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The bridal suite feels inhospitable and sterile, almost like a surgical suite if a surgical suite was to be furnished in various shades of beige.
It's impeccably clean, Samira will give them that. The plush carpet is spotless and there's not a speck of dust on any of the surfaces, no smudges on the mirror she's staring into. Not a single standout flaw anywhere in her vicinity. However, even though Samira has little to no interest in interior decorating, she knows that a room such as this one is supposed to be a place of joy, of celebration, of love, and she figures the design should reflect that, not make her feel like she's standing in the lobby of a corporate law firm.
It didn't feel this way when she and Owen viewed the place a few months ago. Back then it seemed a little modern, sure, but it was easy to imagine it full of laughter from their loved ones bustling around getting ready on the morning of their cozy winter wedding. But turns out the fireplace is electric and it doesn't even produce any heat, the LED flames just for show, and instead of snowflakes falling outside the window there's rain coming down in sheets, howling gusts of wind audible through the glass. It couldn't be further from cozy.
Samira glances again at the clock on the wall. It's one of those minimalist ones with no face, no numbers, just the plastic hands ticking away mechanically, and while this makes it hard to know for sure how long it's been since she last checked, she can tell they've barely moved. Still just under an hour to go. Her heart starts to beat quicker, but not for the reasons one might expect a bride to get the jitters before walking down the aisle.
She breathes in, holds it, a hand on her stomach in an attempt to self-soothe. None of it works. Since she's alone, she makes no attempt to hide the shakiness of the exhale.
To be fair to her bridal party, it's not their fault that she's going through this by herself. Right after the photographer stepped out to get some shots of the reception area, Samira had asked those left in the room for a few minutes alone — just to take it all in, she explained, the request delivered with a smile she could only hope was convincing. Really, she was trying to stave off a panic attack and needed some peace and quiet in which to do her breathing exercises.
It hasn't been working all that well.
Just as she's about to pick up the phone to order some champagne in the hope that it'll give her some liquid courage, she's startled by someone knocking at the door. It sounds nervous. Can a knock even sound nervous? She didn't think it could, yet this one does.
Her few minutes of quiet reflection must be up. Someone's here to take her away.
"Come in!" Samira calls out after summoning the last reserves of her bravery, and the door behind her slowly opens.
She turns, expecting to see a familiar face — her mother, maybe, looking to take some more photos, or Cassie coming to help her put on the rest of her jewellery — but it's one of the venue staff that greets her, hovering awkwardly at the threshold, glasses pushed up her forehead. The woman holds a clipboard to her chest like it's a shield. She refuses to meet Samira's eye, staring down at the carpet instead. She doesn't close the door behind her, she just steps around it, and when she moves Samira can see a flash of a silver nametage bearing the name Marie. Samira doesn't think she has met this woman before.
A long pause follows. The sound of the clock grows even louder, more grating. How the hell is anybody supposed to be able to think in here, let alone sleep? This is supposed to be where she spends her wedding night — is she going to spend the entire time cursing that fucking clock?
"Is everything okay?" Samira finally asks, seeing no information forthcoming. From the anxious look on the woman's face, it must be bad news. Could there have been some sort of disaster in the reception area — a flood or electrical fire or something? Or maybe Owen got cold feet. Honestly, Samira wouldn't be that surprised, not since that conversation last week where he —
Wait, but why would a member of staff be the one to break that news to her? Surely that would be something she should hear from someone she loves: her mom, Cassie, her cousin, or even one of Owen's sisters?
So, she decides to hold off before jumping to conclusions, her pulse hammering in her neck as she awaits her answer.
"There's someone here to see you," Marie says with great effort, failing to hide her pained expression.
Samira can't help but feel sorry for this reluctant messenger who appears to be waiting for a hole in the ground to open and swallow her up. Someone has undoubtedly put her up to this.
"Is it a vendor?" Samira asks. "Or a guest?"
Marie sucks in a breath. "… he has an invitation."
What a strange way to answer.
"You can send them in," Samira says anyway. Must be one of her cousins from her mom's side, irritated that they didn't get a plus one. Or maybe it's someone who needs to leave early and is sending their apologies. Whatever it is, it can't be as catastrophic as the thoughts running through her head.
While Samira waits, she turns back to the mirror. In its reflection she sees herself properly, looking objectively beautiful in her saree of crimson silk, golden threads catching in the light, a spectacular necklace around her throat so ornate she's hesitant to touch it in case it falls apart in her hands. She looks like a bride, in all but one aspect …
Aren't brides supposed to look happy?
Instead of answering that painful question, she spins around again, having heard the footsteps approaching this time.
The door opens and Marie steps in, followed immediately by Jack Abbot.
This time, the door closes behind them.
Samira looks at Jack like a ghost has just walked into her bridal suite.
Jack looks at Samira like he's finally been able to get his head above water after hours of struggling, desperately treading water to stay afloat. Like the sight of her allows oxygen back into his lungs.
Marie looks at them both with a deep divot forming between her brows, like she's thinking this whole thing might end up getting her fired.
Jack is wearing a grey sweater and some cargos, not a suit, which explains Marie's uncertainty as to his status as a guest. His curls are damp and there are patches on his shoulders from the rain. He must have walked here, or at least most of the way.
Up until this very second Samira had been sure he wasn't coming, and with good reason — had RSVP'd no three months ago. She vividly remembers having to throw the card away afterwards because one of her tears had landed right on the 'X' next to "regretfully declines", making the ink bleed. She had lied to Owen that it must've gone missing in the mail, but not to worry, Jack had already mentioned to her that he wasn't able to make it. What a shame! Yeah, no, he said something about having to work. Right, what a pity!
Jack had clearly kept the rest of the invitation. It's clutched in his hands right now, no doubt the tool he used to talk his way back here.
"Thanks, Marie," Jack says softly, to which the staff member's lips tighten into a thin line. Her eyes finally meet Samira's, looking as though she's trying to telepathically ask her if allowing him back here was the right thing to do.
"Could we get a minute?" Samira asks Marie then, plastering a smile on her face in an attempt to regain her composure.
A hasty nod follows.
"And if someone comes …?" Marie starts but doesn't finish the question, seemingly wishing for it to remain none of her business.
"That's fine. If you could just have them knock first, that'd be great." And Samira can only hope there's no hidden implication in that.
She has nothing to hide, not really. She just doesn't particularly love the idea of someone walking in to see her in a private audience with her former lover, forty-five minutes before she's supposed to marry another man.
The door closes again, leaving Jack and Samira alone.
Jack doesn't move, doesn't budge from where he's standing, apparently leaving the ball in Samira's court — that's asking a lot, isn't it, when he's the one crashing a wedding?
It's starting to get too much. This is all so, so much for one person to handle. Samira's hand hovers at her stomach again and she's blinking quickly, suddenly lightheaded. Jack steps forward when he sees these signs — this isn't the first panic attack of hers he's witnessed, he knows what to do — arms outstretched to help her sit down, but before he can reach her she gestures to show that she's fine; she can lower herself into the nearby loveseat. She does just that, and continues to stare at him until her breathing reaches a rate at which she can speak.
There's no other question to ask bar the most glaring, obvious one.
"What are you doing here?" Samira tries so hard to keep emotion from seeping into the words that it has the opposite effect, the question sounding flat and impassive. She averts her gaze to the so-called fireplace and once again wishes it could actually warm her.
Jack just shrugs. "I could ask you the same thing."
"Don't make jokes now," she retorts with a shake of her head, but again it doesn't land as intended. This time it just makes her sound miserable, wounded, like she's pleading with him not to add to what she's already dealing with.
She glances back to him, hoping she won't see pity in his eyes, but all she sees is sadness.
"You know I'm not joking," he replies softly, still holding onto the invitation, and when Samira's eyes drift down to it she sees that he's not wearing his own wedding ring. His hand looks so bare without it she's surprised it wasn't the first thing she noticed when he walked in.
Then, more silence. Outside the window, the rainfall starts to slow into a soft drizzle.
The situation is starting to feel more real now. Adrenaline still courses through her veins but she's able to process it somewhat, the understanding of what Jack is about to tell her.
"You need to say it." She speaks quietly, still looking him in the eye. "Whatever you came here to say … I mean, there's not exactly a lot of time left, Jack."
It feels like calling his bluff, except for the fact that Samira knows he wouldn't have come all this way if he wasn't sure about what he's about to do, would never dream of disrupting her chance at happiness if he thought it was genuine.
Thankfully, he doesn't wait much longer. He looks at her in a way that could only be described as stricken, and says —
"Please don't marry him."
Samira's first instinct is to open her mouth, ready for one of those clichéd, romcom-esque responses to spill from her lips.
You waited until now to tell me this?
You had your chance, Jack, what makes you think it would work now?
Or even the classic, what the hell are you talking about?
But nothing comes out, because none of those questions really make sense in this situation.
She can't ask Jack why he waited until now to tell her, because that part was pretty much out of his control. Samira blocked his number last week after leaving him an impulsive and poorly thought-through voicemail, too fearful of the reality check his reply would bring, which meant he had no way of contacting her since neither of them were big on social media. She had taken the week off work to prepare for the wedding, which meant she wasn't reachable by her email either, nor could he run into her at the hospital. She and Owen had recently moved so Jack didn't have her new address.
Really, this is the only place he knew she'd be. He had the date, time, and location printed in ink.
That brings her to the second of her hypothetical questions — had she and Jack really missed their chance to make it work? It feels like something you're supposed to know for sure, but there's too much grey in there for any clear answer.
It had started and ended all within her senior year of residency. With Samira transferring to the night shift in the fall, she and Jack ended up spending increasingly more time together. Before long they were in each other's company more often than they were apart, working in tandem like a well-oiled machine; quickly they grew close, then inseparable. Cue months and months of tension, of "is he really staring at me, or am I imagining things?", of stolen moments on the rooftop sharing coffee and watching the sunrise emerging over the skyline, of "incredible work, Samira" written in the margins of the papers she asked him to proofread, of her touching his arm instinctively every time he made her laugh (which was surprisngly often).
Then one morning Jack offered her a ride back to her place when her bus didn't show, and they were both done for.
Things burned hot and fast all through spring. They told nobody, obviously, because it wasn't anything serious, and certainly not serious enough to merit going through the whole HR process. It was just fun and thrilling in a way neither of them had experienced before, and at the start, at least, it was a relief not to think about the long-term consequences.
They went home together after nearly every shift, usually staying at Jack's since it was closer to work. He made her breakfast before they collapsed into bed. Several days could be spent like that, just lounging around the house. They debated often but never fought. Samira got him a Springsteen vinyl for his birthday and he always had it playing when they shared meals at his kitchen island. They went to the aquarium, to galleries. They would try to watch movies together on Jack's couch but these inevitably ended with Samira dozing off on his shoulder.
He fell in love with her, and she with him. They never said it out loud but it became painfully clear by the time summer arrived. Jack's sister was getting married in July and he had a plus one for the wedding, but the topic of attending together was danced around whenever it came up. Although the idea of Jack taking someone else as his date made Samira physically nauseous, Robby and Dana were going to be there as well, and so this would be the big declaration of their relationship. With it would come all that messy, complicated stuff.
Samira was in a particularly difficult situation — still a resident, but about to enter the period of time that would set the tone for her future career. Being the topic of gossip around the hospital, even if she told herself she didn't care, would not be a good start.
And Jack was still wearing his wedding ring back then. Samira didn't begrudge him that, not for one second, but it did serve as a reminder that they were in two different places and that this wouldn't be anything long-lasting.
So, two weeks before his sister's wedding, they went their separate ways. It was mutual, one of those break-ups where you can't really be mad at the other person, but to Samira this actually felt worse than being wronged; at least if you're hurt by someone you have some outlet for all of that emotion, you can shit-talk them with your friends and roll your eyes behind their back. But because things between them were civil and there was still that mutual respect and understanding, there was no catharthis, no distance, and spending so much time together at work was a constant tiny agony, like a paper cut that never healed. It started to sting every time he made her laugh.
Not to mention that, after all that, she never found out who he ended up taking as his date to the wedding.
Samira eventually met Owen on this app Cassie recommended. She never felt guilty about him being a rebound because she'd been upfront about that fact from minute one. He never seemed to mind, telling her he enjoyed her company and they'd see where things went, and while his nonchalance had been a relief at first, what Samira now realises is that he just doesn't place much value on the emotional side of their relationship. He could probably go days without speaking to her and wouldn't care, so long as he could bring her with him to work events.
It's funny, really — if she met Owen when she was twenty-five, he might've been her perfect match. Low maintenance in the extreme. But now she thinks that being in love might have changed something in her brain chemistry and left behind a void that can't be filled. She remembers how just looking at Jack made her feel at peace, the reassurance that came with knowing it was the same for him too. She hasn't felt anything like it since.
A reasonable observer might wonder why she's about to marry Owen if she knows she doesn't love him, and the answer to that question is simple: he doesn't really love her either. He likes her, that much is clear; living together is easy, he is always polite when hanging out with her friends, and doesn't show any signs of judgement whenever Samira is venting about the stresses of her day. He is not a bad person. They're just not in love.
So, Samira accepted his proposal because, from an objective standpoint, it made sense to do so. If she wasn't going to be with Jack then she didn't see the point of re-entering the dating pool time and time again, and Owen's partnership at least provided her with something. Most people would be aggrieved with Samira working so much, but in this case, it seems to be what keeps their relationship together.
Now, with Jack standing before her, a look on his face like he'd give her the beating heart from his chest if she asked for it, she starts to see it never made much sense at all.
Which brings her to the third and final hypothetical question — what the hell is Jack really talking about here?
"What do you mean 'don't marry him?" she finally asks, fidgeting with one of the bracelets around her wrist. "What are you actually asking me right now?"
Are you asking me to marry you?
Jack sets the invitation down on the nearest surface, his hands shifting by his sides like he doesn't know what to do with them. It reminds Samira of this moment they shared right before they ended things, the split-second where she thought he might have changed his mind about the break-up. She has the same internal reaction now as she did then; a frankly embarrassing rush of hope.
"I'm asking if you meant what you said in your voicemail," he says.
"Is that all you're asking me?"
"No, it's not," he shakes his head. "But I need to know first."
If she wanted to, she could lie. She could say she doesn't remember any of it, that she was too drunk for her words to have registered. Instead Samira bites her lower lip as she's transported back to last week, to the event just hours before that fated phone call.
She and Owen were spending the evening on the couch watching this silly procedural they'd been keeping up with since they first started dating. It's our show, Owen would joke to his friends, we never miss an episode! But now — and for the last several months — he spent most of the runtime on his phone, just hmming in response whenever Samira made an observation as to what was happening on screen.
Samira was about to speak up to ask if he was looking forward to their honeymoon when she noticed that he was barely picking at the takeout she'd ordered for them.
"I thought it was your favorite."
"It was," he answered, not lifting his eyes up from his device. "Not anymore, though, think they changed the recipe. Oh, and by the way, before I forget — my company are transferring me to Portland in February."
Samira had to pause the TV right as one of the fictional firefighters escaped the blaze they had been battling for half an hour. "What?"
Owen lifted his head to give her an unimpressed look, like he was already annoyed that she was making a big deal about this. "I told you it was a possibility."
Samira just stared at him blankly. He knew about this all day and hadn't told her, just tacked on that piece of information like an afterthought. It filled her with a horrible, creeping sense of dread.
"You said it was an offer that might be made down the line," she said, setting the food down onto the coffee table so they could have a proper discussion. "Not that you would be definitely transferring in six weeks' time."
"Right, well," Owen shrugged. He set his phone down on his lap like doing so was an olive branch, a grand gesture that this conversation was worthy of his attention. "It happened. Are you coming with me?"
"We'll be married next week, Owen."
"So that's a yes," he shrugged, as if that was the end of it.
Samira genuinely couldn't believe what she was hearing. "What? No! What about my fellowship? I'm barely halfway through. There's no pausing it, especially if we don't know how long you'll be there."
That did little to convince him. "You can always start a new one, right?"
Rage took over from shock as the strongest emotion coursing through Samira's body. It was one thing for him not to sweat about the little stuff; it was another entirely for him not to care about anything, including pretty much everything that mattered to his fiancée.
"Are you serious? All my research is tied to the hospital, Owen, I can't just up and leave."
Then, in a condescending tone she'd never heard from him before: "I'm pretty sure there are hospitals in Oregon, Samira."
The words made her physically recoil. She waited for him to take it back, to apologise, but a long stretch of silence passed with no sign of any remorse on his end.
In one fluid movement Samira reached over to unpause the TV and got up from the couch. She left the apartment without saying one more word to Owen. He didn't call after her, didn't even bother to watch her leave.
Samira then went to the nearest bar to order the cheapest drink.
Four hours and multiple vodka sodas later, Samira stood out on the kerb to get some air and to check if Owen had called or texted; he'd done neither, so whatever it was on his phone that was taking up so much of his attention must have had nothing to do with her.
This trip to the bar struck her as a big mistake. She felt no better than before, and now she had a headache to top it all off. What she really wanted more than anything was for somebody to confide in, somebody who knew her well and would allow her the space to say everything she wanted to say.
It was late; her mom would be asleep. Cassie was out of town with Harrison, and Samira's cousins, while lovely, didn't know enough her personal life to be on the receiving end of this call.
Anyway, there was really only one person she had in mind, someone she knew would understand.
She unlocked her phone again, saw in the call log that the last time she'd phoned Jack was over two years ago. Still, without hesitation, she dialled the number.
"Hey, Jack, I know you're probably at work, um, but when you get this, can you give me a call back? It's kinda hard to explain, but I think I'm making a mistake here. Getting married, I mean. It feels like, it feels like my life is happening around me, does that make sense? Like I have no more control over it and it makes me feel — I feel sick, Jack, it's like I can't breathe. He's … he's not .. it's not … it's nothing that bad, it's not like … it's just that he decided to drop a bomb on me today that we're apparently supposed to move to Oregon in February, and he just expects me to uproot my whole life at a minute's notice. And it's not like I'd have said a flat out no if we had discussed it! I might've even agreed if it was that important to him! But he just … he told me we were going. No thought about my fellowship, my life, my friends, the people I lo - … anyway, even besides all that, I really don't think I should be marrying him. He doesn't make me feel …" She paused then, voice so choked with tears that a nearby group of women eyed her with concern, mouthing the words "are you okay?" to her. She managed a weak thumbs up before continuing. "Anyway, sorry about this. I just didn't know who else to call. I'm sorry, you can ignore this, you don't have to worry about it. I'll see you after the wedding."
Wiping away the tears with the sleeve of her shirt, she quickly deleted the call from her activity log. It was harder to block Jack's number — took the whole walk home to build up the nerve, only following through with it right before stepping back into her apartment.
Owen had gone to bed without her. He hadn't even left her a note.
Did she mean what she said in the voicemail? The question echoes around her head as Jack waits for her response, a beeseching look on his face but no attempt to rush her.
Samira gets up from the loveseat, taking a step towards him. He follows. Soon there's less than a step's distance between them and Samira can breathe in the familiar scent of his cologne — years later he's still buying the same brand — and see how his pupils grow when he takes her in up close, eyes scanning every inch of her face.
"I was drunk," she admits, "but I meant it, yes. In that moment, the only person I wanted to talk to was you. But that still doesn't answer my question. I want to know what you're asking me, Jack — is it just to not marry Owen? Or is it something else?"
"I'm not asking, Samira, I'm offering," he says, breathless. "Whatever you want, I would crawl over broken glass to give it to you. Even if it means not being with me — just don't marry him, please, not when he made you feel the way you did last week." He takes a pause to inhale, jaw clenching as he swallows. "But if you do want to … to be with me, I mean, then anything that makes you happy, we'll do. Big or small. If you want to get married, I'll propose right here. If you want to move in together we can view houses tomorrow. If you want to forget about marriage for a while and finish your fellowship, go travelling, to start a PhD like you mentioned before, whether it's here or anywhere in the world, nothing would make me happier than doing it with you."
Samira thinks of everyone outside in the venue, all of the guests who came expecting a wedding. She thinks of her and Owen's families mingling in the lobby, wondering what's taking Samira so long to show up to her own wedding. She thinks about how Owen will react when he finds out, how awkward it will be to pack up her things from their apartment, how this might be one of the most terrible things that has ever happened to him.
She also remembers how Owen is intending on moving out anyway, with or without her. Thinks of the callous way in which he told her he was leaving, expecting her to go too. And this will hurt for a while, but nothing about his personality indicates that it will be something he'll never get over. The guests will go home, the decorations will get packed up. The world won't fall down around them.
"What if I don't know what I want yet?" she asks, eyes drifting down to Jack's lips before back up to his eyes. This will be the last of her real questions.
Jack brings one of his hands to his chest, swearing an oath to her. "As long as you want me here, Samira, I'm not going anywhere."
That answer is enough to put any lingering doubts to rest, and it brings to Samira a sense of certainty she never felt with Owen, the same security she's felt around Jack ever since he first handed her that pigtail catheter.
A stray tear trickles down her cheek and Jack reaches out to brush it away.
"We can do anything?"
"Anything," he affirms.
Samira starts to smile even though she's still crying, for the first time understanding what people mean when they say they are pleasantly overwhelmed. "I want to finish my fellowship, and then we can figure out what happens after … we might want to go on a vacation when it's all over, I'll probably need one."
"You've always wanted to go to Iceland, right?"
"Yeah, we could go to Iceland. Or Thailand, or … I need more time to think about it."
"We have all the time," he answers, and from the look in his eyes he's really starting to hope now. "There's only one part you have to decide now."
Samira looks around the bridal suite, the rain having stopped entirely, and she sees that the version of herself in the mirror has completely transformed, wearing a smile so bright and looking so refreshed she can scarely believe she ever intended on leaving here as Owen's wife.
"The guests —" she starts without knowing how she'll finish the sentence.
"—will understand," Jack finishes. "Plus, I think I'm on Marie's good side. She'll help us escape."
Samira breaks out into laughter then, the tension vanishing from her muscles. Dread has been replaced by exhileration and she feels giddy, doesn't know what to do first, where to even begin —
Well, she might have one idea.
"Kiss me," she says, to which Jack more than happily obliges, closing the gap and pulling her gently into him before their lips crush together.
Outside in the hall, Marie has managed to scratch a small hole into the cork of her clipboard with her fingernail. The man and the bride left about five minutes ago, meaning there's a half hour to the ceremony and she still hasn't figured out how to tell the wedding planner that everyone might as well go home now.
This is way above her paygrade, but oh, those two did seem sweet together, and the man had showed up drenched from the rain with those sad puppydog eyes … the bride had thanked her before they left, so she did the right thing, right?
Absolutely. The bride said so.
One of the bridesmaids approaches from the swing doors at the other end of the hallway, hair and makeup done but not wearing her dress. She eyes the wide-open door to the bridal suite, noticing that it's empty inside. Marie's hands start to shake to the point that a piece of the clipboard breaks off in her hand.
"Have you seen Samira?" comes the inevitable question. "Has she said anything to you?"
"No," Marie answers too quickly.
"Okay, well, we need to find her before she hears from someone else," Cassie whispers. "Owen's not in his room."