#jules cunningham

SIX DAYS UNTIL THE WEDDING

The night Nicky Cunningham proposed to you was the night a part of you died. It’s not that you didn’t love him. He was utterly perfect. His kindness felt effortless. His patience made people soften around him. Nicky had always known how to take pieces of himself and offer them up to others like it cost him nothing. You used to think that was the purest kind of love. Maybe it is. Maybe that’s why this feels so wrong.

Maybe it was because you were only with Nicky for six months before he popped the question. You’ve known him since you were a child, so it made sense for him to propose so soon. He practically spent his entire life time loving you, or at least being told that he should love you by his mother.

You remember the look on Nicky’s face with his hands trembling just slightly as he held yours. Your mother was already crying before you could even answer, and his parents watching like this was something inevitable like it had always been predicted before you were even born. You said yes, and you meant it.

At least, you think you did. Your mother always told you to be in a relationship where the man should love more than his wife. “So if he loves you more, you’ll always be safe,” she would say with a painted smile,”…and you can get whatever you want in the world without needing to do anything in return.”

You used to believe her. It made sense because you have been gifted with such a lavish life at the hands of your kind father who adores you and your mother more than anything else. Your mother was divine. She is effortlessly beautiful and the kind of woman people turned to look at twice. You loved her at a distance. She never reached for you first, but you stopped expecting her to. You couldn’t do anything right in her eyes unless they were carefully crafted by her own mind.

She wore your father’s love like jewelry. To her, he was something nice to have, something that completed the picture. You never once saw her look at him like he looked at her. Never saw that same devotion reflected back. Now that he's gone, you can't seem to remember what it feels like to have parental affection.

Now you’re afraid that your life has led you back to this path. The path of empty laughter and a greedy mouth ready to spill half truths of your perfect life to whoever is willing to listen. Why does it feel like you’re stepping into your mother’s life instead of your own?

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━

Three months have passed since Nicky popped the question, and now it is the week of your wedding. In just six days you are going to be Mrs. Cunningham. You were hoping for a longer engagement. One where you would be able to make every conscious decision carefully, but your families were eager to see you at the altar with Nicky. There was truly no way around it. It was like your mother and Victoria had a deadline that needed to be met, but you couldn’t figure out why exactly they were in a rush. You’re staying in the Cunningham lodge. Everything is curated to perfection, every detail intentional. You should feel like you’re in a dream. Instead, it feels like you’ve stepped into something that was written long before you ever had a say.

You thought, at some point, the anxiety would fade. That excitement would take its place. That you’d wake up one morning and feel it. You would feel the certainty and joy that your mother always talked about, but that feeling never came. If anything, it got worse. Wedding planning didn’t feel like building a future. It felt like a chore that required the input of every person in your life. Every decision felt like something you were pushed into. The colors, the flowers, the dress, hell, even your venue, you felt like you had no say.

So you did what you always do. You disappeared into your work. Art has always made sense to you in a way life doesn’t. As a curator, you know how to place things. You know how to create meaning, how to make something feel right just by positioning it correctly. But lately, it’s felt like your life is the one being arranged. You don’t recognize the narrative anymore.

The front door closes softly behind you as you step into the lodge, the scent of polished wood and something faintly floral filling the air. This scent is nostalgic, reminding you of the many holidays spent here. This was your second home growing up. Not necessarily the lodge, but any place owned by the Cunningham family was also your own. Your mother and Nicky’s mother were college friends. They were mirrors of one another, often validating the other’s thoughts and feelings without a second thought. A part of you always felt like your mother loves Victoria more than your own father. Hell, even yourself.

You’re alone. Well, not technically. The housekeeper is helping carrying in your things. Despite your pleas to help her, she refused. You saw another car parked outside, but you didn’t care to check and see who it belonged to. You assumed it was the housekeeper's. The evening was supposed to be a welcome party with just the women, and the men would come later in the night. Just you, your mother, Victoria, and Portia. Your mother wanted to throw you an early celebration with just the matriarchs of the family. She wanted to congratulate you for following her orders to create a perfect life. The women are out in the nearest town apparently picking up the “surprise” they’ve been planning for you. Nell never responded to your calls or messages from weeks ago. You swear you’ve mentioned your wedding plans to her many times in the past, but she decided to ghost you right before your big day. It was unusual of her to leave you stranded, but you assumed she was busy. Besides, wedding planning has been so stressful, the last thing you’re worried about is just one person.

Nicky and the boys should be out collecting suits for the groomsmen among other bachelor activities. You’re honestly glad you are alone because you don’t think you could handle the entire Cunningham bloodline here.

Your eyes follow the beautifully crafted details in the home. You walk through the home in awe as you stride through each room transitioning into another work of art. Then they stop. Your gaze lands on the large portrait hanging above the mantle. Your eyes find him immediately. No, not Nicky, but the other brother. Like they always do. He sticks out within the precisely painted Cunningham family. You’ve seen this painting many times. But something is different.

You step closer without meaning to, your chest tightening as your eyes scan the familiar figures. Victoria, Dr. Boris, and Portia are painted beautifully, each stroke perfectly capturing their essence. Then there is Nicky. Oh, your sweet Nicky. You notice a new addition beside Nicky. There’s a chair. Your chair. It’s unfinished. The chair waiting for your place in the painting is detailed like the others, but it’s empty. It’s waiting for you. Like you’ve already been placed.

Your throat tightens. This isn’t just a painting. It’s a future someone else has already framed. An expectation. A quiet, suffocating certainty that this is where you belong. And then you see him. You see Jules. Then you see something else. The space to the right of him has been carefully painted over, as if to cover something. To cover a mistake. Your stomach drops again. Nell is gone. Sweet Jude is still there, but there was no sign of Nell. That explains it.

“You noticed.” A low voice startles you. Of course it’s him. It’s always him.

Slowly, like you’re afraid of what you’ll find, you turn your head. Your heels softly click against the floors, filling the quiet and tense hallway.

Jules stands just behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him without him ever touching you. Like he’s drawn to the same thing you are. Or maybe… to you. How long was he there for? How long has it been since you last saw him? Maybe since your engagement, but you aren’t too sure. It’s been too long.

“You don’t think it’s strange?” you ask, your voice quieter than you intend. “To just… erase someone like that?”

“Isn't it stranger to have an empty seat for someone not in the family yet?” You stop and immediately frown. You just have to ignore him.

“I really liked Nell, you know. She was good with Nicky, but she was even better with you. Also, Jude adored her,” you bite your lip, trying to find the words to explain your mixed emotions. A part of you is shocked to see her gone, but a part of you is relieved. You don’t exactly know why though. Your turn back towards the painting, trying to remember what it looked like with Nell.

“She left,” he says finally.

You frown slightly, glancing at him now despite yourself. “Left?”

Another pause. He speaks with a low and silky tone, enticing you to turn and look at him. You refuse to fully turn to him. You don’t want to acknowledge his pain or the tension in the air. Nell left only a month before. It coincidentally occurred the same time you sent out invitations. She was quick to sign the divorce papers and move on with her life, but why didn’t you find out about this sooner?

“Some people don’t stay where they’re expected to.”

Your heart stumbles. You have a feeling that this was not just about Nell.

“People don’t get erased,” Jules says, his tone sharper now. “They just get replaced.” The words land harder than they should. Your chest tightens. Because no one is getting replaced in this scenario. You start to wonder what his words truly mean. Is he the one getting replaced?

“Is that what you think this is?” you ask, before you can stop yourself. "I haven't seen you in a year, and the first thing you do is criticize me?"

Silence stretches between the two of you.

“I think,” he says slowly, “that you’re about to put yourself somewhere you don’t belong or…” Jules glances at Nicky in the painting,“…someone else is in a place they don’t belong.”

Your face burns with anger, and perhaps a bit of embarrassment. There is a bit of truth to his words, yet you’re filled with so much rage. Are you supposed to feel offended or hurt? Maybe both.

“Why are you here, Jules?” Your voice rises because you can’t take the sly remarks anymore. “Shouldn’t you be with Nicky? Picking up the tuxes? Doing bachelor things?”

For a second, you think he won’t answer. Jules just looks at you like he’s weighing something, like there’s a version of this moment where he says too much and everything shifts. Then he shakes his head. He remains steady and impossible to read.

“No.”

Your brows pull together in confusion.

“No?”

“They don’t need me there.”

“That’s not—” you exhale, trying to steady yourself and level out your frustration. Your hands come to your forehead, massaging out the anger. “It’s your brother’s wedding.”

“I’m aware.” There’s something in the way he says it that makes your chest tighten. Not defensive. Not dismissive. He is calm and cool, like he always is. You swallow. “Then why aren’t you with him?”

He pauses long enough to feel intentional.

“Because I’m here,” he says simply, “with you.”

Your stomach drops.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is,” he replies, quieter now.

You shake your head, frustration boiling under your skin. “Jules—”

“You want the real one?” he cuts in, voice rising.

Your eyes falter because something in his tone shifts. He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair before his eyes find yours again. “I couldn’t stand there,” he says, “pretending this is normal.”

Your pulse spikes. “Pretending what is normal?”

His jaw tightens. “This,” he says, gesturing faintly between you, the room, the house and everything. “You. Him. The way everyone’s acting like this is exactly how it’s supposed to go.”

“I’m supposed to be here,” you insist, even as it sounds weaker out loud. “This is my wedding.”

“I know.” His jaw tightens, just slightly.

“Then stop—” your voice cracks, your emotions bleeding through now, “—stop looking at me like I’m making a mistake.”

Your heart skips a beat. You can’t believe you said that.

“Are you?”

That was enough of his insults and banter. You start walking away from him, making your way towards the kitchen so you can cool yourself down with a glass of wine. Your heels rapidly tap down the hallway as you try to run away from him. But of course, Jules follows after you. You’ve tried everything possible to keep him away from you. You never texted him or called. You never told him about you and Nicky's quick union. You needed to keep him from being an obstacle from the life you’ve always wanted. You just want to feel safe, but he has always threatened your safety.

“Why are you doing this to me?” You shout in frustration, trying to wave him off. You are both alone in the kitchen. You frantically search for the nearest bottle of wine to pour yourself. “All you have done since I’ve been with Nicky is make my life hell! For the love of God, just leave me alone already. We aren’t kids anymore, Jules.” You can feel tears threaten to fall from your eyes, but you fight them back as you pour yourself a glass. You can’t even look at Jules because you are seething with anger.

“Why can’t you just leave me the fuck alone. Why do you keep on questioning all of my choices?”

His expression shifts. It’s painful. It’s the kind of pain that yearns for comfort.

“…Because no one else will,” he says. His voice is normally so calm and cool, but you can hear just an ounce of his pain. Jules is practically pleading for you to turn around without saying a single word.

Your chest aches. You finally turn around to face him, and your breath catches. He’s closer to you than you realized. You weren’t prepared for this version of him up close. Not like this. Jules Cunningham looks different when there’s no distance left between you. The sharpness you’re used to melts into something more real, more human. There are faint lines etched into his face. The skin around his eyes and along his brow have marks left behind by too many night shifts. His hair is slightly unkempt, like he ran a hand through it too many times and stopped caring about fixing it.

His eyes. Those beautifully rich, brown eyes stare into your soul. His eyes are locked on yours. There is not a trace of mischief or playfulness, and he’s not detached. He’s focused on you. Just you. There’s something quieter there now. He looks like someone who has been carrying something for a long time. Something heavy. Something that hasn’t let him rest. Underneath his hard exterior is a look of regret. It sits there unhidden like he’s stopped trying to disguise it.

Your throat tightens, but you don’t look away. Because you can’t. This is the Jules you’ve cared about for years. For a second you can see a glimpse of young Jules. The young boy who would always tease you, yet always knew how to make you smile after the fact. Standing this close, seeing him like this, makes it harder to hold onto the anger you were using to steady yourself.

That version of him flickers across his face now, and it makes everything worse. Standing this close to him, seeing him like this, makes it harder to hold onto the anger you’ve been using to steady yourself. You’ve missed this Jules. Your Jules. The one that knew you better than anyone else.

“See?” he says quietly. His is almost tired from pleading for you. “This is what I mean.”

“Please, Jules,” you whisper, shaking your head slightly. “Just stop it already.”

“I just need you to be honest with yourself and with me. You never lie to me.”

Your chest tightens. Jules has always been the person that challenged everything you did. He didn’t criticize you though, not like your mother. He never made you feel belittled over your decisions except for this one. He just knew how to get you thinking critically about your choices, and he always supported you in the end.

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been lying to everyone else since the moment you said yes to Nicky, but you know you can't fool me.”

“No, I—”

“Yes, you have,” he interrupts, but there’s no bite in it now. Just certainty. “Just tell me this, and be honest.”

In this moment, he reaches his hand out to you. He softly holds onto your shoulder as if he needs to brace himself for what he was about to ask.

“Do you really love Nicky?” He asked the question he knew he didn’t want the answer to. Because then it would truly feel real. You would finally get away from him.

It takes you a minute to respond. Too long.

“…I love Nicky,” you say finally, firmly, like you’re trying to convince yourself it is true. “…and I am going to marry him.”

Jules exhales slowly.

“Okay.”

Just that. Okay.

And then he lets go of your shoulders. The absence of his hands hits you harder than the touch did. He steps back, putting distance between you that made him feel further away than it actually was. Only then do you realize you’re crying. You don’t even remember when it started. Fat tears roll down your cheeks, your nose is pink, and your lips are practically raw from biting on them.

Jules notices immediately. His expression shifts to deep devotion and care, something that didn’t happen often to people that were you or Jude. He steps forward again without thinking, hand lifting slightly as if to wipe your tears away.

The thing about you and Jules is that you two are always honest to each other. Always. No matter how hard a truth can be, you have to tell him. Unfortunately, that's the hardest truth you've ever had to admit to, and now it's eating you alive despite you being honest.

Before he can, voices spill into the hallway. Loud. Bright. Too cheerful to belong to what just happened.

“Where is Future Mrs. Cunningham~”

Portia’s voice echoes through the lodge like nothing in the world has changed. Jules freezes mid-motion. Your blood turns cold when you realize. You step back quickly. Five steps away from him in seconds, turning your face away just as you lift your glass and take a long, shaky sip of wine like it can erase what just happened.

The three women enter the kitchen in a wave of perfume, silk, and celebration. Each of them enter bearing lavish gifts wrapped in pink and gold. Portia is practically glowing with excitement, hands already clapping together. Victoria follows with composed elegance, her smile softer but observant as per usual. Then your mother gracefully enters the room. Your mother is radiant. Perfect and beaming, until she sees him.

Jules. The other brother.

The shift is immediate. Subtle, but unmistakable. Her smile doesn’t fall, but it tightens at the edges, like something carefully maintained under pressure. She is clearly irritated. She cannot stand Jules. He’s more accomplished than Nicky in every way possible. He’s a doctor, devilishly handsome, and so incredibly smart. But, he is not Nicky. So your mother will never approve of him. Just tolerate but nothing more.

“Jules?” she says with disguised joy, “What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be with Nicky?”

Victoria’s gaze flicks between the two of you. She is slowly assessing the situation as if she’s trying to solve a problem no one has officially admitted exists yet.

“I was,” Jules replies evenly. He is calm and controlled. “I brought Jude to the lodge early because he was not feeling very good. He doesn’t enjoy car rides.” Your mother’s eyes narrow just slightly, not at you, but at the situation. At the shape of it and the imbalance she can feel but not name. She doesn’t believe him entirely, but she does love little Jude.

“I promise I won’t get in the way of tonight. I’ll stay in the room with Jude.”

“And where is dear Nelly?” Victoria asks. Jules is silent and cold. Everyone understands immediately what he means.

“Oh…” Portia breaks the silence and gives Jules a little pour. “I am so sorry, Jules.”

“It’s fine. Seriously, I am okay,” Jules reassures.

The other women clearly look a bit concerned, but not so much Victoria. She seems almost relieved.

Suddenly, you are hyperaware of everything. Of the wine in your hand. Of your unsteady breathing. Of the fact that Jules is still standing too close to where you were moments ago. Of the way your body hasn’t fully recovered from the conversation that just cracked something open inside you. So you don’t respond. You just drink again.

Portia claps her hands, breaking the tension before it can settle.

“Okay, okay, enough seriousness,” she says brightly. “We have a wedding to finish planning!”

She turns to you with her sickeningly cheerful attitude, “We can find another bridesmaid right?!” You are honestly a little stunned to see how the scene around you continues to move despite your stillness. Everyone continues their chatter and excited banter as you stare off into your glass of wine.

Jules isn’t looking at them. He’s looking at you. Long enough that your breath catches again. No one else notices. At least you think no one else did.

“I should go…” Jules says hurriedly, “…I need to check on Jude.” He turns before anyone can respond. But right before he leaves the room, his eyes flick back to you once more. It is brief, unreadable, and far too steady for what just happened between you. Then he’s gone, leaving the air behind him heavier than before. Portia immediately launches into another sentence. Your mother adjusts her posture. Victoria starts speaking about seating arrangements.

But you stay still. Glass in hand. Your eyes are practically glazed over while you wrap your head around what just happened. Heart loud in your chest. Even with him gone, it feels like the conversation never ended.

━━━━ ✦ ━━━━

A few hours have passed and you’re in the Lover’s suite alone. Curled into yourself on the edge of the bed, knees pulled to your chest, you absentmindedly twist your engagement ring around your finger. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like if you keep it moving, you won’t have to think about what it actually means.

The room is filled with gifts. Boxes. Tissue paper. Satin ribbons carelessly draped over polished surfaces. Beautiful things. Expensive things. None of them feel like yours. You try not to sound ungrateful—even in your own head—but it’s hard to ignore the disconnect. Every gift feels like it was chosen for someone else. Someone easier. Someone more predictable. Someone who fits the perfect mold for the perfect future Mrs. Cunningham. The purse sitting on the chair is stunning. It is sleek, structured, clearly worth more than you’re comfortable thinking about. But it’s not your style. It never has been. The mink scarf draped across the vanity makes your stomach turn slightly. It’s soft, luxurious. However, it is completely unwearable to you. You’ve never understood how something dead could be considered beautiful.

Your eyes land on the box at the foot of the bed. Your mother’s gift. You already know what’s inside. It’s your “something old”. Slowly, you reach for it, lifting the lid with more care than you intended. The heels are breathtaking. Delicate. Timeless. The kind of shoes you once imagined picking out for yourself one day. Something that would feel like you. But they aren’t yours.

They’re hers and your mother’s mother. A legacy. A path already walked. Your throat tightens as you stare at them. Because that’s what this all feels like, doesn’t it? Not a beginning of your life but a continuation of her's.

“I don’t want to be her…” you whisper to no one.

The words sit heavy in the room. You love your mother, but you’ve seen what her life looks like. You’re not sure you can survive it. A wave of nausea rolls through you suddenly, sharp and overwhelming. You press a hand to your stomach, breathing shallowly. God. You actually might be sick. The anxiety has been building for weeks, but now it’s something physical.

You are honestly relieved Nicky won’t come until tomorrow. He and Dr. Boris got stuck in the snow and is staying in a motel for the night. Nicky is everything you are supposed to want. You love him, but now they’re an immovable obstacle in the way. You try not to think about him, but it’s already too late. He has infiltrated your thoughts. It’s him.

The other brother.

You have a secret. One that only Jules knows. For as long as you could remember, you loved Julian Cunningham. You didn’t love him in a fleeting way but deeply with devotion. He was your first everything. Your first date, first kiss, first time, and first love. But he was never your first boyfriend. No, your affair was hidden like a shadow from your families. Why? It was because he was the other brother. The wrong one. The one that neither of your parents would have approved of. Jules was never the safe choice. He was sharp, blunt, rough around the edges in a way that made people uncomfortable. But none of that ever stopped you. You loved him anyway.

You think about it now. The way you used to sneak through these halls as teenagers, your heart racing as you stole quick, breathless kisses in corners you thought no one would notice. Or in college, when you would drive hours away to see Jules after his medical school rotations. He’d be exhausted, barely able to stand. You’d still cook for him, sit with him, tuck him into bed like he was something fragile, even when he pretended not to be.

Those years taught you everything. How to love someone fully. How to care for someone like they were a part of you. Like losing him would feel like losing air. But there was always a line you two couldn’t cross. A boundary neither of you named, but both of you understood. You were never public. The feelings were never acknowledged. Never real to anyone but yourselves.

Jules kept you like a secret, but you kept him like an oath.

A sound breaks through the silence.

Soft at first. Then again. A knock.

Knock knock.

You know it wasn’t your mother. She doesn’t ask for permission, she just goes in. “…I know you’re in there.” It’s his voice. It’s low, muffled through the door, but it was unmistakable.

Jules. The other brother.

Your heart starts racing again, faster now, your body already reacting before your mind catches up. No one should be here this late. Not tonight. You slowly slide off the bed, your bare feet hitting the cold floor. Each step toward the door feels heavier than the last, your breath shallow, your hand hesitating just before the handle.

You twist the knob. The door creaks open, and there he is again.

Jules.

“Hey,” he says quietly, trying not to signal to anyone else in the home that he’s here. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry…”

You don’t let him finish. “For what, Jules?” Your voice is sharper than you expect, but you don’t pull it back. “For being an asshole to me on my wedding week?”

His jaw tightens slightly. “Yes… but also for everything else.”

You hesitate. “What do you mean, Jules?”

He exhales, glancing at you like you already know the answer. “You know what I mean.” The weight of it settles between you.

“Oh.”

It’s barely a response, but it’s enough. He takes a step into your room. He slowly and carefully makes his way inside because he knows he’s allowed to, but can’t stop himself anyway. Now, he’s right in front of you. Closer than he should be. Closer than you should let him.

Before you can think, before you can stop it, he pulls you into him. His strong arms wrap around your waist, keeping you stable. It’s tight and familiar, and it makes your chest ache instantly. You freeze at first, but then you melt. You missed this, and you absolutely hate that you do.

It isn’t the kind of safety Nicky gives you. Nicky gives you something steady, dependable, expected. This is different. This is the kind of safety that feels consuming, like the rest of the world disappears, like nothing exists outside the space between you and him. Your arms wrap around his neck before you can stop yourself, your body remembering before your mind can argue.

When he pulls back, it’s only slightly. Just enough to look at you. And God, that look. There’s something in his eyes you’ve been trying not to name all night. Something heavy. Something aching. Something that looks a lot like longing. He leans in, resting his forehead gently against yours, his hands sliding up to cradle the back of your head. Your breath catches, your fingers tightening against him. His nose brushes yours softly, carefully, like he’s asking a question he already knows he shouldn’t.

“Jules…” you whisper. “Please…” he murmurs, “...don't make the same mistake I've made…”

Your chest tightens painfully. “No.” The word comes out shaky, but you force it out anyway as you step back, breaking the contact. “You’re just acting like this because you’re alone again. You don’t have someone to run to… because Nell left you.”

His expression shifts immediately. “No,” he says, firm, almost desperate. “It’s not like that. It’s never been like that.”

“Then what is it, Jules?” Your voice cracks. The dam holding back every single emotion you've been containing cracks and spills out. Heat rises to your face as tears blur your vision. You push him, once, then again. Your fists hitting his chest over and over again.

“You think you can just come back into my life? Try to take away the one thing I want? Ruin my wedding?”

“You know that’s not what you want,” he says quietly.

“Stop acting like you know me!” you snap, shaking your head as you step back again. “You don’t know what I want. You don’t know me.”

Something in him pulls tight. That hit him hard. It hit something that you knew you wouldn't dare touch.

“You know that’s not true,” he says, his voice lower now, strained. “I know you better than anyone else in this goddamn world, and you know that.”

Your chest rises and falls quickly as your heart beats at an irrationally fast pace. This isn't fair. He's not allowed to do this to you, when he did it not once but twice.

“Whatever you think this is,” you say, forcing the words out, “you’re too late. We’re not teenagers anymore. We’re not in college. We are adults. You need to move on, Jules.”

Silence falls, heavy and suffocating. He looks at you like he wants to argue, like he has a thousand things he could say, but he doesn’t. Instead, he steps forward, and before you can react, his hands come up, gently framing your face as he pulls you closer.

Your breath stops. Everything stills. This is it.

Your eyes close instinctively, your body bracing for something you’ve been chasing for far too long. You’re searching for something familiar, dangerous, impossible to undo. You wait for it, your heart pounding loud enough to drown everything else out.

Something soft and warm presses against your forehead. A kiss. Gentle. Lingering.

Then he pulls away.

Your eyes open slowly, confusion flooding in where expectations used to be. The feeling of his lips remain on your forehead, your body trying to chase after that feeling.

“I don’t know if I can make it to Saturday,” he admits quietly, his voice rough now, “without at least trying to show you that I care.”

Your throat tightens. “Julien…”. He never lets anyone call him that, unless that person is you.

He shakes his head, already stepping back. “I am sorry... for how I treated you,” he says, forcing something steadier into his voice. “I’m going to leave now. Jude doesn’t like being here alone.”

He moves toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “I can’t promise I won’t get in the way,” he adds, not turning back. “I’ll try… but I don’t know if I can.”

“Goodnight.” Jules lingers for a moment, and then he’s gone. The door closes softly behind him, but the silence he leaves behind is anything but quiet. The room still feels full of him, of everything he said, of everything he didn’t. Your chest aches, your thoughts tangled, your emotions impossible to separate.

You’re not just anxious anymore. You’re unsure, and somehow, that feels worse. You sink into the bed, the room spinning just enough to make you feel sick, your fingers drifting back to the ring on your hand. It feels heavier now. Jules’ words remain in the air, tangled with your own thoughts, impossible to separate from what you actually feel. You stare down at your hands, at the life that’s been so carefully placed in front of you, and for the first time, you don’t see certainty.

You glance at your phone, hoping you received a text from Nicky. A “goodnight” or “I love you” a reminder that this is simple, that you’re not spiraling alone in it. But the screen stays dark and silent.

You do the one thing that brings you comfort during stressful times like this. You sketch. You pull your thick journal from your suitcase, the familiar weight of it grounding you slightly. Years of work live inside it. There are drawings layered over drawings, pages taped in, corners folded, charcoal smudged into old pencil lines. It’s messy, chaotic even, but it’s yours. You’ve never been able to throw any of it away. Your pencil moves automatically at first, tracing the strong line of a jaw, the familiar structure of Nicky's face, the softness you’ve always associated with him. You try to focus, try to anchor yourself in the details you know by heart. You get lost in your art, meticulously adding details to Nicky's face.

But somewhere between the shading and the shaping, your hand slows. Your breath catches slightly. The face forming on the page isn’t Nicky.

It's Jules.

Your pencil freezes. You stare at the page like it’s betrayed you. It's not like you didn’t just do that. A quiet curse slips out before you can stop it.

“Shit.”

You have a very long week ahead of you.

Portia and Victoria have already found a 'solution' to the mishap - zipping Rachel up in Victoria's own, decades old wedding dress. Calling it her 'something old' or whatever. One look at your best friend, however, and you immediately knew she'd rather walk down the aisle in a straightjacket - which isn't far from becoming an option, given the circumstances.

And so, you're off to hunt.

The layout of the house is still a mystery to you, having not taken it upon yourself to explore it because of how eerie it is and how it makes you feel. So here you are now, roaming the halls unattended with a simple tactic - see closet -> rummage through closet.

Dud after dud after dud.

"How does a whole fucking wedding dress just disappear?" You mutter to yourself as you flip through an endless array of suits hanging in this particular closet you stumbled upon. It'd be pretty fucking hard to miss a whole wedding dress but you're still meticulous about it none the less.

You've by this point come to terms with the fact that this is yet another dud when the sound of someone clearing their throat behind you scares the everloving fuck out of you.

You whirl around with what I'm sure is utter terror in your eyes that quickly dissipates when you see the goofiest possible sight in the doorway - Jules, eating a banana.

"Fucking hell, Julian! You scared me." You hiss at him with righteous anger you have no right to exhibit after tearing through his closet. As it would somehow conceal your rummaging, you opt to slowly reach behind yourself and shut the closet doors. All done with the subtlety of a trainwreck - the wood creaking like thunder in the otherwise silent room. You can't even tell though, your heart is hammering so loud you hear it in your ears.

"First off - don't call me that. Second, you're gonna need a pretty good reason as to why you were waist deep in my belongings just now." His voice only has one volume and tone setting, as you've come to realize. Deceivingly calm and quiet. And terrifying to you right now.

Or it would be if you weren't running on adrenaline fueled misplaced anger.

"Rachel's wedding dress, it's gone. I've been looking for it everywhere." You explain with exasperation that you only allow yourself to show now. It's been a hell of a week and you're only on the second day of it. You've suggested elopement to Rachel at least five times already and even she's starting to get swayed - it's been THAT bad dealing with these people.

Jules nods slowly, processing your reply, before a slow smirk spreads across his face. Doesn't mean you're in safe territory, though. If anything, it makes you stand a little straighter. Deep down, you're aware that Jules is the most reasonable of the Cunninghams and that your view of him has been marred by the impression the rest of his family have left on you with their treatment of Rachel.

"I'm not looking to fulfill any bridal fantasies so I don't see why your friend's wedding dress would be in my closet." He says finally, taking a bite of his banana, "Doubt it would fit me too."

Your frenzy being countered by his disinterested nonchalance makes your eye almost twitch in irritation. "Right. Good talk."

You go to bulldoze past him, a feat he makes all the more difficult by not moving an inch despite taking up just about the entire doorway. All but making sure you have to touch him in your passing.

But you're nothing if not stubborn, "And inch of space, if you please." You deadpan, glaring him dead in the soul.

The fucker has the audacity to laugh and, much to your surprise, it's not a condescending sound. He's genuinely having fun pissing you off. It's the first time you've heard the sound and you just now realize it. Sure he snorts, scoffs, dry-chuckles - whichever sound best suits his momentary flavor of sarcasm. But a genuine laugh is difficult to provoke from him as far as you've been able to tell.

"Is it the wedding planning or are you always so brisk?" He smirks, crossing his arms over his chest, very much not giving you that inch of space you requested.

"Is it the douchey-older-brother syndrome or is it your natural musk?" You counter, eyes narrowing at him like you're sizing him up while his dress you down. Although this fact is lost on you in your moment of annoyance.

"I have my answer." Jules has a way of making it seem like he's won every argument he's ever entered. Even this one. That cryptic little tidbit has you in a checkmate state of not knowing what to reply. You don't even have to because he continues, "Sage green, huh?"

You're about to give him your famous narrow-eyes-head-tilt 'the fuck are you saying?' combo when you follow the trajectory of his gaze, landing on your maid of honor dress. You'd been not-so-softly encouraged by Portia and Victoria to try it on while Rachel was trying on the substitute wedding dress. You'd forgotten you were still prancing around in it, the silk material like cool water on your skin. And it is, in fact, sage green.

"Um, yeah. Bride's choice." You mutter finally, unsure of how else to respond to that observation.

"She did you all the favors choosing that color."

If you were to suspend your disbelief, you'd almost let yourself take that as a very roundabout compliment. He's clearly not programmed to give straight-up ones so might as well take what you can get. You don't go as far as to thank him, though, in case he didn't mean it like that.

"At least I now know what color tie to wear." He adds more so as an afterthought.

You knit your eyebrows together in confusion. "We're supposed to match?" You knew he'd be the best man and all but neither Rachel nor Nicky gave a shit about the aesthetics of their respective one-person wedding parties. The wedding in general has no dress code. She'd even told you to wear whatever dress you wanted and only chose this dress for you because you were being indecisive.

Jules snorts - or chuckles, it's sometimes hard to differentiate with him. "No."

You've reached your cryptic tidbits quota for the day and finally brush past him, muttering a quick "Whatever" in passing as you carry on down the hall to proceed with your wedding dress hunt.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

With the dress still missing, you and Rachel do a quick regroup before dinner, mostly to calm her nerves. In the end you manage to convince her - and partly yourself - that the substitute isn't that bad. After all, Rachel doesn't even care all that much about it. If Nicky's family was a little more open-minded she would've happily worn a black dress but alas.

That decided and some other wedding planning on the back burner, you two finally go to the dining room where the family has already sat down to eat dinner. Most of the family, anyway.

You immediately spot the empty chair and know whose absence is the cause of it. You don't dare question it though.

Nicky does it for you, "Where's Jules?"

His mother waves her hand dismissively, "He headed out a couple hours ago, he probably still hasn't made it to the city. Something about needing a new tie of whatever."

Now that piques your interest.

"Doesn't he have a whole drawer of ties? He's never worn one." Portia scoffs. You can better hear than see her eyeroll but you just know it's there.

You try not to dwell on it - key word being 'try'.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's somewhere close to 2AM when you hear the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps - most likely of boot-clad feet - stomping out in the hallway. Initially, your sleep hazed brain freaks out, bolting you into an upright position, prepared for a fight-or-flight situation.

But then you think better of it...

You seem to have no say in it as some autopilot setting guides you to leave the warmth of your bed and safety of your room. The latter doesn't happen for you immediately come face to face with Jules when you open the door.

"Hey. Did I wake you?" He says, having the tact to whisper despite stomping around like the wooden floors aren't ancient.

You shake your head, "No I-um, I was awake. You just got back?"

He nods, unbuttoning his winter coat, "Yeah, it's a long fucking drive." Yeah, you know exactly how long it is. You drove the same road on your way over. You were far more annoyed about it in comparison to Jules who seems not too bothered. The opposite if anything. He smirks as he takes out a flat black box from one of the coats inner pockets, taking the lid off so you can see.

It's so dark you can't even see the tie itself but one brush of your fingers against it confirms it to be silk. As for the color - you already know.

"Now we can match." He says, sounding every bit as satisfied as he looks.

"This is why you spiked the mileage on your car?" It's your turn to chuckle/scoff, a defense mechanism that would lose all its merit if Jules could see the flush of your cheeks. "Didn't you say we don't have to match?"

"Having to and wanting to are two very different things, Y/N." You can never count on this man for a forward answer. It's fine though, you've come to expect and started to understand his lines. "Good night, maid of honor."

I'm sure there's at least two rules against strangling the best-man before the wedding. There's also at least two hundred unwritten rules against fraternizing - read: fucking - with the best-man as the maid of honor. Both of these facts are the foundation of your restraint when all you want is yank him into your room. Whether it be for the purposes of first degree murder or sex, you would've found out as you went.