Chapter 4
I started having the same nightmare over and over.
In my dreams, it wasn’t me standing next to Ryder.
It was Vivian-someone who could actually match his brilliance, speak his language, keep up with his mind.
No matter how fast I ran, I could never catch up.
No matter how loud I screamed his name, he never turned around…
Maybe he picked up on my mood lately, because one night after we’d hooked up, Ryder pulled me against his chest:
“Hey, things are pretty chill at work right now. Want to finally have that wedding?”
“I could take some time off afterward and we’ll do a real honeymoon. What do you think?”
And just like that, I melted.
rurns out planning a wedding is insanely complicated, even with a coordinator handling the big stuff.
I stressed over every tiny detail-the centerpieces, the playlist, my bouquet.
This was my one shot at the perfect day.
I pulled multiple all-nighters just designing our wedding favors, obsessing over them more than I had my college portfolio.
When I bounced into our bedroom with the final mockups, Ryder barely looked up from his MacBook:
‘Cool, they look great.”
I held up both versions, genuinely torn: “I seriously can’t choose. This one fits more candy, but this one’s classier…”
Ryder was grinning at something on his phone while half-listening: “Whatever you like better.”
The excitement just drained out of me.
When I went silent, Ryder snapped his laptop shut and tugged me onto his lap. “Sorry babe, you were saying?”
I plastered on a smile: “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
A week before the wedding, I stopped by his office with sandwiches from that deli he likes.
On my way home, the wedding coordinator called about some ceremony timing issue that needed an immediate decision.
I couldn’t choose and Ryder’s phone went straight to voicemail, so I headed back to his building.
That’s when I saw him through the glass door, casually scraping my homemade soup into the trash.
Vivian was perched on his desk, giving him shit: “You’re terrible. Your wife makes you lunch every day and you just waste it?”
He sounded defensive, but not actually sorry: “What was I supposed to do? We’ve been in meetings for three hours-it was stone cold.”
“Fine, fine, I’ll buy you real food. What sounds good?”
Ryder carefully rearranged the empty containers in the bag, like he’d perfected this routine.
Then he rubbed his face and sighed: “She just… cares so much about everything. Sometimes it feels suffocating, you know?”
Suddenly, I swear I could smell that sour garbage stench seeping through the walls.
My stomach flipped and I bolted.
