Page 4 of I Do, You Don’t (You Don’t #1)

Lara

G ideon doesn’t come home.

I tell myself not to panic.

He always needs space before big things. And what’s bigger than forever? Than our wedding?

Still, I wake to silence: the hum of the air conditioner, the faint rustle of my gown hanging in the closet. Everyone says weddings are chaotic. I remind myself he’s just overwhelmed. That I am, too.

But something’s off. Not loud, not clear. Just a vibration under the skin.

I move as if underwater. I choke down three bites of toast that taste like cardboard. A sip of orange juice curdles in my stomach. Passing a mirror, I catch my reflection: shoulders tight, lips pressed flat, eyes scanning for some version of me that believes this is normal.

Soon, I’m at the venue.

The space is small, alive with movement.

A modest, repurposed warehouse with high, exposed beams and raw brick walls, industrial edges softened by our DIY decorations: mason jars of wildflowers, some crooked , others spilling over.

Round tables and long rectangular ones fill the room, each draped in plain white cloths.

The polished concrete floor bears scuffs from the hours Drew and I spent setting up.

The faint sweetness of cut blooms mixes with the musty musk of old wood and stone.

The space feels close, the chatter of guests and the low hum of air conditioning pressing in, making it feel fuller than it is.

Hair. Makeup. Dress. Done.

Everyone smiles too brightly, as if performing reassurance.

The room buzzes with motion, zippers, hairspray, perfume, while I sit still, waiting.

I feel nothing but the dress cinched tight against my ribs, each breath a reminder that I’m stitched together by threads.

My skin is tacky where the makeup artist misted setting spray, and the champagne beside me sits untouched, gone warm.

The room vibrates with nervous energy. I remain numb.

Gideon should be texting by now. Something silly. A picture of his socks. A heart emoji. A quick check-in.

Instead, I have only the echoes of his old messages.

I scroll back to our anniversary trip: “ Don’t move.

I’m bringing you coffee in bed, and you’re not allowed to lift a finger today .

” I can still feel the blanket’s weight that morning, the way he crawled in beside me with a mug and a ring box.

Not the real ring, just a promise. “I know it’s cheesy,” he’d said, eyes shy, “but I like knowing you’re mine, even if it’s unofficial for now. ”

Before that, last fall, at Connor’s cabin.

I had a cold I tried to hide, but he noticed.

Wrapped me in his hoodie, tucked a blanket around my legs, then ran to the gas station for cough drops while everyone else joked by the firepit.

“Can’t have my girl croaking on me before I marry her,” he teased.

I remembe r the press of his mouth to my temple in the dark. How he hummed off-key in my ear when he thought I was asleep.

I remember believing no one had ever loved like this.

And now, all I get is silence.

My sister pokes her head in to adjust a curl.

Her hands tremble, the bracelet on her wrist clinking faintly as she reaches up, her voice pitched almost too bright.

“You look beautiful,” she says. “He’s going to cry when he sees you.

” She smooths a strand of hair that doesn’t need smoothing, fingers fumbling near my temple.

Her smile falters before she looks down and slips out.

Across the room, a bridesmaid knocks over a mimosa flute.

It shatters against the table leg, and someone gasps.

A splash of orange spreads across the white carpet.

The photographer snaps anyway, too quick, too loud.

The flower girl makes a trial run with her basket, scattering petals on the floor and squealing when someone tries to stop her.

Bryn, one of the bridesmaids, lingers at the vanity, pretending to reapply her lipstick. She glances at me in the mirror with an expression caught between pity and confusion, but says nothing.

Everything hums around me, pitched too high. The laughter is forced. The perfume suffocates. The dress cinches too tight. No one says what we’re all starting to think.

I want to believe. I want anything to make this ache feel less final.

A bridesmaid offers me lip gloss. Another asks if I need something. I smile too wide. My cheeks ache.

I check my phone again. Still nothing.

My thoughts spiral, messy, tangled, each louder than the last until they blur into static.

If he wal ks through the door, I’ll forget every second of doubt. I’ll laugh. I’ll call it nerves, or bad timing, or some stupid prank. I’ll pretend I didn’t spend the morning unraveling.

Maybe he’s waiting outside, rehearsing his vows. Maybe Connor lost track of time, and now they’re scrambling. Maybe it’s a wardrobe emergency. Maybe his phone died. Maybe he’s already here, but no one’s thought to check the men’s suite.

He wouldn’t leave me. He wouldn’t.

Would he?

I close my eyes and breathe through my nose. It doesn’t help. The air is tight, cloying, peonies, cake frosting, nerves. A laugh drifts from the hallway. Music hums faintly from a distant speaker. My stomach twists.

Everything keeps moving around me. Everything pushes forward as if nothing is wrong. As if I’m not teetering at the edge of something I can’t name.

I check my phone again. Still nothing.

Please, Gideon. Just text me. Once. That’s all it would take.

I’d forgive everything.

“Lara,” someone murmurs. My sister, maybe. Her voice is too careful, as if she’s afraid of breaking me. “He’s not here yet, but he’s on his way. Probably just stuck in traffic.”

I nod like I believe her. Like I don’t already feel it in my chest, like a storm that hasn’t broken but already smells of rain.

The door creaks open again, slow, hesitant, and Delilah steps inside. Her heels click once on the tile before she shuts the door behind her with a soft snick.

She doesn’t smile the way she usually does. She shuts the door softly behind her, walks slow, deliberate, and sits beside me as if afraid to crack the si lence. Her palms rest in her lap, fingers laced, like she’s rehearsed this moment.

“I know I’m the last person you want to see right now,” she says, voice low and smooth, not smug. “But I wanted to check on you.”

I stiffen, my heart kicking hard against my ribs.

She reaches for my hand. Her fingers are warm. I don’t pull away.

“Gideon’s always been my best friend,” she says. “You know that. But I’ve seen how he looks at you. And I’ve been protective. Too protective. I pushed too hard.”

She exhales, blinking fast, like she might cry.

Then she goes on: “I was wrong. He loves you. You make him happy. I see it, I do. I just didn’t want him to get hurt again. But you’re not like the others. You’re practically my sister now .” In more ways than one.

The knot in my throat tightens. Her words drip with sincerity, and I have no reason to doubt them.

Maybe I’ve been seeing their relationship all wrong.

What if it’s always been more like siblings?

They’ve looked out for each other for years, and then I came along and stole his attention.

Delilah, pouting, dramatic, fighting for her share, like a little sister left out.

Maybe I’m the problem.

“I’m sorry for hurting you,” she whispers. “And I want to make it up to you today.”

She pauses, eyes dropping to her hands as if she’s holding something tender.

“You know, when we were kids, Gideon used to get left behind all the time. His mom was scatterbrained, always late, always forgetting things. Once, she even drove off without him after soccer practice. He just sat there on the curb with his backpack in his lap, trying not to cry. I remember running over, sitting beside him until she came back—almost an hour later.”

She lifts a hand, dabbing beneath one eye with her fingertip. “He never talks about that. But I think that’s why he panics before big days. He needs to know someone’s there, that he won’t be left.”

Her voice cracks, just enough to sound unguarded. “And you’ve been that person for him. You’ve anchored him in ways I never could. That’s why I was so scared. I didn’t want to lose him, but all I did was push him away.”

Her sincerity feels disarming. The kind that makes you forgive things you shouldn’t. For once, she doesn’t feel like the threat. She feels like an ally. And I want to believe her. I need someone to believe.

I’m so tired of fighting.

“He’s probably just taking a minute to breathe,” she adds gently. “You know how he gets before big things. But he’s here. He wouldn’t leave.”

I nod, slow and heavy. It’s all I have left.

She rises, smoothing her dress with deliberate hands. “Come on. Everyone’s waiting.”

I push through the dressing room door. Cool air brushes my skin, and for a moment, I falter.

The hallway stretches ahead, hushed except for the faint hum of distant chatter.

My feet carry me forward, though every step drags heavier than the last. My heels strike the marble tile, too sharp, too slow, stretching time until my heart stumbles to keep pace.

The air feels colder than it should. Hairspray, rosewater, and nerves mingle with the sweetness of peonies. I clutch the bouquet tighter, stems biting into my palm. The runner beneath me feels too soft, almost unstable. I want to steady myself, but my hands tremble, my chest cinches tight.

At last, I reach the double doors. They creak as they open, reluctant and loud, the sound echoing like a warning. My gown tugs me downward wit h its weight, but still I move, pulled toward the restless shuffle of guests, the low thrum of anticipation.

Music drifts through the air, strings, soft and slow, but it does nothing to steady my nerves. I step into the room, scanning for him, though my heart already knows. Gideon isn’t here.