My first instinct is to keep walking. Let him be someone else’s problem for once. Let him ruin his own day without me in the middle of it.
I should.
But he looks bad enough that another instinct wins.
I step closer, cautious. “Ethan.”
He leans one shoulder against the wall as if he needs it there. “You always do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say my name like you’re disappointed in me.”
I ignore that. “How much have you had to drink?”
He smiles in a tired, ugly way. “Not enough.”
Wonderful.
I glance down the corridor toward the bridal suite. “You need to pull yourself together.”
“I can’t get married.”
I stare at him.
He lets his head tip back against the wall and closes his eyes for a second. “I can’t do it.”
Every part of me that used to panic for him, plan for him, soften things for him, rises by habit. I hate that it still exists at all.
“This is not the time to spiral,” I say. “If you need five minutes, take five minutes. If you need coffee, water, a shower, whatever, fine. But you do not get to implode in a hallway when the ceremony is in a few hours.”
He opens his eyes and looks at me. “You still do that too.”
My grip tightens on the clipboard. “Do what?”
“Act like if you stay calm enough, everything can still be fixed.”
It’s not the worst thing he’s ever said to me. Maybe that’s why it lands.
Because it’s true.
He laughs again, quieter this time, and pushes away from the wall just enough to stand straight. “You should hate me.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“No,” he says. “You really don’t.”
He looks at me then. Really looks. Not the ugly, cutting version from the rehearsal dinner. Not the suspicious one from last night. Something else. Tired. Off-balance. A man who has finally run out of places to put his own fear.
And then he says, “I know the baby is mine.”
Everything inside me goes cold.
For a second I think I’ve misheard him.
Then I realize I haven’t.
I stare at him. “What?”
