Page 49 of Fumbling for Perfection

“I know.” I’m not worried about being cared for. I should be more grateful for the life changes I’m about to have.

A bedroom bigger than the size of my apartment in Jackson’s penthouse, rent paid for Boston Strong, no more financial stress, and a baby growing in my belly. I have everything most women dream of. Even a loving and supportive husband.

My hands go to my stomach again. If only Walker was a one-night stand. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about hurting him.

“You promised to have the bride down in fifteen minutes. That was sixteen minutes ago. We’re on a timetable,” Natasha, the wedding planner from Hell, scolds Kendall and Rowan.

“Down girl. She needs another minute. Besides, the show can’t start without her anyway.”

“It’s okay.” I slide off the stool and skim my hands down my dress. I refuse to look into the mirror, not wanting to see the sad, broken reflection.

I’ve worried about Walker all morning. Did he go back to San Francisco? Does he hate me? Did I destroy any chance he had at rekindling a relationship with Jackson?

“You two bridesmaids need to get downstairs. I’ll bring the bride.”

“Webridesmaidshave names,” Kendall huffs. “And thebrideis Riley. Treat her like the goddess she is and not an animal you’re herding off so you can cash your paycheck.”

Natasha curls her lip. “I thought her name was Margaret?”

“Strangers call her Margaret, so I guess, yeah. That’s who she is to you and all these other schmucks.”

I love my friends for having my back. Without them, I’d be on the floor drowning in a pile of tulle and tears.

The next ten minutes go by in a blur. I vaguely remember watching Rowan and Kendall walking away, their pale-yellow dresses flowing behind them. The three of us don’t care for the color, but it’s Lydia’s favorite so I let her do what she wanted.

Yellow and white flowers, a ridiculously expensive and heavy bouquet of calla lilies, peonies, roses, and dahlias in my hand weighs me down as I put one foot in front of the other. Thankful for the veil that shadows my face from the three hundred strangers who stare at the stranger about to marry the CFO of a Fortune 500 company, I keep my gaze focused on the blanket of white rose petals scattered on the aisle in front of me.

I barely register Jackson standing three feet across from me, instead staring down at the shiny black shoes that probably cost more than two months’ rent.

The minister drones on, and at some point, Jackson reaches for my hand, squeezing it until I look up at him.

His soft, blue eyes give me a sad smile as he leans in and kisses my cheek. “You’re stunning, Riley.”

“Thanks.” I scan his face, seeing nothing but love and adoration for me. Jackson is such a good man. He works so hard and is doing everything in his power to make me happy, and here I am embarrassing him in front of his colleagues and business partners. “You look really nice too, Jackson.”

He laughs and skims my cheek with the back of his hand before pinching his chin. “I love you, Riles.”

“I love you too,” I hiccup through my impending tears.

The minister clears his throat. “We’re not to that part yet.”

A few people in the front rows who can hear us chuckle, assuming our love is so strong we can’t wait for the vows.

At least they’re buying the show we’re putting on. I want to glance around to see if Walker is here, but I don’t trust myself not to break down and cry if I see him.

When the minister asks Jackson to repeat after him, Jackson takes a deep breath and squeezes both my hands. I stare into his eyes and try to read the sad smile he gives me.

“I love everything about you, Riley,” he starts.

The minister clears his throat again. “Um, did you write your own vows? This is why we like to have a rehearsal the night before.”

Jackson ignores the minister and tilts his head to the side as he studies me. He lifts our joined hands and kisses my knuckles.

“You’re my best friend. My confidant. My joy. My laughter. It all belongs to you. You know more about me than almost any other human being. My love for you is strong and deep, but...” He takes a deep breath, kisses my knuckles again, and lowers our joined hands. “I can’t marry you.”

I barely register the collective gasps from the church as I try to catch my own breath. “You...what?” I gasp.

Jackson closes his eyes for a few seconds before he opens them, and for the first time, I see hesitation. Fear. Insecurity. He turns to the packed church and takes a deep breath.

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