” she asks, her voice softening.
“I’m fine,” I manage, trying to smile. “Just an old war wound.”
The planner laces Rhea’s arm through mine, drapes her hand across my forearm, and adjusts us like two mannequins in a storefront window.
Then, briskly: “Alright—step, together. Step, together.”
And we walk together. Stone silent. Arm in arm.
Having her right beside me, but notwithme, makesevery step torture. I can feel the heat of her skin, the subtle pressure of her touch, and it makes me ache in a way I don’t know how to contain.
I fight the urge to say her name. To reach over with my other hand and squeeze hers.
To ask if she ever thought of me. Of us.
But I can’t hold it in.
“I should have reached out,” I say quietly. “I should have reached out right away. I regret that I didn’t.”
Her gaze doesn’t shift. Her eyes stay forward. Her steps don’t falter.
