Chapter 3

My mother's cup of iced tea tilted in her hand. My father came in from the balcony door and stood behind me without a word.

Nathan stared at me, the phone lowering from his ear. "Bianca, say that again."

I didn't. I turned, walked into the bedroom, and shut the door. Just before it closed I heard Nathan shout my full name from the living room, his voice raw, and then the sound of a chair being kicked over.

Millie's crying threaded in, thin and small. "Nathan, don't be like this, you're scaring me..."

I closed the door, took the backup white dress from the closet, changed into it, pulled up the zipper, and smoothed my hair in the mirror.

Outside the pounding on the door grew more frantic, and Nathan's voice came through the wood, hoarse. "Open the door! You can't do this to Millie! She didn't do anything wrong!"

I ignored it. I opened the door and walked out.

In the living room my mother looked at the white dress on me, tears not yet dry, her lips trembling with nothing to say. My father stood half a step in front of me, like he meant to block something. Millie was curled in the corner of the couch, nails digging into the armrest, a flash of panic bright in her eyes before she pressed it down.

Nathan stood by the door, his bow tie crooked, his eyes rimmed red. He looked at the white dress on me. "Bianca," he said, hoarse, "where are you going... in that?"

I pulled my phone out of the pocket of my robe and turned the screen toward him. The lock screen was still the photo of the two of us from his birthday three months ago. He didn't look at the picture. He stared at my face.

"The funeral home," I said. "Hall Three, eleven o'clock. Come or don't, it's up to you."

Then I stepped sideways past him, my heels crossing the pile of wedding gown scattered across the entryway.

As the elevator doors closed, I saw him still standing there, not moving, Millie running over from the couch to pull at his sleeve, shouting something, her voice cut off by the metal doors.

The elevator dropped to the lower level, and the instant the doors opened, my mother's call came through.

I answered. Before I could speak, she was already talking, low and rushed. "Bibi, Millie just ran out, she said she's going to that Hall Three of yours. Nathan drove off after her. What in the world are you two—"

"Mom." I cut her off, my voice quiet. "Leave it. Take Dad home first."

There were two seconds of silence on the line, and then her breathing turned heavy. "Bibi, Mom doesn't care who you marry, but you have to tell me—do you really not want him anymore? You've been together three years..."

"Three years." I repeated the word. "Mom, the night he told me to go stay at a hotel was our three-year engagement anniversary."

She said nothing after that.

I hung up and slid the phone into my pocket. Blake had already pulled the car around. I didn't take the front seat; I opened the back door, got in, leaned against the seat, and closed my eyes for a moment.

We'd been driving about ten minutes when the phone buzzed again. Blake picked it up off the passenger seat and passed it back to me. On the screen was a text from an unknown number, no saved name, but one look at the content and I knew who it was.

"Bianca, don't blame Nathan, this is all my fault. I already told him I won't come, you two should go ahead with your wedding. I really don't want you fighting because of me. I'm leaving. I wish you happiness. Millie."

I read the line twice, then set the phone face down on the seat. In the rearview mirror Blake caught the corner of my mouth twitch. "What's funny?" he asked.

"Nothing," I said. "Somebody's retreating to advance."