I started planning that same night.
I booked a haircut for Friday morning. I pulled my best charcoal suit out of the closet and took it to the tailor on my way to work, paying an extra $60 for a rush job. I spent my lunch break at a men’s shop downtown, picking out a pocket square. Something simple. Not flashy. Just right.
I made myself a promise. No brooding in the corner. No awkward silences. No asking anybody for anything. I was going to show up as the version of me they could finally be proud of.
That night, I texted Aunt Marbel.
“You won’t believe it. Griffin’s wedding is this weekend, and I’m going!”
Her reply took a long time. Much longer than usual.
When it finally came, it was one line.
“Oh. Is it?”
A cold feeling ran down my back. I didn’t understand it, so I ignored it. I was too busy trying to believe that this time would be different.
I tried to book a hotel near Charleston for Saturday night. Every place I called was full. I figured it was tourist season.
Then an email from the wedding website popped into my inbox.
The subject line said, “Thank you for attending the Ren-Carrian wedding!”
I read it three times. Then I laughed it off. Some automatic system glitch.
I texted my brother.
“Hey! What time should I get there Saturday?”
The message showed as read within seconds.
Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.
Finally, his reply came.
“Just be on time.”
No address. No time. No emoji. Nothing warm. Just four words.
My thumb hovered over the screen. I wanted to ask for the address. I wanted to ask what time “on time” meant. But I stopped myself. I didn’t want to come off as needy. Not this time.
Friday afternoon, I called Aunt Marbel and told her I’d be driving down through Beaufort on my way to Charleston. “Mind if I swing by and say hi first?”
There was a pause on the line.
“Of course, honey,” she said. But her voice caught on the words.
Then she changed the subject. She asked about traffic on I-26. She asked about gas prices.
I didn’t catch it. I was floating too high on the hope of finally being seen.
I loaded the car that evening. The suit hung behind the passenger seat in its plastic bag. The compass was wrapped in tissue paper inside a little box with a navy ribbon.
I told myself I was ready. I told myself everything was going to be fine.
And four hours later, I was sitting at my aunt’s kitchen table, staring at a photograph of my whole family smiling on a beach, at a wedding that had happened seven days earlier without 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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