Perry needs me.
That thought gets my feet moving again. I open the door and step into the hallway.
It’s empty.
The music from the reception bleeds toward me, louder now. Applause rises and falls. Someone shouts encouragement on the dance floor. The world is celebrating while I stand here recalibrating my entire life.
I turn left. Then right. No Perry. By the time I reach the corner and scan the corridor leading toward the ballroom, she’s gone.
The hallway feels longer than it did ten minutes ago. The carpet muffles my footsteps as I move toward the ballroom, trying not to look frantic. I don’t want to be the man chasing someone through his son’s wedding. I don’t want to take attention away from his happy day.
I step into the reception space and pause just inside the doorway.
The room is loud now. The dance floor is alive. Guests have migrated from their seats to the perimeter, drinks in hand, laughter loosening posture. The band plays something upbeat and familiar, and Faith is already spinning among a cluster of bridesmaids.
I scan the room carefully.
Blush. Peach. Whatever the bridal party is wearing, the color should be easy to find.
It isn’t.
Perry is not near the head table. She’s not near the bar. She’s not on the terrace. I move slowly along the perimeter, nodding to acquaintances who mistake my focus for composure.
I pass the gift table. No pastel orange. I check near the restrooms again, just in case she doubled back. Nothing. My pulse climbs. Did she leave?
She’s not the type to flee the building entirely. She’s too responsible for that. Too invested in keeping this wedding intact despite everything. Which means she’s somewhere inside this machine of celebration.
I spot Candy near the DJ booth, laughing too loudly at something a groomsman has said. “Have you seen Perry?”
Candy blinks at me, processing through champagne. “She was just here,” she says. “She looked like she was going to murder someone, but like, quietly.”
“Which direction?” I press.
She gestures vaguely toward the back corridor. “I think she went to check on the caterer? Or maybe the photographer? I don’t know. She’s in full maid-of-honor mode.”
“Thanks.” I move again, weaving between tables.
The room feels different now that I’m actively searching for her. Bigger. The air thicker.
Across the hall, I catch sight of Amber near my mother. They’re seated close together. Too close. Amber’s hand rests delicately over my mother’s wrist, posture sympathetic, head tilted in what appears to be concern.
I slow without meaning to. What the hell else does she have to tell Mother? She already dropped the biggest bomb in my life?—
Unless she also knows about my new sons. Fuck.
Amber glances up. Our eyes meet briefly. She smiles. It is not a kind smile. It’s a satisfied one. I look away before she can read anything in my expression.
My mother remains turned slightly toward her, listening. Something about their posture suggests conversation that is not light.
The music dips, then fades.
I turn toward the center of the dance floor.
My mother is rising. The emcee hands her the microphone with deference, as if he’s afraid to cross her. I know the feeling.
The room begins to quiet. I can’t leave now. If I walk out while my mother stands to speak, it will be interpreted as an insult. And she’s already furious with me.
I return to my seat beside Mr. Clancy.
