The Fiancée He Forgot Chapter 04
My mother lowered her head and said nothing.
I looked at her rough, red hands, at the frayed white cuffs of her shirt, and remembered the beginning of the meal, when she and my father had leaned forward with their heavy Appalachian accents, wearing anxious, ingratiating smiles as they tried to catch every word.
I suddenly laughed. “They’ve spoken this way their whole lives, Ethan.”
My voice was soft, but each word was clear.
“Besides, even if they polished their accent, we still wouldn’t understand French or German.”
The room went quiet for a beat.
Claire’s expression changed—but she recovered quickly.
“Grace, I’m sorry. We just got carried away chatting. You know how it is with people you’ve known since childhood. We weren’t leaving you and your parents out on purpose.”
She grabbed my hand. “Oh! Let me show you something!”
She pulled out her phone and swiped to a set of photos—a Newport estate lawn, white draping, champagne towers, a flower arch. “This is the plan for your and Ethan’s engagement party. I’ve already picked it all out for you!”
She swiped to a few more images: a white satin gown. “And this is what you’ll wear that day. I picked it out over hours! Isn’t it beautiful?”
My parents ventured hesitantly, “Well… since it’s Grace’s engagement party, shouldn’t Grace be the one deciding?”
Claire smiled. “Mr. Miller, trust me, I have a great eye. Ethan’s always trusted my judgment.”
The Whitmores and Ethan nodded along. “Claire’s choices are never wrong.”
With one sweep of a sentence, my parents were dismissed. They sat quietly, like two strangers invited in to watch the show.
Coming out of the restaurant, Mr. Whitmore rushed off for a meeting at his company.
Ethan, who was supposed to see us home, chose instead to drop Claire and Mrs. Whitmore off at Newbury Street for a spa treatment first.
In the end, my parents and I were left standing awkwardly at the restaurant entrance.
My mother was silent for a long time before she sighed and turned to me. “Grace, sweetheart… are you sure you want to marry into that family?”
My eyes suddenly stung. I looked down at the heels chafing my ankles raw.
Claire had picked them out with me.
She’d said they were beautiful. Ethan had said all the girls in their circle wore them.
So I’d worn them, even though every step felt like walking on knives.
I’d thought: put on the wrong shoes and I could walk into a world that wasn’t mine.
But now, looking at my bloody, blistered heels, at the dress that didn’t suit me, the makeup that didn’t suit me, the shoes that didn’t suit me… how sorry a sight I was.
I raised my head and let out a slow breath.
“Mom, I never agreed to marry Ethan. The engagement party they were discussing—we weren’t even given the chance to weigh in. So, naturally… it has nothing to do with us.”
That night, I emailed the institute and took a week off.
I changed into an old pair of jeans I’d brought back from home, canvas sneakers, a white T-shirt. No makeup. Hair pulled back carelessly.
Standing in front of the mirror, I saw a version of myself I hadn’t seen in a long time.
During the days I spent with my parents back in Kentucky, messages piled up in the group chat.
Claire sent more than a dozen photos of herself in that gown, striking various intimate poses with Ethan in the Whitmores’ living room:
Grace! See? I tried on the gown I picked out for you. The fit is really nice!
Ethan, that dog, actually wants to print these out—says they’ll be our twenty-year anniversary photos.
Two days later she sent a selfie of the two of them walking together on their old campus:
Ha! Went back to our alma mater with Ethan today! Too bad you weren’t there—some underclassmen actually thought we were a couple, so embarrassing!
Below, Ethan replied grumpily: Who’d want to be a couple with you?
Claire, in her habitual childhood-friend tone: Please. If anyone’s turning anyone down, it’s me turning down you!
They chatted away, ninety-nine-plus messages every day. I didn’t answer a single one.
A week later, I returned to Boston.
All the paperwork was finalized. My plane ticket was booked.
As I packed and headed for the airport, a text came in from Ethan.
Grace, taking your parents home took a while, huh? Are you back today?
Claire found a great seafood buffet. Three-person set—we’re missing you.
I stared at that message for a long time. Then I laughed.
I thought back over so many things.
Him chatting away with her in languages I couldn’t understand.
Him giving her the limited-edition earrings I’d wanted.
The ring that had been swapped out. The shoes that had rubbed my heels raw.
All those years I’d spent trying to squeeze into their world—him choosing Claire, over and over, then turning to me and saying, Next time.
My finger hovered above the screen. Then it came down.
Ethan, let’s break up.
I long-pressed the chat thread and deleted him.
I turned my phone off, dropped it into the bottom of my bag, and looked up.
The departure board was flashing: SEATTLE.
I picked up my bag and walked toward the gate.
If I couldn’t fit in, then the farther away from them I got, the better.
On the other end, when Ethan received that text, his pupils shrank.