The morning air is crisp, perfect for running, and the park is busy with other early exercisers. Joggers with their dogs, power-walkers in matching tracksuits, cyclists weaving between pedestrians. Normal people living normal lives, none of them about to marry their best friend in a ceremony that will be both the happiest and most devastating day of their existence.
I push myself harder, my breathing becoming ragged as I sprint past the zoo entrance. Maybe if I run fast enough, far enough, I can outrun the memory of standing on my doorstep last night, waiting for Ben to kiss me. Maybe I can forget the way my heartstopped when he leaned in, and the way it shattered when he pulled away.
Maybe I can convince myself that calling off this wedding isn’t the smartest thing I could possibly do.
Because that’s what I’m considering. Actually considering. Screw the contracts, screw the compensation, screw Ben’s business deal. I don’t think I can stand up in front of our families and friends and promise to love him forever when those words will be true for me and meaningless for him.
My phone buzzes in my armband, probably a text about wedding logistics or vendor confirmations. I ignore it. For the first time in weeks, I don’t want to think about centerpieces or seating charts or the fifty million details that go into staging the perfect fake wedding.
I want to think about running away.
Not literally—I’m not about to disappear to a foreign country or change my identity. But I could call Ben right now and tell him I can’t do this. I could confess that somewhere along the way, this stopped being about helping a friend and started being about something much more dangerous.
I could admit that I’m in love with him, and that watching him marry me while feeling nothing is going to destroy me.
The path curves around the lagoon, and I slow to a jog, then finally to a walk. My legs feel like jelly, and my lungs are burning. I find an empty bench and collapse onto it, pulling out my earbuds and letting the sounds of the park wash over me.
A family of ducks glides across the water, the babies following their mother in a perfect line. Even the ducks have their lives more figured out than I do.
My phone buzzes again. This time, I check it—a text from the wedding planner about final headcount numbers. The reality of Saturday hits me like a physical blow. In four days, I’ll be wearing a white dress and walking down an aisle toward Ben. Everyone we know will be watching, believing they’re witnessing a love story.
If only they knew they were watching a tragedy.
I’m still staring at my phone when a shadow falls across the bench.
“Excuse me,” a male voice says. “Are you okay? You look like you might be in distress.”
I look up to find a man about my age standing nearby, clearly having just finished his own run. He’s attractive in an obvious way—tall, dark hair, athletic build, the kind of smile that probably makes most women weak in the knees. He’s wearing expensive running gear and has the confident posture of someone who’s used to getting positive attention.
“I’m fine,” I say, attempting a smile. “Just catching my breath.”
“Mind if I stretch here? This is usually where I do my cool-down routine.” He gestures to the grass near the bench.
“Of course.”
He starts with some basic stretches, and I can tell he’s the type who likes to chat with fellow runners. “Beautiful morning for a run, isn’t it? I saw you really pushing yourself on that last stretch around the lagoon. You training for something?”
“Not really. Just trying to clear my head.”
“I get that. Running is the best therapy, in my opinion. Cheaper than a shrink and you get endorphins.” He transitions into a quad stretch, balancing effortlessly on one foot. “I’m Brett, by the way.”
“Freya.”
“Nice to meet you, Freya. Are you a regular here? I don’t think I’ve seen you before, and I run this route most mornings.”
“I usually run in my own neighborhood. Just needed a change of scenery today.”
Brett finishes his stretches and moves closer to the bench, his manner easy and confident. “Well, I’m glad you switched things up. It’s not often I get to meet someone who can actually keep pace on the trail.” He pauses, and I can sense he’s working up to something. “This might be forward, but would you like to grab coffee sometime? There’s this great place just off the park that makes incredible breakfast burritos.”
A few months ago, I would have said yes without hesitation. Brett is exactly the type of guy I usually date—attractive, charming, successful-looking. The kind of man who asks confident questions and probably has his life together.
But now, looking at him, all I can think is that he’s not Ben.
He doesn’t have Ben’s thoughtful hazel eyes or the way Ben’s whole face changes when he really laughs. He doesn’t have that slight scar on his chin from when Ben fell off his bike when we were twelve, or the way Ben unconsciously runs his hand through his hair when he’s thinking about something difficult.
Brett is objectively more conventionally handsome than Ben, probably more traditionally romantic, definitely less complicated. But he’s not the man I’m in love with, which makes him completely irrelevant.
“That’s really sweet of you,” I say, and I mean it. “But I’m actually engaged.”
