Chapter 7: The Bride Who Never Arrived

On the morning of the wedding, Lachlan pulled up to the hotel and checked the room number again.

“302. That’s right, isn’t it?”

Cleo nodded. “I forwarded her the confirmation email. It’s close to your place and the venue. I put a lot of thought into it.”

Rhys came over, camera slung over his shoulder.

“You two are cutting it close,” he said. “The photographer wants the groom at the venue by ten.”

Lachlan glanced at his watch and frowned.

“Zinnia should already be dressed.”

He knocked twice.

No answer.

Cleo shifted the garment bag hanging from her arm. She was wearing a pale champagne dress that looked suspiciously close to ivory, although no one seemed interested in pointing that out.

“Maybe she's in the shower,” she said.

Lachlan knocked again, harder this time.

“Zinnia?”

Silence.

His expression tightened.

He took out his phone and called me.

The call went straight to voicemail.

He tried again.

Same result.

Rhys leaned against the opposite wall. “She's probably downstairs getting coffee or something.”

“Without her phone?” Lachlan asked.

Cleo laughed softly. “You know Zinnia. She gets nervous and disappears whenever things get overwhelming.”

Lachlan didn't laugh.

For the first time that morning, something uncomfortable moved across his face.

He walked to the front desk and asked someone to open room 302.

The hotel manager hesitated until Lachlan showed him the reservation confirmation and explained that the room had been booked for his bride.

A staff member finally came upstairs with a master key.

The lock clicked.

The door opened.

The room was empty.

The bed had never been slept in.

The towels were folded exactly as housekeeping had left them. The complimentary bottles of water stood untouched on the desk. Even the little paper band around the television remote was still sealed.

There was no wedding dress.

No makeup.

No suitcase.

No Zinnia.

Lachlan stood in the doorway without moving.

“She didn't stay here last night,” the employee said.

Cleo blinked. “That's impossible. I sent her everything.”

The employee checked his tablet.

“Ms. Vitale never checked in.”

A strange silence settled over the hallway.

Rhys was the first to break it.

“Maybe she stayed at the Staten Island house.”

Lachlan immediately called Zio Marco.

He answered on the fourth ring.

“Marco, is Zinnia there?”

There was a pause.

“No.”

Lachlan's jaw tightened. “Did she leave this morning?”

Another pause.

“She left yesterday.”

“For the hotel?”

“I assumed so.”

Lachlan looked into the untouched room.

“She never checked in.”

For several seconds, no one said anything.

Then Zio Marco asked, “What do you mean she never checked in?”

Cleo stepped closer. “Maybe she changed hotels. You know how particular she gets when she's stressed.”

Lachlan turned sharply toward her.

“Particular?”

She seemed surprised by his tone.

“I just mean maybe she didn't like the room.”

The room she had chosen for me.

Like the entrance music she had chosen.

Like the makeup team.

Like the invitation design.

Like the curtains in the home I was supposedly going to share with my husband.

Only I wasn't there to point any of that out.

I was already sitting beside a departure gate at John F. Kennedy International Airport.

My suitcase rested against my knee.

On the screen above me, my flight was marked ON TIME.

Boston.

It wasn't glamorous.

It wasn't some dramatic escape to Paris or Rome.

It was simply where my life was going next.

Three months earlier, a former instructor from cosmetology school had contacted me about a position with Belladonna Beauty Group, a growing bridal beauty company opening a Boston training studio.

They needed someone who understood both bridal styling and operations.

I had almost laughed when she suggested me.

I had spent years believing I wasn't ambitious.

That was what everyone said.

Cleo was ambitious.

Cleo was outgoing.

Cleo knew what she wanted.

Zinnia was dependable.

Zinnia was easy.

Zinnia could adjust.

But I'd been the one working weekends through cosmetology school.

I'd been the one managing schedules when our salon manager was hospitalized.

I'd been the one clients requested because I remembered which foundation irritated their skin and which brides needed ten quiet minutes before walking down the aisle.

The Boston offer came with a salary nearly forty percent higher than what I made in Queens.

They would pay part of my relocation costs.

And after six months, if the studio performed well, I would be eligible to become assistant training director.

I'd turned it down.

Because I was getting married.

Because Lachlan's company was in Manhattan.

Because the apartment was ready.

Because our future was supposedly here.

Two nights ago, after he drove away without me, I'd emailed my old instructor.

I hadn't expected an answer until morning.

She called me twenty minutes later.

“Is this a hypothetical question,” she'd asked, “or are you finally asking whether the position is still yours?”

I had stared at the empty road where Lachlan's BMW had disappeared.

“If it's still available, I want it.”

“When can you start?”

I looked down at the suitcase beside me.

“Monday.”

She was silent for a second.

“Zinnia, isn't your wedding Sunday?”

“Not anymore.”

She didn't ask for gossip.

She didn't tell me to think carefully.

She only said, “Then I'll have HR send the contract tonight.”

I signed it before going to sleep.

Now it was Sunday morning.

My wedding ceremony was scheduled for eleven thirty.

My flight boarded at ten forty-five.

I had deliberately chosen an ordinary seat in economy.

No grand gesture.

No revenge dress.

No social media announcement.

I hadn't even canceled the ceremony.

That might sound cruel.

But the truth was, almost nothing about the wedding required me anymore.

Cleo had changed the music.

Cleo had arranged the makeup.

Cleo had chosen details with the planner.

Cleo had modeled beside my fiancé in photographs that were supposed to advertise our wedding vendors.

Lachlan had approved everything.

They had spent weeks proving the wedding could continue perfectly well without my opinion.

Today, they could discover whether it could continue without me.

My phone vibrated.

I had turned it back on only because the airline app required verification.

Thirty-two missed calls.

Nine from Lachlan.

Seven from Cleo.

Four from Rhys.

The rest were relatives, vendors, and numbers I didn't recognize.

The wedding group chat had exploded.

Lachlan: “Where are you?”

Lachlan: “Zinnia, answer your phone.”

Cleo: “Everyone is waiting. This isn't funny.”

Rhys: “Z, seriously, where are you?”

Wedding planner: “Hi Zinnia, we're having difficulty locating you. Please contact me ASAP.”

Then another message from Cleo appeared.

“If you're upset about something, can we deal with it after the ceremony? There are almost two hundred guests here.”

I stared at that message longer than the others.

After the ceremony.

Of course.

My feelings could wait.

They always could.

A new message appeared from Lachlan.

“Whatever this is about, stop. You're embarrassing both families.”

I almost smiled.

Not because it was funny.

Because somehow, even now, he still didn't ask whether I was okay.

He didn't ask why I had disappeared.

He didn't ask what he'd done.

His first concern was that I was embarrassing everyone.

I opened our private chat.

For several seconds, my fingers hovered over the keyboard.

There were so many things I could have written.

I could have listed every time he'd left dinner because Cleo needed him.

Every plan he'd changed.

Every opinion of mine he'd dismissed.

Every moment when he'd called my silence maturity because it made his life easier.

I could have reminded him about the song.

The dress fitting.

Rockaway Beach.

The apartment.

The ride he'd forgotten.

But explaining myself had become another form of work.

I was tired of working for a relationship that required almost nothing from him.

So I typed only:

“I'm not coming.”

The typing bubble appeared immediately.

Then disappeared.

Then appeared again.

My phone rang.

I declined it.

A message arrived.

“What do you mean you're not coming?”

I didn't answer.

Another.

“Zinnia, we're getting married today.”

I looked through the airport windows at a plane rolling slowly toward the runway.

Then I typed:

“No. You planned a wedding today. That's not the same thing.”

Back at the hotel, Lachlan stared at my message until the words blurred.

Cleo was talking beside him.

Rhys was asking something.

The planner had called twice.

But for once, Lachlan didn't hear any of them.

No.

You planned a wedding today.

That's not the same thing.

His eyes moved toward Cleo.

Her champagne dress.

Her professionally curled hair.

Her freshly manicured nails.

Then toward Rhys's camera.

For the first time, perhaps, he remembered the bridal boutique.

Cleo in front of the mirror.

His own hands adjusting the bow at her waist.

Rhys taking photographs.

And Zinnia...

Where had Zinnia been?

He tried to remember.

She'd been there when they arrived.

Hadn't she?

He remembered her holding a dress bag.

Then...

Nothing.

He couldn't remember watching her leave.

He couldn't remember asking where she'd gone.

His stomach tightened.

“Lachlan?” Cleo touched his arm. “What did she say?”

He pulled his arm away without thinking.

Cleo's expression changed.

It was such a small movement.

But it was the first time in years that Lachlan had instinctively created distance between them.

“She's not coming.”

Rhys lowered his camera.

“What?”

“She said she's not coming.”

Cleo's face went pale.

Then almost immediately, irritation replaced shock.

“She's doing this now? On the wedding day?”

Lachlan looked at her.

“Did she tell you she was unhappy?”

Cleo blinked.

“What?”

“Did Zinnia say anything to you?”

“She says things all the time. She was upset about the apartment, but you know how she is. She gets quiet and then gets over it.”

Gets over it.

The words landed strangely.

Lachlan suddenly remembered the first time I'd complained about Cleo interrupting one of our dates.

He'd kissed my forehead and told me not to be jealous.

I had gone quiet.

The next day, I behaved normally.

So he assumed I'd gotten over it.

Then the time Cleo joined our anniversary dinner because she'd had a bad day.

I had gone quiet.

Then normal.

The vacation Cleo wanted to join.

The birthday dinner Lachlan left early.

The engagement photos Cleo criticized.

The wedding music.

The apartment.

Again and again, I had gone quiet.

And every time, he had interpreted my silence as forgiveness.

He had never considered that silence might be accumulation.

His phone rang.

The wedding planner.

“Mr. Kerr, guests are beginning to arrive. We need to know whether the ceremony is delayed.”

Lachlan looked at the clock.

10:42 a.m.

At JFK, boarding began.

I stood and pulled the handle from my suitcase.

My phone rang again.

Lachlan.

I watched his name fill the screen.

Once, seeing it would have made my heart jump.

Even three days ago, I might have answered.

Today, I pressed the side button and silenced it.

“Group three may now board,” the gate agent announced.

That was me.

I joined the line.

My phone vibrated one final time.

This time the message was different.

“Zinnia, please. Just tell me where you are.”

I looked at it.

Then I opened my settings.

For years, Lachlan had always known where I was.

Not because he checked.

Because I told him.

I told him when I got to work.

I told him when I drove home.

I reminded him about appointments.

I sent him restaurant addresses.

I adjusted my schedule around his.

I made myself easy to find.

He had simply never noticed how much effort that required.

I blocked his number.

Then Cleo's.

Then Rhys's.

When I reached the gate agent, she scanned my boarding pass.

“Boston?” she asked with a smile.

I nodded.

“Starting a trip?”

I glanced once at the phone in my hand.

The screen was finally quiet.

“Starting something,” I said.

She handed back my boarding pass.

I walked down the jet bridge without looking behind me.

At eleven thirty, the time I was supposed to walk down the aisle, my plane lifted above New York.

Below me, somewhere beyond the clouds, two hundred people were waiting for a bride who would never arrive.

For the first time in my life, I wasn't worried about disappointing them.

I leaned my head against the window and closed my eyes.

The seat beside me was empty.

Strangely, I had never felt less alone.