Page 98 of Broken Vows

44 Lexie

I stare at Annabelle’s assistant. I force out a sharp breath, fighting the surge of panic. If we have to delay the wedding, that’s fine, we’ll use the excuse of her hair and make-up overrunning. But I need to find her and make sure she’s okay.

I call her. It goes straight to voicemail. I send a text. No response. I’m about to call Sydney, who’s no doubt rushing around the courtyard trying to tick off all her jobs for today, when my phone pings with a message.

Annabelle: Can you meet me in the gazebo in the east-side property?

Annabelle: Please come alone

I bolt from the room, down the stairs, and make my way outside where the gazebo comes into view.

Annabelle sits alone on a bench, wrapped in a white robe, her hair twisted into large curlers. Her posture is still, her expression solemn—nothing like a typical bride on her wedding day.

I approach carefully. “Hey you,” I say, forcing a smile I don’t feel. “Congratulations on your big day.” It’s the first time we’ve spoken in person since she left for Italy.

Her smile is as forced at mine. “Not sure if congratulations is the right term.” She peeks under heavy, fake eyelashes with kind, gentle eyes. “How are you?”

Even now, when she should be putting herself first, she still cares enough to ask about me. It says everything about who Annabelle is. I sit next to her and stare at the stone waterfall in front of us. “Probably as good as you are.”

A long moment passes and she sighs. “This sucks.”

It sure does. She doesn’t want to marry Theo. Theo doesn’t want to marry her. I don’t know what I want, but it’s not this. And yet, here we are, each of us ending up with the person we’re not meant to be with, or alone.

This is totally uncharted territory for me. Brides are either freaking out and yelling at everyone who dares step in their path, calm and cool, or so giddy that I worry they dipped into the champagne early.

But Annabelle is straight-faced and dejected.

She tugs at the robe fabric by her knee and takes a sharp breath. “I just want to thank you for everything you did while I was in Italy. You took on so much, and I really, really appreciate it.”

My stomach turns into a knot.

She slides back on the black iron bench and stares at the waterfall. “Did Theo ever tell you how we first met?”

I dig my toe into the ground and sigh. “No.”

“It was kindergarten. He stole my favorite strawberry-scented pencil, and I punched him in the stomach. We’ve been inseparable ever since.”

Despite myself, a small grin forms. “Ouch.”

“Well, it was a good pencil, and he needed to be taught a lesson,” she says with a grin. “We found out later our parents had the school put us in the same classrooms for years. They were really close friends, as much as… sociopathic-leaning people… can have friends. Since we were kids, they’d have dinner parties and constantly joked that someday Theo and I were going to get married.”

“That’s a lot of pressure, huh?”

“So much pressure,” she says. “But it was fine, I guess, when we were younger. But after a while, it was no longer a joke. It was an expectation.”

My stomach knots tighter. Theo told me this, in his own way, but hearing it from a woman who sounds trapped, hits hard.

“Theo has this… thing. A savior complex, maybe? An obsessive need to protect. I think it’s partly why he chose to be a doctor.” She pauses for a moment. “As kids, he saw so many similarities between his father and mine, and he latched onto it. The more time Theo and I spent together, the easier my father was on me, and it became this almost sick, twisted cycle. I’m no psychologist, but I think Theo felt helpless with his own dad, and protecting me from mine gave him back some power? I don’t know…”

Everything about this makes sense. Now that I know Theo and understand more about him and his father’s relationship, and witnessing his obvious love for Annabelle, it’s a textbook example of how under-protected people turn into overprotective ones. I push my feet into the ground to give our bench a gentle swing.

“While I was in Italy, I had so much time to myself,” she says, taking a breath. “I took long walks, I meditated, I painted, I breathed. Growing up the way that we did, I never felt like I could breathe, you know? Yes, I was there for Nonna, but I stayed so much longer than needed because I wasn’t ready to return to reality.”

I keep swaying the bench, waiting for her to continue.

“Some families have parents who do everything for their kids,” she says. “And some families curate a life and expectation for their kids and use any means necessary to see it through. And that’s the life my parents built for me.”

She adjusts herself on the bench and sighs.