Page 7 of Between Now and Always

I need toendthis.

So, here I am.

It’ll hurt. But it won’t kill me. When this is over, I’ll be stronger.

So, I’m going to sit here and watch Elisabeth Mortimer Wolfe becomes someone else’s wife.

Thesickpart of me that doesn’t give a fuck what DNA or the law says will be permanently deprived of its main source of sustenance — hope.

And then I will, finally, move on.

After avoiding it since I walked in, I force myself to face forward and look at Duke Tremaine.

At the sight of him, my throat tightens, and my eyes start to burn.

He’s surveying the crowd of people gathered to watch his triumph.

He looks so fucking smug. When his eyes sweep the corner where I’m sitting, his smile tightens and something like fear flashes in his eyes. But, when I blink in surprise, his gaze has moved on and his smile is restored

I must have imagined it. Even if hecouldsee me, why would be afraid?

He won. I wonder if he made good on his promise to make her crawl.

No, Beth wouldn’t. If this is happening, it’s her choice. I know from my own experience, that when your heart is broken, sometimes you end with the very last person you’d ever chose.

Except, he’s actually the veryfirstperson she chose. For good reason. She’ll get her inheritance and her way out.

I should be happy for her.

But, I’m not. I’m fucking angry and bitterness is digging it’s claws into my chest.

The pipe organ’s soft background noise stops abruptly and then, in the next beat, it launches into the familiar opening strains of Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major.

I turn with the rest of congregation and see a groomsman standing there with Dina on his arm.

As she passes me, her gaze sweeps the section where I’m sitting. The flash of alarm in her eyes before she moves on, surprises me, but it’s also clear that I’m visible from this vantage point. I don’t want to think about what might happen if Beth and I make eye contact.

The music stops and the doors to the church close. Everyone surges to their feet when the next song starts.

Except me.

The song that’s playing is the one I have tattooed on my arm, Sonata 17 in D Minor. It’s not a popular wedding song, but it’s one of Beethoven’s most popular pieces. It’s possible that this is just a coincidence.

Then I hear the modification I made to the sixth and tenth stanzas. And I know it’s not.

Oh my God.

Beth is going to walk down the aisle to my song. Did she hope I’d hear it and take it as a sign? Does she want me to stand up and object?

No, she doesn’t even know I’m here. She’s made her choice. It’s going to be fine. I just have to get through this. I’ve got my while life ahead of me.

I start to sweat and glance around, noting the exits on the outside of the pew. My throat is raw — as if I’ve been screaming. My heart races like it’s hitched to a thousand unbroken horses, and the whooshing of my blood pumping to keep up with it all is so loud I want to cover my ears with my palms.

The program I picked up on my way in is completely unrecognizable as the ivory cardstock bifold it once was. This attack of anxiety has turned it into something that resembles what I imagine my twisted soul looks like.

A noose of dread tightens around my neck and I can’t breathe.

My chest burns, as if I’ve been running.

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