Page 2 of Shattered

She pulled back, studying me with that artist’s eye that had taught me to see color and light and shadow.

“You’re sure about this?” she asked suddenly. “About Jake?”

The question landed wrong, hit something tender I’d been trying to ignore all morning.

“Mom—”

“Because you don't have to do anything you're not sure about. Not for anyone." Her hands tightened on my arms. "You understand?"

“I'm sure." I paused. "I love him."

That part was true. I did love him. Had loved him through five years of off-and-on, through work obsessions and commitment fears and his tendency to vanish into the company when things got too real.

We'd broken up twice. Once because he couldn't balance a relationship with building his startup. Once because his parents' divorce convinced him marriage destroyed everything it touched.

But we'd worked through it—the storms, the doubts, the moments when I'd been certain he'd never choose me over his career. We’d fought and talked and fought some more until we’d landed here—at this wedding, this moment, this future we’d built together.

It hadn’t been perfect. But we’d made it work. We’d chosen each other despite everything.

That was what mattered, right? That we’d gotten here at all?

“Okay.” Mom kissed my forehead, and I breathed in her perfume—the same one she’d worn my entire life. “Then let’s get you married.”

Sarah handed me my bouquet—white peonies and eucalyptus, simple and elegant because I’d never been the type who wanted elaborate arrangements. My hands felt numb holding it, like they belonged to someone else.

The coordinator appeared in the doorway, headset on, clipboard clutched like a weapon. “Five minutes. Everyone ready?”

I nodded. We proceeded toward the church entrance—me, Sarah, my mother, two bridesmaids who were my friends from college, already crying happy tears. Through the closed doors, music swelled—some string quartet version of a song Jake said reminded him of the night we met.

I stood in the vestibule, listening to three hundred people settling into their seats, whispering and laughing and waiting to watch me marry the man I loved. My hands were slick against the stems. My heart was beating too fast. Just nerves, I told myself. Normal anxiety before walking down an aisle in front of everyone I'd ever known.

But something felt wrong. Had felt wrong all morning. I'd kept pushing it down, telling myself it was just wedding day jitters.

My phone buzzed in Sarah’s clutch.

"Probably just good luck texts,” Sarah said, already reaching for it.

Her face did something complicated—surprise, concern, then that careful mask people wear when delivering bad news.

My stomach dropped. “What?”

“Nothing. Just—” She fumbled, shoving the phone back into the clutch.

“Sarah.”

“Delia, let’s just?—”

The officiant appeared in the vestibule, flustered, making a beeline for my brother Daniel. They spoke in urgent whispers, the officiant’s hands moving in agitated gestures, Daniel’s face doing that thing where it went completely serious.

I knew that expression. The one he wore when he was in doctor-mode, delivering devastating news to parents in the ICU.

“Daniel?” I called out, my voice small with anxiety.

He turned, and I saw him make a decision. He was deciding what to tell me and what to hold back for just a few more seconds.

My phone buzzed again. And again.

“Sarah, give me my phone.”