#runaway bride

There was something deeply unsettling about hearing people tell you that you looked happy when you knew you didn’t.

“You look beautiful.”

You smiled because that was what you were supposed to do.

“Oh my God. Look at you.”

Another smile.

“You’re glowing.”

That one nearly made you laugh. Instead, you looked at yourself in the mirror while your sister carefully adjusted the veil pinned into your hair and tried to work out when the woman staring back at you had started looking like a stranger. She looked like a bride. There was no arguing with that.

The dress was beautiful. Long sleeves, a fitted bodice, tiny satin buttons running all the way down your back before giving way to a skirt that pooled around the chair beneath you. Your mother had cried when you came out of the dressing room in it. Nathan’s mother had cried too.

Nathan had smiled and said it was perfect. So you had bought it. Your hair had taken almost two hours. Makeup had taken another hour. Champagne had appeared in your hand somewhere between photographs and someone fixing a loose curl near your temple, and you had barely touched it. Everything was perfect.

The flowers had arrived on time. The weather had somehow held despite rain being forecast all week. Every handwritten place card had been arranged downstairs, including the ones Nathan had initially thought were unnecessary until his mother decided the tables would look unfinished without them.

One hundred and forty-three guests were waiting somewhere beyond the bridal suite. Your parents had already cried twice. Your bridesmaids had taken approximately four hundred photographs. And you felt like you were going to throw up.

“You okay?”

You met your sister’s eyes through the mirror.

“Yeah.”

The answer came so automatically that neither of you seemed to hear it.

She gave you a small smile. “Cold feet?”

“No.”

At least that part was true. Cold feet sounded almost comforting.

Cold feet were supposed to be nerves about standing in front of everyone or tripping over your dress. Brides worried about rain. They worried about forgetting their vows or whether the photographer would get their good side or whether an uncle who had been warned three separate times would still make an inappropriate speech.

They weren’t supposed to wake before dawn with the terrifying certainty that something was wrong and then spend six hours trying to convince themselves otherwise. You put the champagne down.

“I just need a minute.”

Your sister’s hands stilled against your veil. “Want me to clear everyone out?”

“No. It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

She studied you for another second before nodding. Of course it was fine. Everything was always fine. That had become something of a talent over the last year. Nathan wasn’t a bad man. That was almost the problem.

There was no dramatic betrayal you could point to. No screaming argument. No moment where the people who loved you could gather around and tell you there was only one obvious decision to make.

Nathan was the man who had driven forty minutes across Pittsburgh when your car battery died after a shift. He remembered your coffee order. When your father had surgery, Nathan had brought food to your parents’ house and stayed until your mother finally agreed to sleep. He knew you hated coriander, that you needed the room cold at night and that the fastest way to improve a bad morning was to bring you something sweet with your coffee.

He loved you. You loved him. But Nathan liked quiet evenings at home. You liked staying for breakfast after a night shift because Robby had somehow convinced everyone that pancakes at eight in the morning were essential to team morale. Nathan liked knowing what the week looked like before it began.

Your phone could ring at any hour and completely rearrange yours. Nathan talked about eventually leaving the city. You loved Pittsburgh in spite of how frequently you complained about it. He imagined Sundays with nowhere to be.

You had once voluntarily spent your only free Sunday helping Robby move a sofa that did not fit through his front door. None of those things should have mattered. At least, that was what you had kept telling yourself. Relationships required compromise.

Nathan had never told you that you couldn’t take the trauma lead rotation when it opened. He had only asked what it would mean for the already limited time you had together. You had said you didn’t need the extra responsibility anyway.

He hadn’t asked you to stop going for breakfast after overnight shifts. He had only admitted that he hated waking up alone when you had promised you would come straight home. You started going home.

Once, before dinner with his colleagues, Nathan had looked at your favourite green dress and said, “I thought we were going a little more understated tonight.”

You had changed before he could tell you it was fine. He had looked confused when you came back out. You had laughed it off. It wasn’t that Nathan had spent three years sanding pieces off you. It was that you had become very good at doing it yourself. A shift here. A compromise there.

One tiny adjustment after another because Nathan was easy to love when you were easy to be with. You had told yourself that was adulthood. That was partnership. That was what choosing someone looked like. You had been doing such a convincing job of it that you almost believed yourself. Until last night.

Until Jack found you outside your own rehearsal dinner and asked the one question you had spent months avoiding.

Do you want to marry him?

Not whether you loved Nathan. Not whether Nathan loved you. Not whether your parents adored him. Not whether the venue had been paid for or relatives had flown in or your mother had spent three weeks arguing with the florist over the exact shade of ivory. Jack had stripped all of it away.

Do you want to marry him? You closed your eyes. Immediately, you were back on the terrace. Warm light had spilled through the open doors behind you. Someone inside was laughing loudly enough that you were almost certain it was Robby. Music hummed beneath the conversation and glasses clinked as people toasted your future.

You had slipped outside because you needed thirty seconds where nobody asked whether you were excited. Jack found you anyway.

“You disappeared.”

You kept both hands around the stone railing. “I needed air.”

He came to stand beside you. Neither of you spoke for a while. That had always been easy with Jack. Silence had never been something the two of you needed to fill. Eventually, he glanced over.

“You’re quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“No, you’re not.”

You looked at him.

“You talk constantly.”

“Thank you.”

“You narrate procedures nobody asked you to narrate. You complain about the coffee every morning and then drink three cups of it. You send me pictures of every dog you see on the street.”

“They’re good dogs.”

“I didn’t say they weren’t.”

You smiled despite yourself. Jack noticed. He always noticed. The smile disappeared almost as quickly as it came. His expression changed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

He waited.

You sighed. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Because you look like you’re waiting for someone to tell you there’s been a fire.”

“I’m getting married tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“You’re supposed to be happy for me.”

Jack looked through the open doors. Nathan stood beside your father with one hand around a glass, laughing at something your uncle was saying.

“I want you to be happy.”

Your stomach tightened. “That’s not the same thing.”

“No.”

You turned fully toward him.

“What is going on with you?”

Jack’s jaw shifted.

“He embarrassed you at dinner.”

“What?”

“Nathan.”

“He didn’t embarrass me.”

“He told a room full of people you’d probably answer your pager during the vows.”

“He was joking.”

“I know.”

“Everyone laughed.”

“I know.”

Jack looked at you. You hated how little judgment there was in his face.

“He’s not wrong,” you said. “I work too much.”

“You love your job.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t work too much.”

“No.”

“See?”

“I’m not arguing with you.”

“That’s somehow worse.”

Jack shoved his hands into his trouser pockets.

“You used to argue about it.”

You frowned. “About what?”

“Everything.”

“That’s not true.”

“You once spent twenty minutes explaining to me why Robby was objectively wrong about the best pizza place in Pittsburgh.”

“He was objectively wrong.”

“You sent him a spreadsheet.”

“It had three columns.”

“My point exactly.”

A reluctant laugh escaped you. Jack didn’t smile.

“You used to have an opinion about everything.”

“I still do.”

“Do you?”

The question irritated you more than it should have.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Jack looked away for a moment.

“I know I’m biased.”

Your heartbeat changed.

“Why would you be biased?”

He didn’t answer. You knew. Or maybe you had always hoped you knew. There had been moments over the years when you were certain Jack looked at you differently. His hand lingering against your back after a difficult case.

His face too close to yours inside an elevator until the doors opened and whatever had almost happened vanished with the sound. The night he sat on your kitchen floor after your father’s surgery because you couldn’t sleep and didn’t want to be alone. Nothing ever came of any of it.

Then Nathan came along and actually asked you out. Jack continued before you could say anything.

“For a long time, I assumed anything that bothered me about Nathan bothered me because I didn’t like the fact you were with him.”

Your throat tightened.

“And now?”

“Robby asked me if you were okay.”

You blinked. “Robby?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because he noticed too.”

“Noticed what?”

Jack looked back at you.

“That you don’t seem like yourself.”

“I’m planning a wedding. I’m exhausted.”

“I know.”

“You’re making this into something it isn’t.”

“Maybe.”

“Then stop.”

Jack nodded once. “Okay.”

The agreement should have relieved you. Instead, your chest hurt. You folded your arms.

“You have had years to care what I do, Jack.”

His expression changed. Barely. But you saw it.

“You don’t get to stand here the night before my wedding and suddenly decide you have opinions about my life.”

“I’ve always had opinions.”

“Then maybe you should have said something.”

“I didn’t think it was my place.”

“No. Apparently not.”

You turned away. His voice came quietly behind you.

“Do you want to marry him?”

Everything stopped. You looked back.

“What?”

Jack didn’t move.

“Do you want to marry Nathan?”

Your heart started pounding.

“That is a horrible question to ask me tonight.”

“It’s a simple question.”

“I love him.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“My family loves him.”

“Still not what I asked.”

“We’ve been together for three years.”

Jack’s expression softened, which somehow made it worse.

“The wedding is tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“Everything is paid for.”

“I know.”

“People have flown in.”

“I know.”

“There are a hundred and forty people coming.”

“One hundred and forty-three.”

You stared at him. His mouth twitched. It nearly broke you.

“You are unbelievable.”

“Probably.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Jack was quiet for a long moment.

“Because I need to know you’re choosing this.”

“You need to know?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t get to need anything from me tonight.”

“You’re right.”

“Then stop.”

Jack nodded.

“I will.”

Some stupid, aching part of you wanted him not to. Maybe that was why you said it.

“You’re jealous.”

You expected denial.

Instead, Jack said, “Yes.”

Your breath caught.

“I’ve been jealous since the first time you brought him into the Pitt.”

“Jack.”

“That’s why I kept my mouth shut. Every time I worried about you, I told myself I wasn’t seeing things clearly because I wanted you.”

You stared at him.

“And I do.”

Your eyes burned instantly.

“You cannot say that now.”

“I know.”

“You had years.”

“I know.”

“You can’t wait until the night before I marry somebody else to finally tell me.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you?”

“Because this stopped being about me wanting you.”

You shook your head. “You don’t know that.”

“I know you’re unhappy.”

“I’m stressed.”

“You’re unhappy.”

“You’re projecting.”

“Maybe.”

“You want me to leave him for you?”

Jack answered immediately.

“No.”

You blinked.

“No?”

“No.”

It hurt more than it had any right to. Jack stepped closer.

“I want you not to marry somebody you don’t want to marry.”

“And then what?”

“Whatever you want.”

“That’s convenient.”

“If you walk away tomorrow and tell me there will never be anything between us, I’ll live with it.”

“Jack.”

“If you never forgive me for asking you this tonight, I’ll live with that too.”

Your eyes filled.

“But don’t marry him because everyone has already taken their seats.”

You stared at him. Jack asked again, quieter this time.

“Do you want to marry him?”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. That was the worst part. There was no answer hiding beneath wedding stress or panic. There was simply nothing. You hated Jack for hearing it. You hated yourself for letting him. So you walked away. You hadn’t seen him since. Until someone knocked on the bridal suite door.

Your sister glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll get it.”

The door opened before she reached it. Robby appeared. His suit jacket was open and his tie sat slightly crooked, suggesting he had already attempted to fix it several times before accepting defeat. Your chest tightened.

“Hey.”

Robby gave you a small smile. “Hey.”

Your sister looked between you.

“Do you need a minute?”

Robby lifted both hands. “I’m not here to kidnap the bride.”

“Comforting.”

She squeezed your shoulder before returning to the other side of the room. Robby waited until everyone was distracted by another round of photographs before coming closer.

“You look beautiful.”

You grimaced.

“Please don’t.”

He nodded immediately. “Okay.”

That was Robby. No argument. No insistence that he meant it nicely. Just okay. He looked at you for another second.

“You doing all right?”

“You too?”

“I’m asking as your friend, not as a member of the bridal interrogation committee.”

You looked down at your hands. Robby softened.

“You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“What did Jack tell you?”

“Very little.”

“That means he told you something.”

“He told me you talked.”

Your eyes went to the mirror.

“Did he tell you what he said?”

“No.”

Robby paused.

“But I know Jack.”

“So do I.”

“Unfortunately.”

That pulled a small smile from you. Then Robby reached inside his jacket.

“He asked me to give you something.”

Your pulse stumbled. A small cream envelope appeared between his fingers. Your initials were written across the front. Nothing else.

“Robby.”

“I didn’t read it.”

“Do you know what it says?”

“Not exactly.”

“But?”

His expression turned more serious.

“I know where Jack is.”

Your heart started beating harder.

“Where?”

Robby held the envelope out.

“Read it.”

Your fingers shook as you opened it. There were only a few lines.

Side entrance. Until the ceremony starts.

If you want to leave, I’ll drive. No questions.

If you don’t come, I’ll never mention last night again.

J.

You read it once. Then again. By the third time, the words had started blurring.

“He’s outside?”

“Yeah.”

“Waiting for me?”

“If you need him.”

You folded the note slowly.

“What do you think I should do?”

Robby’s face softened.

“I’m not answering that.”

“Robby.”

“I mean it.”

“I need somebody to tell me.”

“No, you don’t.”

Your eyes stung. He stepped closer.

“You’ve spent months letting everybody tell you what you should want. I’m not adding my voice to the pile.”

“What if I disappoint everyone?”

“You probably will.”

A startled laugh escaped you. Robby smiled gently.

“People survive disappointment.”

“And Nathan?”

His smile faded.

“He’ll get hurt.”

Your chest tightened.

“I don’t want to hurt him.”

“I know.”

“Does that mean I should marry him?”

“No.”

You looked up sharply. Robby shrugged.

“You asked a different question.”

Despite everything, you laughed. He squeezed your hand.

“Whatever you decide, I’m still your friend when you walk out of this room. If you go downstairs and marry Nathan, I’m your friend. If you walk out the side door and make Jack commit grand theft bride, I’m still your friend.”

“Grand theft bride?”

“I’m trying to lighten the mood.”

“You’re terrible at it.”

“I know.”

You looked down at the envelope. Robby squeezed your hand once more.

“Just make sure whatever happens next is because you chose it.”

Then he left. For several seconds, you simply stood there with the note in your hand. You tucked it into the small pocket hidden inside your dress and returned to the mirror. Twenty minutes later, your sister appeared behind you holding your bouquet.

“We’re almost there.”

Your stomach rolled.

“Okay.”

She handed you the flowers, then stepped back to look at you. Something in her expression changed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m allowed. You’re my sister.”

You tried to smile. Her gaze travelled to your hair.

“Oh. Nathan sent a message.”

Every muscle in your body seemed to tighten.

“What message?”

“He asked his best man whether you decided to pin your hair up after all. Apparently he thought that was the plan.”

You looked at yourself in the mirror. Your hair fell over your shoulders in loose waves. You had wanted it down. Nathan preferred it up. It had been such a small conversation that you had forgotten about it. Two weeks ago, you had shown him the hairstyle. He had tilted his head.

“I thought you were going with the updo.”

“I like this better.”

“It looks nice.”

You had waited. Nathan smiled.

“If you love it, wear it. I just thought the other one looked a little more like what we pictured.”

What we pictured.

You hadn’t even noticed the words at the time. Now your hand automatically reached for one of the pins on the dressing table. Your sister watched.

“What are you doing?”

“I’ll just put it up.”

“I thought you wanted it down.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Your hand stopped. It doesn’t matter. How many times had you said that? Breakfast doesn’t matter. The rotation doesn’t matter. The green dress doesn’t matter. One Sunday with your friends doesn’t matter. Your hair certainly doesn’t matter. None of those things mattered individually.

But somehow, when you gathered all of them together, they looked an awful lot like you. You stared at your reflection. Nathan had never asked you to disappear. That might have been harder to admit.

He had simply shown you the life he wanted, and because you loved him, you had kept trying to fit inside it.

He wanted evenings at home and weekends planned weeks in advance. He wanted fewer interrupted dinners, fewer overnight shifts, fewer mornings where you came through the door laughing about something Robby had done instead of coming straight to bed. There was nothing wrong with wanting those things. There was nothing wrong with Nathan.

But there was something deeply wrong with standing here in a wedding dress and realising you had spent three years treating the parts of yourself that didn't fit his life like inconveniences to be managed. You slowly set the pin back down.

“Leave it.”

Your sister looked at you through the mirror.

“You sure?”

For once, you didn’t answer immediately. Then you nodded.

“Yeah.”

A knock came from the door.

“Five minutes!”

The bridal suite erupted around you. Someone went to find your father. Your champagne disappeared. Your sister fixed the train of your dress while one of your bridesmaids checked your lipstick for the third time. Everything accelerated. You were ushered into the corridor. Your father was waiting at the end of it.

His eyes filled the second he saw you.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Your throat closed.

“Dad.”

He kissed your forehead carefully so he wouldn’t disturb your makeup.

“You look beautiful.”

This time, the words hurt. You slipped your arm through his. Somewhere beyond the closed double doors, the music changed. The murmur of the guests softened. Your pulse started thudding in your ears. Someone adjusted your veil. Your bouquet suddenly felt impossibly heavy.

The flowers smelled too strong. Your shoes pinched at your toes. The neckline of your dress seemed tighter than it had upstairs. You could hear one hundred and forty-three people settling into silence. Waiting. Your father’s hand covered yours.

“You ready?”

The answer rose automatically. Yes. Of course you were ready. You had spent a year getting ready. The venue was booked. The cake was downstairs. Nathan was standing at the end of the aisle. Your mother was sitting in the front row beside people who had travelled hundreds of miles to watch this happen.

You were wearing a dress worth more than your first car. Everybody was waiting. You had to be ready. Your fingers brushed the side of your skirt. Jack’s note pressed against them from inside the pocket.

If you want to leave, I’ll drive.

You closed your eyes. The music swelled. You pictured Nathan waiting. Then you pictured tomorrow. A week from now. A year. Not some terrible future. That was what finally frightened you. You could see it too easily. A nice house somewhere quieter. Nathan making coffee on Sunday morning. Dinner with your parents.

A job you still liked but had slowly learned to give less of yourself to because there was always another reason home needed to come first. You could see yourself happy sometimes. Maybe even often. And still not quite yourself. The wedding coordinator reached for the door. Your father squeezed your hand.

You realised suddenly that you weren’t terrified because you thought marrying Nathan would destroy your life. You were terrified because it probably wouldn’t. You could build a perfectly good life with him. It just wouldn’t be yours. The coordinator smiled.

“Ready?”

Your mouth opened.

“No.”

She blinked. Your father went completely still beside you.

“What?”

Your voice shook.

“No.”

The word barely came out. Then you said it again.

“I’m not ready.”

The coordinator stared. Your father turned toward you. You couldn’t look at him.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sweetheart.”

“I can’t.”

Your eyes filled.

“I thought I could. I thought I was just nervous, but I can’t do this.”

The music continued faintly on the other side of the doors. Your father’s face changed. Shock first, then worry, then something softer.

“Do you want to go in there?”

You looked at the doors. At the life waiting on the other side.

“No.”

That answer came immediately. Your father nodded once.

“Then you don’t go.”

Your breath broke.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Not to me.”

You finally looked at him. His hand tightened around yours.

“You don’t owe me a wedding.”

“Dad.”

“We’ll figure out the rest.”

Behind you, somebody called your name. Your sister appeared around the corner and stopped.

“What happened?”

“I can’t do it.”

The wedding coordinator was already whispering urgently into a headset. The music faltered. Your mother appeared at the far end of the corridor. Suddenly there were too many voices. Your name from three different directions. Someone saying Nathan needed to know. Your mother asking what was wrong. Someone else asking whether you needed water.

Your chest tightened.

“I need to get out.”

Your sister caught your arm.

“Where?”

“Just out.”

You looked at your father. He seemed to understand before you said anything else.

“Go.”

Your throat closed.

“We’ve got this.”

You nodded once. Then you gathered your dress in both hands and ran.

Jack checked the time. Three o’clock. The side entrance hadn’t opened. He stared at it for a few more seconds before leaning back against the headrest. That was it. He had promised himself he would wait until the ceremony began. No longer. If you chose Nathan, Jack would respect it.

He wouldn’t sit through the wedding. He had already accepted that he wasn’t capable of that particular form of self-inflicted torture. He would go home. On Monday, if you came into the Pitt wearing a wedding ring, he would congratulate you. He would never mention the terrace again. Jack started the engine.

Inside, the music would be playing. Guests would be standing. You would be taking your father’s arm. He put the car into drive. The side door flew open. Jack slammed his foot onto the brake. For one ridiculous second, all he saw was white. An enormous amount of white. Then you appeared.

One hand held your dress off the ground. The other gripped your bouquet so tightly the stems looked ready to snap. Jack stared. You stared back. Someone shouted your name from inside. You ran. Jack barely had time to throw his jacket into the back seat before you yanked open the passenger door.

Your dress did not fit. Not even remotely. You shoved layers of satin into the footwell, sat on another portion of the skirt and attempted to pull the door closed. Jack continued staring.

“Drive.”

He blinked. “Are you sure?”

Another voice called from the doorway. You looked at him.

“Jack.”

“Yes?”

“Drive the fucking car.”

He drove. Your phone started ringing before you were halfway down the road. Nathan. You stared at his name. Declined. It rang again immediately. Your mother. Then your sister. Then Nathan again. You turned the phone face down on your lap. Jack kept both hands on the steering wheel. He didn’t ask what had happened.

He didn’t ask whether you had spoken to Nathan. He didn’t say he had known you would come. You appreciated his silence for approximately thirty seconds. Then the adrenaline hit.

“Oh my God.”

Jack glanced over.

“Oh my God.”

“You all right?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“I just stopped my wedding.”

“Yes.”

“I ran out.”

“I noticed.”

“In the dress.”

“That was harder to miss.”

You looked down. There was enough white fabric inside Jack’s car to upholster a sofa. A strange sound escaped you, half laugh and half sob. Jack’s mouth twitched.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m absolutely not.”

“You are.”

“I’m trying very hard not to.”

You hit his arm with your bouquet. Jack laughed. Actually laughed. That was enough. Your own laughter came harder until you were bent forward as much as the dress allowed, tears running down your cheeks. Then, without warning, it broke. One second you were laughing. The next you were sobbing. Jack’s expression changed instantly.

“Hey.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.”

“I left him there.”

Jack pulled into an empty car park. Your head snapped toward him.

“What are you doing?”

“Stopping.”

“No.”

“We’re away from the venue.”

“Not enough.”

He looked at you. Really looked. Then nodded.

“Okay.”

No argument. He put the car back into drive. Your phone rang again. You switched it off. Jack’s buzzed in the cup holder almost immediately. Robby. Then Dana. Then Robby again. You stared at it.

“Don’t answer.”

“I won’t.”

“What if something’s wrong?”

“If Robby keeps calling, I’ll check.”

His phone buzzed a third time. Jack sighed.

“Of course.”

He answered through the car.

“Robby.”

“Is she with you?”

You heard Robby clearly.

Jack glanced over. “Yes.”

“Is she safe?”

“Yes.”

You covered your mouth as fresh tears threatened. Robby exhaled.

“Okay. Her parents know she’s safe. I’m staying here with them. That’s all she needs to know.”

You swallowed.

“Robby?”

“Hey.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nope.”

A watery laugh escaped you.

“Not today.”

“What about Nathan?”

There was a brief pause.

“He’s with his family.”

Your chest hurt.

“Okay.”

“You don’t need to sort everything out right now. Go somewhere quiet.”

You closed your eyes.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah.”

Then, after a beat, “Make Abbott feed you.”

Jack frowned at the dashboard.

“I can hear you.”

“I know.”

The call ended. Silence filled the car again.

Jack drove another few blocks before asking, “Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know.”

“My place?”

You hesitated.

He immediately added, “Guest room. Closed door. I’ll disappear if you want.”

Something inside you loosened.

“Your place.”

“Okay.”

The first thing you did inside Jack’s apartment was kick off your shoes. They landed several feet apart in his hallway. Jack looked down at them.

“Feel better?”

“Immensely.”

He closed the door behind you. For the first time since you had run from the venue, there was no noise. No phone ringing. No one calling your name. No questions being thrown at you faster than you could answer them.

You stood in the middle of Jack’s apartment wearing a wedding dress you were no longer getting married in. The absurdity nearly made you laugh again. Then you shifted and winced. Jack noticed.

“What?”

“The dress.”

“What about it?”

“I can’t breathe.”

His eyebrows rose.

“That seems like a design flaw.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“I’ve been told.”

You reached behind yourself and immediately gave up.

“There are buttons.”

Jack looked at your back.

“A lot of buttons.”

“Forty-seven.”

“Why do you know that?”

“My sister counted them while helping me into it.”

Jack stared at the row running down your spine.

“This feels hostile.”

Despite everything, you smiled.

“Will you help me?”

His gaze lifted to yours. The humour disappeared.

“Yeah.”

You walked into the bedroom and stopped in front of the mirror. Jack came up behind you. For a second, neither of you moved.

Then he asked quietly, “Okay?”

You nodded. His fingers found the first button. Then another. And another. The room was so quiet you could hear your own breathing. Jack worked carefully, touching only what he needed to. Each tiny button slipped free beneath his fingers. You watched him in the mirror. There was something strange about seeing him there.

Jack, still wearing the suit he had intended to wear to your wedding. You, standing in a dress Nathan had loved. You swallowed.

“You should’ve seen the first one.”

Jack’s hands stilled for half a second. Then continued.

“I did.”

You frowned at him through the mirror.

“What?”

“You showed me a picture.”

“When?”

“Break room. Three in the morning.”

The memory came back slowly. You shoving your phone toward Jack after a long shift because you had been too excited to keep it to yourself. Soft ivory. Thin straps. Low back. You had known the second you saw yourself in it. That one.

You remembered Jack looking at the photograph for a few seconds longer than expected, then handing your phone back. You had assumed he simply had no opinion on wedding dresses.

“What did you think?”

His eyes met yours in the mirror.

“I thought you looked happy.”

Your throat tightened. Jack released another button.

“I loved it.”

He said nothing.

“Nathan didn’t.”

Jack’s hands paused.

“He hated it?”

“No.”

You stared at yourself.

“That would almost make more sense.”

Jack waited.

“He said it was beautiful. He just said it wasn’t what he pictured.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

You laughed once, but there was no humour in it.

“He told me if I loved it, I should get it.”

Jack’s gaze met yours.

“I returned it three days later.”

“Did he ask you to?”

“No.”

That word sat between you. You looked away from your reflection.

“He didn’t.”

Jack continued with the buttons. You swallowed.

“I kept doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Making the decision for him.”

Jack didn’t answer. You were grateful.

“I knew what Nathan liked. I knew what kind of life he wanted. And every time something about me didn’t fit, I changed it before he ever had to ask.”

Another button came loose.

“He probably thought I wanted half of it.”

Your voice shook.

“I kept telling him I did.”

Jack’s eyes met yours in the mirror.

“Nathan wanted a quieter life. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“No.”

“He wanted someone who wanted to come home after work instead of staying because Robby had convinced everyone to go for pancakes.”

“That was one time.”

“It was not one time.”

Despite yourself, you smiled. Then it faded.

“I think I kept believing that if I loved him enough, eventually his life would feel like mine.”

Jack freed another button.

“And it didn’t.”

“No.”

Your eyes burned.

“Maybe that’s not his fault.”

“No.”

You turned your head slightly. Jack’s expression was gentle.

“That doesn’t make it yours either.”

The words landed quietly. You looked back at the mirror. His fingers continued down your back. The dress loosened around you. For the first time all day, someone was touching you without trying to arrange you. Nobody was pinning your hair. Adjusting your veil. Moving your bouquet.

Telling you where to stand or which direction to turn your shoulders for a photograph. Jack was simply helping you out of something you no longer wanted to wear. Nothing more. By the time he reached the final button, your vision had blurred. He saw your face in the mirror.

“You okay?”

You laughed quietly.

“I genuinely don’t know.”

“That’s fair.”

The last button came undone. Jack stepped back immediately. The dress loosened around your shoulders.

“I’ll get you something to wear.”

“Jack.”

He stopped at the doorway.

“Thank you.”

His face softened.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know.”

That answer caught him. You swallowed.

“I still want to.”

Jack nodded once. Then left. You stepped out of the dress. It collapsed around your feet in a pool of white satin. For a moment, you stood there looking down at it. You had expected taking it off to destroy you. Instead, you could breathe.

You changed into one of Jack’s old T-shirts and a pair of sweatpants that needed to be rolled twice at the waist. The dress ended up draped across the chair, beautiful and expensive and perfect for a wedding that was never going to happen.

When you walked into the living room, Jack was putting his phone down.

“Robby?”

“Dana.”

“Oh God.”

“She has several opinions.”

“I’m shocked.”

“She also says your parents are calmer now that Robby’s there.”

Your throat tightened.

“He stayed?”

“Apparently he’s been making tea for everyone.”

“Of course he has.”

Jack nodded toward the couch.

“Sit.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Bossy.”

“You stopped your wedding. I think I’m allowed to insist on toast.”

“That is not a rule.”

“It is now.”

You sat. Jack made toast. You ate half a slice. He didn’t comment on the other half. For almost an hour, neither of you said anything important. You wondered where your veil had gone. Jack suggested it was probably in his car. You asked whether your cousin had filmed you running.

Jack said with complete certainty that someone had filmed you running. You told him you were changing your name and leaving the country. He pointed out that Canada was surprisingly close. You called him useless. Eventually, the light outside shifted. The panic eased enough for guilt to take its place.

You curled your legs beneath yourself on the couch.

“My dad must be devastated.”

“Probably.”

“My mother definitely is.”

“Probably.”

“I humiliated Nathan.”

Jack didn’t answer immediately. You looked at him. He was sitting in the chair opposite you, tie gone now, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

“Yes.”

Your eyes filled.

“You could lie occasionally.”

“I could.”

“Jack.”

“You want me to tell you Nathan isn’t hurt?”

You looked down.

“No.”

“He is.”

Your throat tightened.

“You hurt him today.”

“I know.”

“Your parents are upset. People travelled. Money was spent. A lot of people had a very bad afternoon.”

You gave him a watery glare.

“You’re terrible at comforting people.”

“I’m not finished.”

You waited.

“None of that means you should have married him.”

Your face crumpled.

“I should’ve ended it sooner.”

“Yes.”

“Jack.”

“You should have.”

“I know.”

He softened.

“But doing something too late doesn’t mean you have to do the wrong thing because it would be more convenient for everyone else.”

You rubbed your palms over your eyes.

“I feel awful.”

“That makes sense.”

“I didn’t even tell Nathan myself.”

“You were panicking.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“No.”

You looked at Jack. He wasn’t going to make Nathan into a villain for you. Somehow, you needed that. Nathan hadn’t deserved to stand in front of a room full of people and realise you weren’t coming. You could admit that. You could apologise for that.

It didn’t mean you had to wish you had walked through those doors.

“I need to talk to him.”

“Yes.”

“Not tonight.”

“Okay.”

You glanced toward the bedroom. The dress was visible through the open door.

“I thought I’d be devastated.”

Jack said nothing.

“I’m not.”

His eyes stayed on you.

“I feel guilty. I feel sick when I think about turning my phone back on. I’m terrified my mother is going to ask me what happened and I won’t know how to explain it.”

“She’ll ask.”

“Helpful.”

“She’ll still love you.”

You looked at him.

“You don’t know that.”

“I’ve met your mother.”

A small laugh escaped you. Then you looked back at the dress.

“But mostly I feel relieved.”

Jack nodded. That was all. No satisfaction. No triumph. No quiet little expression that said he had known better all along. Just a nod. It made your chest ache. Silence settled between you. This one felt different. You could feel last night sitting there too. The terrace. The question.

Jack admitting something you had spent years wondering about. You opened your mouth.

“Was it true?”

Jack went still.

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“You know what I mean.”

He looked away briefly. Then back.

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

He sighed.

“Before Nathan.”

Your heartbeat picked up.

“You wanted me before Nathan?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Jack rubbed a hand across his jaw.

“Because I was an idiot.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s an accurate summary.”

“Jack.”

“You were my friend. We worked together. I kept thinking that if I got it wrong, I’d ruin something I didn’t want to lose.”

Your chest tightened.

“So you did nothing.”

“Yes.”

“For years.”

“Yes.”

“That was stupid.”

“I believe I covered that.”

You almost smiled.

“Then Nathan came along.”

Jack’s expression shifted.

“You looked happy.”

“At first, I was.”

“I know.”

“You thought you missed your chance.”

“Yes.”

Simple. No dramatic excuse. No grand tragedy. Just two people who had spent years almost saying something until someone else arrived first.

“And when I stopped being happy?”

Jack leaned forward, forearms resting against his knees.

“That was harder.”

“Because you didn’t trust yourself.”

“Yes.”

He looked at you.

“I wanted you. I didn’t like him. Every concern I had felt compromised by that.”

“So you waited.”

“Too long.”

“Until last night.”

“You looked terrified.”

“I thought I was hiding it.”

“You were.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“You hid it from people who weren’t looking.”

Your throat tightened.

“And you were?”

Jack answered before he seemed to think about it.

“I’m always looking at you.”

The words came so simply that they took a second to land. Jack seemed to realise what he had said at exactly the same moment. His eyes shifted away. Your heart gave one painful thud. You swallowed.

“The note.”

He looked back.

“What about it?”

“You really would have left if I didn’t come out?”

“Yes.”

“You wouldn’t have gone inside?”

“No.”

“And Monday?”

Jack understood.

“I would have congratulated you.”

Your eyes filled.

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jack.”

“I would’ve figured it out.”

You stared at him.

“You weren’t sitting out there thinking that if I left Nathan, I’d finally be yours.”

His expression changed immediately.

“No.”

The answer was firm.

“If you had come out, gotten into my car and told me there would never be anything romantic between us, I still would have driven.”

Your throat tightened.

“Why?”

Jack stood. He crossed part of the room but stopped before reaching you.

“Because you needed to know there was another door.”

You looked at him.

“That’s all.”

Something in your chest cracked. You stood and closed the remaining distance. Jack barely had time to react before you wrapped your arms around his waist and pressed your face against his chest. He froze for half a heartbeat. Then his arms came around you.

One hand settled against the back of your head. The other rested between your shoulder blades. You cried again. Apparently that was simply your personality now.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologising.”

“I’m ruining your shirt.”

“I own others.”

“I ruined an entire wedding.”

“That was considerably more expensive.”

You laughed against him. Jack’s arms tightened. You stayed there until your breathing slowed. Until the apartment became dark around you. Until you realised that for the first time in months, you weren’t trying to work out what the person holding you wanted from you.

Eventually, Jack murmured, “You should sleep.”

You pulled back enough to look at him.

“What about you?”

“Couch.”

“This is your apartment.”

“I’m aware.”

“You can sleep in your own bed.”

“I think boundaries are probably useful tonight.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“You’re very annoying.”

“I’ve heard.”

“From me.”

“Among others.”

You looked toward the bedroom. Then back at him.

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m glad you were there.”

His face softened.

“So am I.”

You woke to the smell of coffee. For several seconds, you had no idea where you were. Then you saw the dress. White satin draped across Jack’s chair like evidence from a particularly expensive crime scene.

“Oh.”

Everything returned. The corridor. Your father asking if you wanted to go through the doors. Saying no. Running. Jack’s car. Nathan calling. You waited for panic. It didn’t come. There was guilt. Plenty of it. There was dread too, because there were conversations waiting for you that you wanted absolutely no part of.

Underneath all of it, though, was the same feeling you had been afraid to name yesterday. Relief. You climbed out of bed. Jack stood in the kitchen with his phone in one hand and coffee in the other. His hair was messier than usual, and he had changed into a grey T-shirt and sweatpants.

He looked up.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

“How do you feel?”

“Like I stopped my own wedding.”

Jack considered that.

“Accurate.”

You glared. He handed you coffee.

“Your sister texted.”

Your stomach tightened.

“How?”

“Robby gave her my number.”

“Traitor.”

“Apparently your parents are okay.”

You exhaled.

“Nathan?”

Jack’s expression softened.

“With his family.”

You looked down into the coffee.

“I need to talk to him.”

“Yes.”

“Today.”

“Probably.”

“Not yet.”

“That’s okay.”

“Robby?”

“Six messages.”

“Only six?”

“He may have been sedated.”

You laughed.

“And Dana?”

“Twenty-three.”

“Much healthier.”

Jack smiled. Morning light spilled across his kitchen. Everything felt strangely ordinary. Yesterday, you had been supposed to become Nathan’s wife. Today, you were barefoot in Jack’s kitchen wearing his clothes and drinking coffee from the mug you always used when you came over. You looked at him. He caught you staring.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That was something.”

You put the mug down. Jack watched as you walked toward him. His eyebrows lifted slightly.

“What are you doing?”

“I know exactly what I’m doing.”

That made him straighten. You stopped directly in front of him. All those almost moments returned at once. The elevator. The break room. His hand against your back. Years of wondering whether you had imagined something that had been there all along. You lifted your hand and touched his jaw. Jack went completely still.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“You don’t owe me anything because I drove you yesterday.”

“I know.”

“You ended a three-year relationship less than twenty-four hours ago.”

“I know.”

His eyes searched yours. You stepped closer.

“I’m not kissing you because you picked me up.”

Jack didn’t move.

“I’m not kissing you because I’m hurt or because I need leaving Nathan to mean I chose someone else.”

His expression softened.

“I didn’t leave him for you.”

“I know.”

“I left because I couldn’t marry him.”

“I know.”

You smiled faintly.

“But I wanted to kiss you before I ever met him.”

Jack’s breath caught.

“And I’m still going to have a horrible conversation with Nathan today. I’m going to apologise for how I ended things. I’m probably going to spend the next few weeks figuring out which parts of my life I actually want and which ones I agreed to because I thought I should.”

“You don’t have to figure us out too.”

“I know.”

You smiled.

“But this part?”

Your fingers curled gently against his jaw.

“I figured this part out years ago.”

Then you kissed him. Softly. Nothing frantic. Nothing desperate. Just your mouth against his after years of nearly. Jack didn’t move for one heartbeat. Then his hand settled carefully at your waist and he kissed you back. Warm. Slow. Certain. You pulled away first. His forehead nearly touched yours.

“Okay,” you whispered.

Jack’s thumb moved once against your side.

“You’re still allowed to change your mind.”

“I know.”

“You’re going to keep saying that until I stop talking, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

His mouth twitched. You smiled.

“Can I kiss you again now?”

Jack exhaled a quiet laugh.

“I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“I’m attempting to be responsible.”

“I hate it.”

“I gathered.”

You kissed him again. This time, Jack was ready. His arm slipped around your waist and drew you closer while your fingers curled into the front of his shirt. There was no urgency. There didn’t need to be. When the kiss ended, you stayed close. Your eyes drifted past him toward the bedroom.

“My wedding dress is still in there.”

“Yes.”

“I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with it.”

Jack considered that.

“Burning it inside the apartment seems inadvisable.”

You laughed.

“Very romantic.”

“Fire codes.”

“Of course.”

Jack smiled. You leaned into him. Soon, you would turn your phone back on. You would call Nathan. You would tell him you were sorry for leaving him waiting in front of everyone. You would not tell him you were sorry for leaving.

There would be deposits to lose, gifts to return and a honeymoon to cancel. You would have to explain something you were only beginning to understand yourself. Nathan had not been the wrong man because he was cruel. You hadn’t been the wrong woman because you couldn’t become what he imagined.

You had simply spent too long believing love meant making the differences disappear. Yesterday, the tables had been set. The guests had been seated. The music had started. You had thought that meant the decision had already been made. It hadn’t. Someone had asked if you were ready. For once, you had told the truth.

No. Jack had simply been waiting outside when you did. You looked up at him. He brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face.

“What?”

You smiled.

“Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed.

“That’s twice.”

You reached for your coffee.

“Get used to it.”

Two Years Ago

Your kitchen phone rang from across your small apartment. Michael was already late, and you hoped he was calling from his car to tell you he was turning onto your street. You’d spent the last hour cleaning and setting up the place for one of your legendary movie night dates. You’d picked up Michael’s choice of film earlier in the day, Night of the Living Dead; he was so excited for you to see it, he couldn’t stop talking about the idea it had given him. But he wouldn’t explain his idea until you watched the movie. You were looking forward to that part the most; you loved hearing how Michael’s brain worked, how he created his art. 

“Hello?” You answered, a little out of breath from running to the phone. 

“Hey, mama,” Michael’s voice was gravelly through the phone. But you didn’t hear the static that usually came with a call from his car phone. 

“Are you almost here?” You allowed yourself to have hope; you’d missed Michael so deeply since he’d been overseas for two weeks. 

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I just got home. My flight was delayed because of a storm; I’m exhausted, baby.” 

Your chest got heavy with disappointment; this was the third date Michael had canceled in a row. You knew he was tired, and you didn’t hold that against him, but you missed him so much it hurt. You’d started to feel like an obligation, something to check off his list. Another place for him to be. 

“It’s okay, Michael. I promise,” you lied, staring across the room at the nest of pillows and blankets you’d set up for him. 

“It’s not okay, my love. It’s really not. I’m so sorry,” you could hear him stifling a yawn and sniffling. 

“You need to rest, angel.” 

“I promise to make it up to you. I’ll make our anniversary the best one yet. I’m going to cancel that meeting; I don’t want to go anyway,” he was rambling now, in that same way he always did when he was running on fumes. “I love you. I love you so much.” 

“I love you too, Michael. But you need to go to that meeting. I can see you after that.” 

“No, I need to see you.” 

You sighed into the phone and twirled the cable around your finger. “We’ll talk about it in the morning. I love you, angel. Go to sleep.” 

“I love you more.” 

You spent your night curled up in the pillows and blankets, wearing Michael’s shirt, holding a stuffed animal he’d given you, and watching the movie he picked. You tried to focus on the film, but your mind kept drifting to all the times Michael put his life aside for you. And how you were sure he’d grown regretful about that over the last few months. He started to miss out on so much: production meetings, award shows, movie premieres, after parties, but never recording sessions. You knew his art meant everything to him, and you would never dream of standing in the way of that. You kept spiraling, remembering all the times his family, especially Joseph, had disparaged your relationship. 

“That girl is just a distraction, son,” you heard from down the hallway one day at Hayvenhurst. “We don’t need that right now; we have everything lined up, you can’t be in two places at once.” 

It wasn’t the venom in his voice that hurt the most; it was the fact that Michael didn’t respond to his father. He didn’t argue or defend your relationship. As far as you could tell from behind Michael’s bedroom door, he sat there quietly, silently agreeing with Joseph. 

That very same night, while Michael walked you to Bill’s waiting car to take you home, you heard it again. Joseph sat on the living room couch, glaring up at you from behind a newspaper. “About time she left,” he’d grunted. Once again, Michael didn’t say a word. He just kissed you and led you out the front door. 

Playing it all back in your mind, only catching bits and pieces of the movie, you came to a painful decision. You were what’s wrong in Michael’s life; you were what’s holding him back, distracting him from the greatness he’d set out to achieve. You had to remove yourself from the situation. You had to give Michael room to grow. You had to let him go. 

Early the next week, you lagged getting ready to head over to the Jackson compound in Encino. It felt like your feet weighed a hundred pounds each as you trudged around your apartment, collecting all of Michael’s things into a backpack he’d left at your place. Each item you placed in the bag broke your heart a little more, but you were resolved in your decision. You knew it was the right thing to do. 

Selfishly, you decided to keep his extra cologne and one of his t-shirts that you liked to sleep in. But everything else had to be returned to him, to give you room to recover from what was certain to be the biggest heartbreak of your life. You had declined a ride from Bill when he called that morning, hoping to make a clean break and not let Michael feel like he owed you. 

The drive to Hayvenhurst was silent and much too quick. You smiled at the gate security guards for what you knew would be the last time and drove into the property, taking your parking spot right next to Michael’s Rolls-Royce. You couldn’t help but think of the horrible irony: breaking up with Michael on your one-year anniversary, as you stared at the bag of his things on your passenger seat. 

You steeled yourself with a deep breath, willing the tears in your eyes not to fall as you saw Michael approaching from his private staircase. He opened your car door, always the perfect gentleman, and took your hand, drawing you into one of his signature hugs. This hug felt heavier, though, like he knew you were about to break and he wanted to hold you together. But you knew this was for the best; you knew it was all for him. 

Michael seemed different too, even though he tried to hide it. His eyes were sunken behind dark bags, his skin was dull, and his smile wasn’t as bright. He said hello, kissed your cheek, and took your hand for your regular stroll around the grounds, but it felt heavier somehow. You knew he had something to say. You decided it was now or never. 

You let Michael lead you to your favorite shade tree, the one you’d imagined marrying Michael under the first time you saw it, surrounded by your shared friends and family. You stood facing each other, hands conjoined, as if you stood under an altar. His eyes held an aching sadness as he squeezed both of your hands. You spoke first. 

“Michael, I need to talk to you,” you breathed, hoping he didn’t notice how your voice shook. 

He sighed deeply, looking away from you for a moment and out onto the horizon. “I need to talk to you too, baby.” 

Your stomach flipped, but you stood strong. “Let me go first?” 

He took a shaky breath and nodded, returning his gaze to your eyes, seeing the tears threatening to spill onto your cheeks. 

“I love you more than anything in the world,” you started, “I think I may love you for the rest of my life. But I can’t keep holding you back from all of the things you’ve set out to do,” the tears began to spill, Michael’s lower lip quivering while he released one of your hands to hold your face, wiping the tears with his thumb. “You’re destined for greatness, Michael, and you can’t do that with me holding you here.” 

You weren’t sure what you expected, but he didn’t seem shocked. He just seemed sad, tears falling silently from his own eyes as he searched your face, taking you in for the last time. 

“No, baby. No, you’re not holding me back; that’s crazy,” he breathed through tears. His large hand still rested on your cheek, holding you the way he had when you told him you loved him for the first time. “I’ve been an awful partner. Every time I look at you, I know how much I’ve failed you. I expect you to take scraps of my time, and that’s not fair to you. You deserve so much more than this,” his voice broke, his words coming out between gasps and quiet sobs. You cried harder too, wrapping a hand around his shoulder and leaning into his hand. “You deserve someone who can take you out on random Tuesday nights without a security detail. Someone who isn’t exhausted every time he holds you. I’m watching you shrink your own life just to fit into the small corners of mine, and it’s killing me,” he was properly crying, his chest rattling with every breath. 

You fought the urge to argue with him, to tell him he’d given you everything you’d ever wanted, that he’d been the perfect boyfriend, because it was the truth. You knew you were the problem, the thorn in the side of his career. You would take crumbs if it meant you could stay with Michael, but your conscience wouldn’t allow it. You knew that would be too selfish; you knew that would ruin the career he had worked so hard to build. 

“You deserve a great love, mama. And I can’t give you that,” he wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close. 

“And you deserve to build something historic without worrying about whether I’m lonely or feeling left behind. I can’t have that on my conscience,” your voice came out thin and scratchy, your fingers dragging along his jaw, frantically wiping the tears as they fell from his eyes. 

“So we’re doing this?” He breathed, his eyes filled with the devastating realization that you’re both arriving at the same exact conclusion. 

“We have to. Loving each other like this, it’s breaking us both.” 

Michael squeezed his eyes shut and leaned his forehead against yours, crying out loud. He pulled you into a tight, desperate embrace, holding you as if he could freeze time before the reality of your mutual goodbye took hold. 

“I will love you forever,” he whispered, pressing his lips against yours softly. 

Winter, 1983

The last two years had been the hardest of your life. Unbeknownst to you, Michael had been struggling just as much. You moved halfway across the country to take a new job and hoped to move on from what you knew was the greatest love you’d ever had. 

Michael had thrown himself into his work, completing what everyone was saying would be the greatest album of his career so far, if not of all time. He spent 18 hours a day in the studio, barely sleeping or eating, determined to achieve perfection above all else. Secretly, he’d kept tabs on you, knowing that sounded insane. But he couldn’t help it. He knew he didn’t have a right to you anymore, but he needed to know you were safe and happy. Not knowing kept him up at night, pacing around his room, chewing his fingernails. 

The one thing Michael didn’t know? You were engaged. 

You had a mutual friend who kept Michael up to date on your life, but she couldn’t stand to tell him that particular development. She’d seen how the breakup sent you both spiraling into the abyss, and refused to prolong that pain for either of you. 

She was happy for you; she really was, but she knew you were settling. You did too. 

Your fiancé was nice enough; he had an intensely normal upbringing, totally stable and every mother’s dream for her daughter. He worked an office job, played in a community baseball league, donated his time to local charities, and enjoyed reading history books. And he loved you; he really did. 

On most days, you loved him. He treated you well, flowers every Sunday and entertaining your obsession with old movies. What he didn’t know was that your obsession came from your time with Michael. He didn’t know you’d spent three years in love with the biggest star in the world, but only one year by his side. Nobody knew you’d spent nights tangled under the sheets with Michael, dabbing ice cream on his nose just to kiss it off, dancing in the green grass of Hayvenhurst until the sun set. You preferred it that way, keeping a secret close to your heart. Your time together was special, and you intended to keep it that way. 

The night you got engaged, you’d woken up at three in the morning. The ring was suddenly too tight and made your skin burn. You ran to the bathroom, desperate to get it off, but it was stuck. You tried every trick in the book: soap, butter, ice. It wasn’t until you doused your hand in oil that the ring mercifully slipped off, leaving you to quietly dry heave over the kitchen sink, your fiancé peacefully snoring away in your shared bedroom. You’d broken into quiet sobs, your chest aching for everything you could have had, if only the world had been kinder to you and Michael. 

Knowing it was the right thing to do, you kept that secret too. You couldn’t stand to break someone else’s heart, so you set a date for the wedding and convinced yourself this was your fairytale. Michael was just a wonderful, short-lived love, teaching you about all the ways you could be happy. Your new relationship was about stability, learning which parts of your shared happiness were most important, and being comfortable. 

As the wedding date drew nearer, you resolved to your situation. You would be happy and safe. You would be the content bride, take your fiancé’s hands into yours, and promise to love him until death do you part. It was the right thing to do. 

“Hey, honey!” He called from the living room, his voice filled with uncharacteristic joy. He rarely got excited about things the way Michael did. You looked up from your spot at the stove where you cooked dinner, like always. “Look! Michael Jackson has a new video, looks like those old horror movies you like! Come watch!” 

You felt your blood run cold, your chest caving into your body. You involuntarily dropped your wooden spoon into the pan, but your feet wouldn’t move. 

“Come on! It’s called Thriller!” 

You took a few tentative steps to stand in the doorway of the kitchen, staring at the TV, your mouth hanging open. There he was, on your TV, in your home. And he was with the most beautiful woman you’d ever seen. And he was acting, really acting. You remembered the way he’d wistfully talk about his dreams of writing all this music, acting in his short films, and then retiring to become a movie producer. As the scene played out on MTV, Michael’s character giving his co-star his class ring, you stood frozen. 

“Babe,” your fiancé laughed. “You’re so excited you can’t even speak! Come sit down, watch this with me.” 

You heard him speak, but you couldn’t force your feet to move. You couldn’t take your eyes off the screen. He looked great. He looked happy. He looked fulfilled. That’s all you ever wanted for Michael, and now it’d happened. But you weren’t there to share it with him, and that killed you. 

Then, the scene shifted to Michael and his date sitting in the movie theater, and God, he looked even better. You would never get tired of that toothy smile; it still warmed your heart. 

You kept watching, unsure if you’d breathed since the video started. He moved so swiftly, singing to that beautiful girl as they walked down a street. Your stomach started to hurt, watching her drag her fingers along his jawline, the way you knew drove him crazy, because you did it first. You felt nauseous seeing him sling his arm around her shoulders, the same way he used to do to you. But with you, he would bury his face in your hair and whisper in your ear. He didn’t do that with her. 

Then came the scene that absolutely wrecked you, and you had no idea it was coming. If you didn’t know better, you could have been convinced this was a deleted scene from Night of the Living Dead, the movie you watched when you decided to let Michael go to do all the things he wanted to do. And here he was, doing exactly that. You should have been happy for him, ecstatic even, but your face felt hot, and your eyes started to burn. As he stared back at you through your TV screen in his realistic zombie makeup, you felt the breakdown coming. You wiped hastily at your eyes, thankful your fiancé was so enthralled by the video he didn’t even think about turning around. You couldn’t take it anymore; you retreated to the kitchen and buried your face in your hands, sobbing quietly. 

This is all you’d ever wanted for Michael, but that didn’t make it any easier to see. He was living his dreams, achieving his goals, doing exactly what you’d hoped he’d do. But your heart broke all over again. You leaned over the sink, crying quietly, begging the tears to stop as you heard your fiancé from the living room. He didn’t even notice you’d left. 

“That was awesome!!” 

You heard him stand from the couch and make his way into the kitchen. You didn’t turn around to face him; you were sure he would know you’d been crying. Instead, he walked past you, lightly slapping your ass and sticking his bare finger into the sauce on the stove. “Wasn’t that cool, babe? It was like all your favorite movies rolled into one!” 

“Yeah, honey,” you sniffled lightly and straightened up, turning around to find him sticking his finger back into the sauce. The same finger he’d licked and not washed. “Very cool,” you tried to hide your grimace as he stuck his dirty hand into dinner for the third time. 

That evening’s meal was spent discussing details of your wedding day, though he did most of the talking. When prompted, you just said you were tired. You had a lot to do tomorrow. You were so excited about the upcoming wedding, you were having a hard time sleeping. He believed it all, saying you’d finally be able to relax in just three days. 

Three days. In three days you would be married. You would be somebody’s wife. You would stand in front of a church filled with your family and friends and promise to love and honor this man for the rest of your days. And you would have to mean it. 

You would buy a house together, have children together, go through rough patches, and you would have to come out on the other side. And you would have to be happy. 

You spent that night staring at the ceiling of your dark bedroom, listening to your fiancé snore heavily next to you. You couldn’t take it anymore. You stood up quietly and left the bedroom, closing the door silently behind you. You grabbed your heaviest coat and keys, slipped into your sneakers that lived by the door, and left the apartment. 

This city wasn’t LA or New York, but it had its own version of sleeplessness. Newsstands still littered every corner, and you stopped at one for a cup of coffee. While you waited, you saw him again. Michael’s face adorned the cover of Creem magazine, looking like a superstar in his red leather jacket and blue T-shirt. “And this too, please,” you handed the magazine to the clerk, taking your change and coffee from him and starting back down the street. 

Unable to return to your apartment just yet, you sat in the tiny lobby of your building, curled up on an uncomfortable wooden bench. You stared at the cover, at his face, sipping your coffee tentatively. Against your better judgment, you flipped through the glossy pages until you got to the article, written by a woman named Sylvie Simmons. You wondered if she was beautiful as you read. 

It started with a description of the set of another video you hadn’t seen, Beat It. She described Michael as standing off to the side of the set, drinking orange juice, watching intently, and wearing an oversized brown leather jacket. Your heart lurched; you knew that jacket. You’d thrifted that jacket for him. He loved it; he wore it all the time. A small smile spread across your face as you continued to read, your chest warming at the memory. 

The interview went on to describe his creative process, how he wakes up with fully formed songs in his brain. You were one of the few who knew that to be entirely true; you’d seen it happen. She then described his shy nature, and tears began to prick at your eyes once again. You could hear his soft voice in your mind, reading every quote back to you. Then, a quote struck you harder than it should. 

“My career is mainly what I think about. It's hard to juggle your responsibilities around - my music here, my solo career, my movies there, TV and everything else,” he was quoted. You wondered what he meant by “everything else”. 

You continued reading, laughing at the way he responded to being called sexy. 

“That’s neat,” you whispered out loud as you read, laughing to yourself. You read the article over and over as you drained your coffee, realizing he was finally happy. He was doing it all, and you found it within yourself to be happy for him. Even though it hurt, you finally felt right about your decision all those years ago. You couldn’t have lived with yourself knowing you held Michael back from achieving all of this. 

As the sun rose, pouring in through the dirty windows, you stared out at it. Knowing Michael was staring at the same sunrise. He always did. 

“I’ll love you forever,” you whispered. “I’m so proud of you.” 

Three days later, the heavy oak doors of the church were shut tightly against the afternoon heat, keeping out the noise and sealing in the suffocating quiet of the chapel. You stood under a perfect altar, flanked by perfect flowers, in front of a man who was perfect on paper. The weight of your hand-beaded lace wedding gown dragged on your shoulders, feeling like the weight of the world. Your hands trembled against the stems of your bouquet as the minister’s voice echoed off the high ceilings, steady and predictable. 

You’d woken up that morning content with every decision that had led you here. You no longer regretted letting Michael go; you were so happy for him. You knew you were walking into a safe, quiet life with a man who would take care of you. Your family was happy; therefore, you would be happy. 

He did look handsome, standing in front of you in his nice tuxedo and perfectly combed hair. He’d even teared up watching you walk down the aisle toward him. Yet every time you closed your eyes for a moment to steady yourself, you swore you’d see Michael standing in front of you when you opened them. 

“...in this holy estate of matrimony,” the minister finally came back into focus. “Therefore, if any person can show just cause why they may not be lawfully joined together, let them speak now, or forever hold their peace.” 

A heavy silence fell over the congregation. You stared at the polished marble floors, forcing yourself to breathe. This is right. This is quiet. This is safe. 

The silence stretched on for a good ten seconds before the minister inhaled and looked between you and your husband-to-be. “Well then,” he returned to read from the book in his hands. 

“Wait,” a voice came from the back of the chapel. It was soft but purposeful, and filled with prayer. Every person in the church turned to look at the back pew, where a man stepped out of the shadows. He wore a nicely-fitted tuxedo, his hair a perfect cluster of curls on his head, his nervous eyes locked on you. 

Upon recognizing him, the congregation broke into feverish whispers. 

“Oh, my god.”

“Is that really him?” 

“What is he doing here?” 

“That’s Michael fucking Jackson!” 

And from your side, a quiet and bewildered, “Holy shit.” 

You blinked a few times, positive you were hallucinating from the lack of sleep and tight dress. 

“Do you know him?” The minister asked quietly. 

Michael wasn’t phased by any of it. He kept his eyes on you, desperate and wild. He cleared his throat and began to speak. 

“I told you two years ago that I couldn’t give you everything you wanted. I told you that you deserve a great love,” his voice cracked with raw vulnerability. “While I hope this gentleman has given that to you,” he glanced at your confused fiancé next to you, “I couldn’t let this happen without telling you how I still feel about you.” 

The murmurs around the crowd resumed as Michael paused, his eyes raking up and down your body, his teeth capturing his bottom lip. He took a step forward. “Two years ago I let my world swallow us both until you thought it was your fault. It was never your fault, angel. It was mine. I was terrified and selfish and didn’t want you to go through what I had gone through.” 

He took another step, the minister gasping behind you. Michael’s chest heaved as he abandoned every ounce of pride in his body. 

“I thought I was saving you when I walked away,” tears glistened in his eyes, and his voice strained as it echoed off the walls of the chapel. “I thought you needed a simple life. But I was so, so wrong. I don’t care about any of it anymore. I would lose everything if it meant I didn’t have to lose you again. So I’m asking you, please don’t do this,” Michael begged. The congregation gasped and whispered to each other, not quietly. 

Hot tears spilled out of your eyes and down your cheeks, no doubt ruining your makeup. He was really here, really asking for you back. It was as if every dream you’d ever had became one wonderful moment. 

Michael took another step forward and extended a hand to you, trembling slightly. “You never held me back. You were the only thing keeping me alive in a world that just takes and takes. Two years of surviving on memories... that isn’t living, mama. I’m begging for your forgiveness. For another chance.” 

“Honey, what the hell is he talking about?” Your fiancé stepped closer, trying to act tough. 

You didn’t answer him, though. Instead, you reached out and took Michael’s hand tightly in yours, weaving your fingers together. You roughly gathered up the long white train of your dress and lept from the altar, in a dead sprint for the church doors, Michael close on your heels. 

Bursting through the doors, leaving the chaos of the chapel behind, Michael ushered you into his Rolls-Royce, the very same one you used to park next to. He threw the passenger door open and quickly but carefully helped you inside, being sure to tuck all of your skirts in by your feet before slamming the door and running around to the driver’s side. 

He slid into the seat next to you and stopped for just a moment, staring at you. “I can’t believe that worked,” he breathed, his hand coming to your cheek. Over your shoulder, he saw the church doors open again; this time, your jilted lover stood on the steps, his eyes searching. You turned around, following Michael’s gaze, and broke into maniacal laughter. 

“Go, go! Drive!” You hollered. 

As the car flew down the road, you breathed a sigh of relief. It felt like a thousand-pound weight had been lifted off your shoulders; the world felt bright again. “I can’t believe I just did that!” You laughed, leaning your arm against the window. 

“You?!” Michael shouted back happily. “We just did the craziest shit I think could ever happen!” 

The pair of you broke into another fit of laughter, like children, how it used to be. Your heart grew in real time. 

“Michael, you just interrupted my wedding!” 

“I just interrupted your wedding!!” 

Michael continued to drive, weaving through traffic and down streets you’d never heard of. He pulled up to a secluded house, hidden behind a thick forest, the gravel driveway crunching under the tires. He quickly threw the car in park and lept from the seat, sprinting around to throw your door open and take your hand. He took your skirts in his hands and led you up the few steps of the porch and to the front door, where he fished a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. 

“How long have you been here?” You asked, looking around the nice home in wonder. 

“Just a few days,” he replied, closing the door behind you. You opened your mouth to ask all the other questions you had, but Michael pulled you back to him by your hand, crashing your lips together. 

The kiss was desperate and hungry, the kind of kiss that steals your breath from your body. Before losing control, he pulled back, leaning his forehead against yours, causing the memories of that day two years ago to come flooding back. His hands framed your face, your hands coming to rest around his wrists, holding him there. 

“You came with me,” he whispered through a breathless laugh. “You actually came.” 

“How could I have stayed?” You replied, a single tear falling down your cheek. 

He kissed you again, harder this time, as his hands fell from your face to your waist, pulling you as close as your dress would allow. You wrapped your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss, as he walked you back towards the heavy wooden door, pushing you up against it. He traveled from your lips to your neck and placed messy kisses on the sensitive skin, all of the pent-up feelings from the last two years spilling over the edge. 

Your hands left his body momentarily to fumble behind your back, searching for the zipper of your gown under the layers of satin and lace. 

“No,” Michael rasped sharply against your skin, his large hands capturing your wrists and pinning them against the door. “Leave it on.” 

“Michael,” you looked at him quizzically, your eyes wide, “it’s a wedding dress.” 

“I know what it is,” he growled softly, using his teeth to lightly scrape against your collarbone. He lifted his head, a dark, possessive wave crashing through the slight pain in his eyes. He stared at the pristine white satin, the intricate lace covering your arms, and the veil in disarray over your shoulders. “You bought this to belong to someone else. I want to ruin it, so you can never wear it for anyone but me.” 

Driven by two years of loneliness and starvation, Michael’s usually strong restraint shattered completely. He didn’t just touch you; he grabbed at you with the fury of a man about to break. He grabbed the voluminous layers of your skirts and hauled them up around your waist. He dropped to his knees on the hardwood flooring and pried your legs open, placing soft kisses against your inner thighs. He groaned from the back of his throat as he stared at the white lace covering your hot core. 

“Just married,” he read the embroidery with disgust. With one sharp tug, he ripped the fabric from your body and threw it behind him. “Cheap shit anyway.” 

“Michael, it’s made to be ripped off,” you laughed lightly, still in disbelief this was happening. 

“Don’t tell me that,” he mumbled before burying his face in your slick folds. You gasped loudly, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the home, as his tongue licked roughly from your entrance to your throbbing clit. You moaned his name loudly as his tongue worked in circles, your thighs starting to shake. “Already?” You could feel him smile against your skin, the vibrations of his voice making your hips jolt against his face. “Missed me that much?” 

“Please, Michael,” you begged, bracing yourself against the solid wood against your back. 

He responded by slipping two fingers inside of you, curling exactly where he knew to do so. It felt like he hadn’t been away from you for so long; he still knew every inch of your body and exactly how to drive you crazy. He held your dress against your chest, grasping your tits through the many layers of fabric. Desperate for something to hold onto, you laid your hand over his, holding him close. He continued to work under your dress until you couldn’t even say his name; all you could do was moan and whimper. His fingers increased the pressure until you shook violently under his touch, your release dripping down his chin as he rode you through a very strong orgasm. You didn’t know if you had the heart to tell Michael you hadn’t had one since him. 

“Bet he couldn’t do that for you,” Michael chuckled against your skin, placing soft kisses on your sensitive clit and thighs. 

“How did you know?” You asked, breathless. 

“I know you, baby.” 

Before you could catch your breath, Michael stood and kissed you roughly. You could taste yourself on his lips, sweet and salty. He shrugged off his jacket, letting it pool on the ground, and grabbed desperately at his belt. He unlatched it expertly with one hand, opening the button and zipper in one fluid motion. He slipped one large hand under your leg and hiked it up, leaving your core exposed to the cold air. He took himself in his other hand, pumping slowly twice as he looked deeply into your eyes. 

“I need you to know,” he panted, his chin still wet with you. “I never stopped loving you. Letting you walk away was the worst mistake of my life.” 

“I love you, I always have,” you replied, dragging him in for another kiss as he lined himself up. He buried himself into you with one hard and frantic thrust, swallowing your loud moan in another kiss. He groaned into you as he began to move. 

“I missed you; you feel so good,” his voice trembled. “Always so tight and wet. So sweet.” 

“You were right,” you gasped. 

“About what, baby?” 

“He never fucked me like this,” you sighed, rocking your hips to meet his every thrust. 

The admission sent Michael into a frenzy, his thighs slapping against yours, one of his hands on your waist, the other holding your hand high above your head, pinned to the door. The friction of your dress against your skin, his breath against your mouth, and his skin against your most sensitive spots sent you tumbling quickly toward another orgasm. As you squeezed his length, he let out a guttural cry, burying himself as deep as possible, his entire body trembling as he spilled himself inside you. The warmth inside you broke you, and you came all over him for a second time in just a few minutes. You wept his name, dropping your head to his shoulder as the last two years of heartbreak dissolved around you. 

Slowly, he pulled away and gently let your feet fall back to the floor. Your skirts fell from between your bodies, stained and damp. Michael cupped your cheek gently, staring into your eyes with nothing but reverence. “You really do look beautiful,” he whispered. “I hope to see you in a dress like this again someday. But with my ring on your finger.” He pulled your conjoined hands close to his face and slipped the engagement ring off with ease, placing it in his pocket. 

“I’ll do whatever it takes to make this work, Michael,” you said, becoming serious, twirling the curls at the back of his neck between your fingers. 

“Me too, mama. And I’ll do it better,” He smiled, dragging you close by your waist and kissing you again, deeply and sweetly. “Now, I really do want you to take this off,” he whispered against your lips, pulling your sleeves down to kiss your shoulder. “I need to kiss every inch of you. Show you how much I missed you.”

tag list: @sophisanmjlover @1984grmmys @thegirlisminelover @ilyliberiangrl @bevellin777 @screammv @muaddibswift @thrillerpilled @sourshe

At 26, life is mundane. But there was once a time that you were young, wild, and very free. Before you moved to San Francisco, got a job in photography, bought your own house, or met your fiancé Tom; you were a crazy girl living in LA.

Back then you were very familiar with a band called 5 second or summer. Most of all, familiar with Luke Robert Hemmings. It all seems very distant now, but it was once your reality. Taking pictures of them at their concerts, being incorporated into lyrics, sneaking around with Luke. But that all ended when the two of you broke up. It was very messy, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t think about it sometimes. You’ll never forget the day, January 1st of 2018 at 2:00 am. After all, it wasn’t really that long ago.

The two of you had had gone to a new year’s party the night before, one of those parties that’s crawling with industry plants. The band was trying to lay groundwork for their new album after a break, so you thought it was a great idea to do some networking. You didn’t think it was a great idea anymore, however, when Luke got blackout drunk and punched a guy square in the face for talking to you. Usually that would end in an argument and eventually kissing and making up, but his alcohol consumption had been a constant topic recently, and that was your last straw. Your new year started with no midnight kiss and no boyfriend. Sometimes you wish you had stuck it out long and been there for him, but you couldn’t take it. You had problems of your own and didn’t have time to parent your partner.

But that didn’t matter now, because this was a new day that you would never forget. June 15th of 2022, your wedding day. It started in an hour, and your anxiety caused you to be ready entirely too early, so you decided to take this time to pace around the venue. But as you walk around, your mind wonders. Of course you questioned whether you made the right decision saying yes, it’s a bit hard to settle down after dating a pop star for 3 years. But Tom was a good guy, an amazing guy. He made you happy, and things were much calmer than they were with Luke. But that was the problem. Was it too Calm? You had contemplated breaking up with him a while ago, but then impulsively said yes when he surprised you with a proposal. Amazing timing.

You take a deep breath, trying to get your shit together and suck it up before it was time to get married. The air gets stuck in your throat when you see the root of your problems in front of you. Like a savior, a very bad a wrong savior, none other but Luke is standing infront of you in a suite and tie. “I-“ Before you can process anything happening, he says the words. The three little words you couldn’t help but hope you’d hear in his stupid Australian accent. “Don’t marry him.”

You’re frozen in place, shocked as he tells you you look more beautiful than he could’ve ever imagined. You never thought you’d see him again outside of magazines and twitter posts, but here he is. Crashing your wedding, of all things. “How did you even know?” You finally get out, eyes wide. But there’s a twinkle inside them. “Your instagram’s public. And I’m crazy, remember?” He jokes. You look at him in awe for a few more moments, admiring the way he’s aged like wine, before shaking yourself out of the trance. “You had years, 4 years. And you show up on my wedding day? This is crazy Luke! The last time we talked you punched a guy in the face.”

He knows it’s crazy, you can see it on his face. But you can also see the hope in his eyes. Like he knows you’ll come with him no matter. And that bothers you, because it’s true. “I was jealous.” He jokes pathetically. But after a few moments he gets serious, like he suddenly realizes the weight of the situation. “I know, I know it’s crazy! But so is this!” He speaks with urgency, pulling at the wedding dress on your body. “I’ve changed, I’m sober now. I can treat you right. You’re 25 Y/N! And you’re getting married to…some guy? If you must get married, let it be me.”

You swear you’re about to faint as you watch him kneel in front of you, looking up at you like a puppy. “Please get up.” You beg, sighing as he shakes his head no and grabs onto the sides of your dress. “I love you. I never stopped loving you. Run away with me. Please.” He pleads, the end coming out so quietly you think it was an inside thought. And then he pulls it out of his pocket, a beautiful ring. It is indeed bigger than the one currently on your finger, by quite a bit.

You slap your hands over your mouth, in utter disbelief. “Oh my god. Oh my god this is so bad.” Your words come out in a panicked whisper as you freak out. Running away from your wedding is unforgivable, but it feels so right. “You mean it?” You ask slowly, your face painted with nerves. He nods at the speed of light, holding up the ring with a smile. You take a deep breath, looking down at the one already on your finger. You slide it off, tossing it into the distance. “Okay.” One hand holds your thumbnail between your teeth and the other drops to Luke. He slides the ring onto your finger before standing to his feet and picking you up, spinning you around. His embrace is enough to make you cry, something you’d forgotten how much you loved.

He grabs hold of your hand and the two of you run away, holding your heels for you as you jog through a field. In this moment, adrenaline pumping through your veins and love pumping through your heart, you’ve never felt happier. You’re young again, and wild and free. And you’re with Luke. Deep down, you’d always known this is how it was meant to be. Your future seemed bland without him in it, because he was the light of your life. And you were his. “This is literally crazy!” You shout with a laugh, running so fast your feet can’t keep up. “Slow down, we’re far enough now! Are you that excited to get away?” He teases from behind you. You slow to a stop, turning around with a smile.

The two of you catch your breath for a moment before erupting into laughter. “Where will I stay!” “In my bed, of course.” He answers in a heartbeat. “What about my things?!” There’s no room for any real worry through all the giggles. “I’ll buy you new things.” He whispers, stepping closer. The distance between you closes as he tosses your shoes away and wraps his arms around your waist. You grab his face and kiss him, the feeling making your whole body erupt into flames. “Let’s elope.” You whisper against his lips, matching his crazy. “We can go to city hall. Are you free tomorrow?” You can feel his smile. “Of course. You cant crash a wedding if you have work in the morning.”