“Can you believe it, Aunt Marbel? Griffin’s wedding is tomorrow.”
I said it standing in her kitchen in Beaufort, with the smell of sweet tea and lemon cleaner all around me. I was grinning like a kid holding a golden ticket. I’d driven four hours from Charlotte with my good suit hanging behind the passenger seat and a wrapped gift box on the seat beside me, tied with navy ribbon.
I was trying to sound casual. I wasn’t. My voice was shaking a little, and I knew it.
My aunt was standing by the kitchen table with both hands on the back of a chair. She was gripping it so hard her knuckles had gone pale.
She didn’t smile. She didn’t say a word.
I kept talking anyway, because that’s what I do when I’m nervous. I told her about the suit I’d had tailored. I told her I’d gotten a haircut that morning. I pulled the gift box off the counter and untied the ribbon to show her what was inside.
“It’s an antique brass compass,” I said. “I found it at a shop in Asheville. Took me a week to find the right one. Look, I had the back engraved.”
I turned it over in my palm so she could read it.
“Wherever you go, may you always know your way back.”
“I wrote them a card, too,” I said. “Nothing heavy. Just, ‘Wishing you both a life of direction, not perfection.’ I just want them to know I’m happy for them. That’s all.”
I looked up, waiting for her to say something like, “That’s beautiful, sweetheart.” Or, “They’re going to love it.”
Instead, she let go of the chair.
“Blaze,” she said quietly. “It was last week.”
I blinked. “What?”
She didn’t say it again. She didn’t have to.
She walked into the living room and came back holding a heavy leather photo album. It looked brand new. The pages were thick and glossy. She set it down on the table in front of me very gently, like she was setting down something that might explode.
I sat down slowly. My fingers touched the cover before my brain caught up with what I was doing.
I opened it.
The first page was a full spread. My brother Griffin and his bride, Harper, standing under an arch of white flowers with the sun pouring over them like something out of a movie. Harper in white lace. Griffin in a fitted navy tux.
Printed in small gold letters underneath were the words, “Charleston, Last Saturday.”
My hands kept turning pages on their own.
My parents, walking Harper down a strip of sand toward the water. Uncle Mason and Aunt Carla laughing at the head table. Cousins I hadn’t seen in years, dressed in matching pastels. Everybody barefoot. Everybody happy.
Everybody there.
Except me.
Sophia Rivers is an experienced News Content Editor with a sharp eye for detail and a passion for delivering accurate and engaging news stories. At TheArchivists, she specializes in curating, editing, and presenting news content that informs and resonates with a global audience.
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