But then it shifts and deepens.
She molds her mouth to mine, and I kiss her back the same way. Pour everything I can't say into it. Every year of wanting her, every moment of pretending, every desperate hope that maybe she feels this too.
When we break apart, her gaze mirrors mine.
And for one perfect moment, I think,This is it. This is when I tell her.
Just as I'm about to open my mouth, something passes across her face, and the moment shatters.
Her smile falters. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to notice.
"I need to—" She steps back, out of my arms, still holding the bouquet. "Bathroom. I need to go to the bathroom."
"Liz—"
"I'll be right back. I just—" She's already moving, backing away, that smile completely gone now and replaced with something that looks too much like panic. "I'll be right back."
She turns and walks away.
Fast. Too fast.
I watch her disappear into the crowd, and every instinct I have screams at me to follow her, to ask what's wrong, to tell her everything before I lose my nerve or she builds walls I can't scale.
But my feet won't move.
And she's gone.
===
6
LIZ
The bathroom door closes behind me, and I lock it with shaking hands before the first sob breaks free.
Stupid. So stupid.
I caught the bouquet and ran to him like this was real, like we were actually engaged, like that kiss meant what I wanted it to mean, and I let myself believe.
But it's not real.
None of this is real.
Tomorrow, we go home, end the fake engagement, and go back to being friends, and I have to pretend my heart isn't shattered into pieces so small I'll never find them all.
We had sex. It didn't mean anything else for him. Even worse if it was only pity-sex.
I slide down the door until I'm sitting on the cold marble tile, the bouquet falls from my hand. The flowers scatter across the floor, petals crushed from how hard I was gripping them. Mymascara runs down my cheeks in black streaks, and I press my hands to my chest because it feels like my ribs might crack from the pressure building there.
The mirror shows me everything I don't want to see—purple bridesmaid dress wrinkled from dancing, hair falling out of the clip Dean fixed this morning, my face blotchy red and completely destroyed. I look like someone who's been lying to herself.
Because that's what I've been doing. Lying.
Telling myself I could handle this weekend, could pretend to be his fiancée and walk away unscathed. Telling myself the kisses didn't matter, the touches were just for show.
I can't lie anymore, not even to myself, because I knew this would happen, knew from the moment he dropped to one knee with his grandmother's ring that I was going to fall apart when it ended. But I didn't expect it to hurt this much, didn't expect that catching a bouquet would make me imagine a future where Dean actually wants to marry me, where we have a real wedding, where I could be more than just his best friend.
Oh God. I can't do this anymore.
