Page 2 of Hometown Touchdown
I can’t do this.
I feel the heat rising beneath the hurt. The injustice of it. The way he looked me in the eye and said we’d figure it out—how he let me carry the weight of my diagnosis alone, only to use it as an excuse to walk away. He bailed. And now I’m left in the ruins of a life he couldn’t be bothered to fight for.
My chest tightens as it all comes crashing in. The future we planned. The finances I now have to untangle. The apartment that no longer feels like mine. I'm standing in the middle of a space I can’t afford on my own, surrounded by furniture we picked out for a marriage he just threw away.
I can’t stay here. Not with these walls mocking me. Not with that damn dress still waiting for a day that’s never coming.
I snatch my keys and purse from the counter and head for the door like it’s the only way to keep from screaming. I don’t know where I’m going. I just know I can’t sit in that apartment another second. Not with the ghost of him lingering in every corner. Not with the walls closing in around a future that doesn’t exist anymore. I need to move. I need to escape the crushing weight of it all before it swallows me whole.
Somewhere between the front steps and the car, I remember the venue. The one with the wraparound porch and the non-refundable deposit. My fingers are shaking as I unlock my phone and scroll to the contact. When the receptionist picks up, I force my voice to be steady.
“Hi. I need to cancel a wedding reservation. For October first. Under the names Marlow and Foster.”
There’s a pause on the other end. Then a soft, polite voice. “That cancellation was processed yesterday. By Mr. Foster.”
My stomach drops.
Of course he already cancelled it.
He’d already made the decision. Already checked the boxes. Already erased me from the schedule while I was still clinging to the idea of walking down the aisle.
I thank her as nicely as I can and end the call.
The grocery store is only five minutes away, but it feels like a lifetime. I pull into the lot, kill the engine, and just sit there in the driver’s seat. The windshield wipers tick-tick across glass, swiping away the late summer rain, a background rhythm to the chaos building in my chest.
And then the tears come.
They start slow. Silent and creeping, but within seconds they turn into something violent. Guttural. Shaking. I clutch the steering wheel like it might keep me tethered, but it doesn’t help. Nothing does.
My whole body trembles with the weight of it all. The canceled wedding. The diagnosis. The way he walked away like I was disposable. Like I hadn’t spent years building a life around the promise ofus.
My phone is still in my lap. I don’t hesitate.
I tap the name without thinking—Mom.
Because she’s the only person I want right now. The only one who knows the whole story. The only one who’s seen all the versions of me—even the broken ones—and loved me anyway.
She answers on the second ring.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
Her voice wraps around me like a favorite blanket from home. The moment I hear it, I start to unravel all over again. My lip wobbles. My breath hitches. I grip the phone tighter.
“Oh, honey…” Her tone softens even more, like she can hear the tears before I can speak. “I’m here. Just breathe, okay? Take your time.”
I swallow hard and force the words out, hoarse and broken. “He left. The wedding’s off.”
There’s a beat of silence, just long enough for the truth to settle between us. I imagine her sitting at the kitchen table back home, one hand over her mouth, the other holding her own phone with a death grip.
“Oh, Brynn,” she murmurs. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
I blink, a fresh wave of tears slipping down my cheeks. “He said he couldn’t handle the infertility stuff,” I whisper, barely able to form the words. “He said it changes everything.”
Her breath catches, but she’s quiet for a moment, composing herself the way moms do when they want to stay strong for their children. When she speaks again, her voice is layered with sorrow and steel. “Then he wasn’t your person, sweetheart. Not if that was the dealbreaker.”
My chest tightens.
“I tried so hard,” I say, the frustration breaking through the sadness now. “I built a life here. I showed up for him. I told myself it didn’t matter that I felt so alone, because he was supposed to be the one who made it all worth it. I thought if I just held on long enough, it would all be okay.”
