Three days had passed since I'd walked away from my own wedding, leaving behind a blood-stained runner and two hundred stunned guests. Three days of ignoring calls, sleeping in a hotel bed that felt both too empty and too vast, and staring at the ceiling as I replayed six years of choices that had led to that moment.
I hadn't cried. Not once. The numbness that had settled over me at the vineyard remained, a protective frost coating every emotion.
The knock at my apartment door came just after four in the afternoon. I'd only returned to collect some clothes, having avoided the place Blake and I had shared for years. I cinched the hotel robe tighter around my waist and peered through the peephole.
Blake.
He stood in the hallway clutching a bouquet of deep red roses—my favorite. His hair was disheveled, dark circles shadowing his eyes. For a moment, I considered pretending I wasn't home.
Instead, I opened the door and stood silently, the threshold between us more significant than mere wood and concrete.
"Vivian." My name came out like a prayer from his lips. "Can I come in? Please?"
I stepped aside without a word, watching as he entered the apartment we'd decorated together, chosen together, lived in together. Now it felt like a museum of a relationship that no longer existed.
"These are for you," he said, extending the roses. When I made no move to take them, he placed them on the coffee table, the crimson petals vibrant against the white surface.
"How is she?" The question surprised even me, my voice flat and unfamiliar.
"Stable." Blake ran a hand through his hair—his tell when he was stressed or lying. "The doctors say she'll be fine physically, but her mental state is..." He trailed off, eyes pleading for understanding. "Viv, you have to know I had no choice. She could have died."
I moved to the living room window, looking out at the San Francisco skyline that had witnessed so many of our happiest moments. And our worst.
"Our third date," I began, my back to him. "You left me at Pescatore because Rachel called saying she'd taken too many sleeping pills. Our first anniversary—you missed it entirely because she locked herself in her bathroom threatening self-harm. The trip to Maui we'd planned for six months? Canceled when Rachel had a 'breakdown' the night before our flight."
I turned to face him, the inventory of betrayals spilling from me with clinical precision.
"My birthday dinner last year. Your company's holiday party. The weekend we were supposed to look at wedding venues. The night I got the promotion I'd worked three years for." My voice remained steady, each example another brick in the wall I was building between us. "Every single time, Blake. Every time something important happened for us, Rachel had a crisis."
"That's not fair," he protested, taking a step toward me. "She's sick, Vivian. She has been since her parents died. You know that."
"What I know," I replied, "is that I've spent six years competing with a ghost. Six years being told that my feelings, my needs, my heartbreak was just jealousy. Six years watching you run to her while I stood alone."
Blake's eyes glistened with tears. "I love you, Viv. I've always loved you. But Rachel needs—"
"Don't." The word sliced through the air between us. "Don't tell me what Rachel needs. Not anymore."
He moved closer, reaching for my hands. "We can fix this. We can postpone the wedding, get Rachel the help she needs, and then—"
The sharp buzz of his phone cut through his promises. The custom ringtone—Coldplay's "Fix You"—that he'd assigned to Rachel years ago filled the silence between us.
Blake froze, his hand hovering over his pocket. His eyes met mine, torn between answering and proving my point.
I smiled without warmth. "Go to her. You always do."
His phone continued to buzz, insistent as a heartbeat. I watched the familiar struggle play across his features—the guilt, the obligation, the misplaced sense of duty.
"Vivian, please—" he began, but his fingers were already moving toward the phone.
And in that moment, with sunlight streaming through the windows and the scent of roses filling the air, I realized that some patterns would never change. Some choices were made long before a question was ever asked.
