Prologue
My attention is fixed soacutely on the groom standing at the end of the aisle that I’m barely aware of the smartly dressed guests, the white flowers raining down from the ends of every pew, and the lit pillar candles on the steps leading up to the altar. Everything is on the periphery—it’s only Jackson that I see.
He’s facing forward and he looks so tall and broad in his perfectly cut charcoal suit, his chestnut hair just brushing the collar of his pristine white shirt.
My chest cavity isn’t big enough to contain the emotions I feel at the sight of him—they’re pressing against my skin, pushing at the walls of my body, threatening to turn me inside out. My love for this man is so strong, so all-encompassing. He is everything to me, all at once: a ten-year-old boy, hurting from his parents’ divorce; a young man, trying to find his place in the world with infectious enthusiasm; the love of my life, standing on the balcony at Château Angèle with the town lights twinkling in the valley below, regarding me with an expression that was entirely new: serious and thoughtful and full of possibility.
That moment seems like a lifetime ago.
Inthislifetime, Jackson glances over his shoulder and our eyes meet. I have no time to mask my emotions, but his own features grow soft. He gives me a small nod before inclining his head toward the third row and the woman in the violet fascinator.
I mouth,Good luck, through a tight smile and follow his direction, anxiously sliding into place beside my grandmother.
“Talk about cutting it close,” Mellie murmurs over the rousing opening strains of Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus.” “Are you okay?”
“Fantastic,” I mumble.
All the color in the world fades away as I stand on autopilot with the rest of the congregation to watch Chloe, stunning in white lace, gliding up the aisle.
Mellie collects my shaking hand in hers and gives it a tight squeeze.
My grandmother knows the truth, of course. This man has my heart. All of it.
Will I ever come to terms with the fact that he didn’t want it?
1
Almost three years later…
Blue light flickers at theedges of the living room window as I drag myself to the front door of my small terraced house in Balham, South London. My chest expands briefly at the thought of my housemates waiting up for me before guilt pricks my conscience.
“Hi,” I call quietly as I unlock the door and go inside, dropping my bag to the floor.
“Hey,” comes Tasha’s drowsy reply.
I round the corner in time to see her easing herself up from the sofa where she’d obviously dozed off, her dark bun all askew. A few feet away, a silver star-shaped helium balloon bobs gently, and on the coffee table sits a small pile of brightly wrapped presents.
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur.
Three other friends were supposed to come tonight, and it looks as though one or two dropped off presents after I had to cancel.
“It’s not your fault.” Tasha gives me a sympathetic look. “Happy birthday. For yesterday,” she adds, glancing at her watch before going in for a hug.
It’s almost 1 a.m. My birthday has been and gone.
“Ryan felt bad about calling it a night, but he has a meeting with a couple of parents first thing,” she tells me.
Ryan, my other housemate, is a teacher. He’s also Tasha’s boyfriend, a development that took us all by surprise last year.
“But everything will keep so maybe we can try again tomorrow?” she suggests hopefully.
My shoulders sag. “I wish I could, but I think I’ll be working late again.”
“Gracie.” My name comes out of her mouth on a sigh, her posture mirroring mine.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“It’s not about us, it’s about you. How long can you keep this up?”
