Page 2 of I Do, You Don’t (You Don’t #1)

Lara

B y the time I get home from the boutique, the smell of champagne clings to my skin, mingling with faint sweat and something sour beneath my arms, stress, maybe, or regret. My feet ache. My head pounds. And Delilah’s words still throb in my ears, like the echo of a slammed door.

“Are you sure he’s not having doubts?” she’d whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, but soft enough to seem concerned.

Then she smiled, wide and white and camera-ready. Just asking, babe. You deserve to be sure.

I should’ve said something. Should’ve told her to leave, or asked the seamstress to call security.

But instead, I stood there, silent, while my sister looked at me with that helpless kind of worry that feels worse than pity.

One bridesmaid started tapping her acrylics against her phone, pretending not to hear.

Another stared at the floor, as if memorizing the grout lines.

I let it happen. Again.

Now I’m back in the apartment we share, and it feels off, like something subtle, invisible, has shifted while I was gone.

The kitchen is dim, lights turned low so amber streaks fall across the counters like bars. The air smells of his cologne, warm spice and something citrusy, and leftover takeout: garlic and grilled meat layered over the faint sharpness of old lemon rinds in the trash .

Gideon is barefoot in jeans and a black T-shirt, sleeves pushed up over his forearms. His movements are restless, agitated.

He paces the kitchen like the floor might give out beneath him if he stands still.

A half-empty glass of whiskey sweats beside his phone on the counter.

The radio hums, crackling with an old soul track filtered through memory and static.

I hover in the doorway, dress bag still over one arm, twisting the thin gold band on my finger until the skin underneath goes pink and sore.

“She wore white today,” I say, my voice cutting through the music like a stone dropped into still water.

He doesn’t stop pacing, just scrubs a hand through his hair. “It was probably cream.”

I blink. “Gideon.”

He freezes mid-step, finally looks at me. The tightness around his mouth, the little twitch in his jaw, it all says: I don’t want to do this right now.

“Delilah’s not malicious,” he says. “She’s just complicated.”

“Complicated?” My voice thins. “She made a comment about my budget in front of the whole boutique. She smiled while doing it, like she was being helpful.”

I take a shaky breath. “And the worst part? Everyone saw it. My sister. The bridesmaids. They all watched her poke the bruise.”

“You don’t know her like I do,” he says.

“No,” I snap. “I know what she wants.”

Silence drops between us like wet wool. The fridge hums. Ice clinks in the glass as condensation trickles down its side. Outside, a dog barks twice, then stops.

“She’s been through a lot,” he says finally, quietly.

“So have I,” I reply. My arms fold tight across my chest. “But I don’t use it as an excuse to treat people like they’re disposable. ”

He doesn’t respond, just tips his glass to his lips and swallows.

“I’ve held my tongue for weeks,” I say, softer now. “I let her be in the bridal party, for you. I bit mine every time she called me budget bride or asked if I was sure you hadn’t proposed out of guilt. I’ve sat through all of it, and you never said a word.”

“She doesn’t mean it like that,” he mutters.

“She wore white, Gideon. She meant it.”

“I think you’re spiraling,” he says. “This is stress talking.”

“This is me talking.”

The space between us crackles with a kind of emotional static I can’t name. He’s right here, and still, I feel so far away.

I move to the takeout bag on the counter and start unpacking it. Plastic containers rustle. The smell of sesame and something buttery fills the air.

“I thought maybe we could act like we’re still on the same team tonight,” I offer, trying to sound casual. “I brought the dress home. We could have a quiet night.”

He doesn’t answer, just looks at his phone. Then:

“I’m going out tonight. Boys’ night.”

My hands still over the chopsticks. “Tonight?”

He nods, like it’s obvious. “It’s tradition.”

“With who?”

The pause stretches too long.

“. . . Caleb, Jordan, a few of the guys, plus Delilah.”

The air thickens in my throat like fog.

“She’s what?”

“She’s part of the group,” he says quickly. “She’s always been included.”

“Included in your bachelor party?” I don’t shout. But I wish I had the strength to .

“She’s a friend.”

“She’s not my friend, Gideon. And lately,” my voice drops, “I’m not sure you are either. Tomorrow, you’re marrying me.”

His eyes shutter. Like I’ve said too much. Like I’ve asked too much.

“You’re making this bigger than it is.”

And that’s the part that breaks me.

Not the white dress. Not the digs. Not even her presence at his party.

It’s that he doesn’t see the line she keeps crossing, and worse, he doesn’t want to.

I step back. The tile is cold under my toes, seeping through my shoes.

“Have fun,” I say, brittle. “I hope she buys the first round.”

He doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t apologize. Just lifts his glass and sips, like none of this matters. The music hums behind him, too soft to drown anything out.

I walk past him. Through the living room. Down the hall. Into our bedroom. I shut the door.

The silence hits harder here. Thicker. Like the walls have absorbed every word we didn’t say.

The room smells of stale lavender dryer sheets and leftover curry. I drop the dress bag on the floor and stand there a long moment, fingers flexing uselessly at my sides. I should shower. I should eat. I should cry. But I don’t move.

Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor until it blurs.

My ears ring with the tension, and my throat feels scraped raw.

From the living room, I hear the front door open.

Laughter filters in, Caleb, maybe. Gideon’s voice joins it.

I can’t make out the words, but I hear her too.

Delilah. That soft, syrupy laugh she saves for when she wants something .

They leave a few minutes later, their footsteps fading down the hallway.

The door clicks shut behind them, sealing off the world outside and leaving the apartment in a silence that feels neither serene nor comforting, just hollow.

Agonized, I drag my wedding dress bag over my thighs, needing it to ground me.

Remind me. Then I recline on the bed, arms sprawling across the disheveled comforter, the weight of the bag heavy on my knees, a foreboding reminder of what’s to come, not a relief.

Tomorrow. The day circled on the calendar for months. Tomorrow we’re supposed to be married.

Hours later, my phone vibrates. Messages from my sister. One from my cousin. I ignore them all.

Then I open Instagram.

The first post is from Jordan: a photo of Gideon and Caleb clinking glasses.

The caption stops me cold: Nothing like celebrating old friends. ???? #AlmostMarried

Almost married.

Like it’s her milestone too. Like the hashtag belongs to them, as if I’m the footnote and she’s the headline. Like the ring could’ve been hers. Like she’s reminding everyone it still might be.

My thumb trembles. I zoom in. His head tilts just slightly toward hers, as if he’s listening only to her. He’s smiling.

I drop the phone like it burns me. My chest aches. My stomach churns.

He said it wasn’t a big deal.

He said she was just part of the group.

He didn’t say she’d sit next to him like that. Touch him like that.

I lie back on the bed, dress bag still in my lap. The ceiling stares down at me, blank, unforgiving. My throat tightens.

You ’ve been acting differently, he said last night. Like you’re hiding something.

I am.

And the worst part? He thinks it’s another man.

He’s not entirely wrong.

There is another man. Just not the way he thinks.

Our shared brother, and she lets people believe Calvin and I are sleeping together. All because we’ve talked here and there. Sure, I’ve been secretive. I have to be. I promised. So did she.

But she told Gideon she saw something. Dropped hints. Pushed photos into the group chat with her fake little sighs and her softer little lies. And when the rumors spread, she smiled like it wasn’t her hand on the match.

Gideon thinks he’s defending a friend.

But she’s not his friend.

She’s the one who lit the fire.

And I can’t say a word.

Calvin made us both promise. No one can know, not with the circles he runs in. His world is sharp and bloody and built on secrets. If anyone knew who his real family was, we’d be targets. Collateral. Pawns.

So I stayed quiet.

For him.

And she used that silence to ruin me.

I roll onto my side, press my face into the pillow. And I wonder, not for the first time, if love is really enough to survive this much silence. On the eve of our wedding, too.