UNTIL NOW

The curling iron in Sharon’s bedroom made a steady hiss, like a tiny snake waking up, while rain tapped the window in quick, impatient beats. The room smelled like hairspray and warm toast from the kitchen, and the mirror was crowded with clips and ribbons - so many shiny things that Sharon’s hands kept bumping into them. She stood on the edge of her white dress laid out on the bed, one foot bare and one foot in her sock, trying to look calm while her stomach bounced like it was on a trampoline.

Gary was supposed to be her best man. Gary was supposed to be here. That was the whole plan. Sharon kept saying it in her head, like a promise you could hold with both hands. She wanted him to show up, right now in this moment, the way he always did when something important happened - like when they were eight and they’d sworn they’d never miss each other’s birthday parties, even if the sky fell.

But the text thread on her phone had gone quiet. No new messages. No little “On my way.” Her thumb hovered over the screen so long it felt numb. Down the hall, her mom’s voice floated through, busy and bright, talking about shoes and the order of things. Sharon didn’t answer. She just listened to the silence between each tap of rain.

Then her doorbell rang.

Sharon’s heart jumped before her mind could. She snatched her phone and swung toward the door, the dress bunching behind her like a stubborn blanket. “Gary?” she blurted, even though it was probably too early for him. Even though it wasn’t.

It wasn’t Gary. It was a delivery guy holding a long box wrapped in brown paper and twine. “Flowers for the bride,” he said, and his voice sounded tired, like he’d been delivering heavy stuff since morning.

Sharon signed with a pen that shook a little. “Thank you,” she said, but her eyes kept darting back to the street, to the rain, to the driveway.

When she shut the door, the quiet rushed back in. Her phone buzzed once - one message from a number she didn’t recognize. Then another. A single line popped up on the screen: “Can’t make it. Tell her I’m sorry.”

Sharon stared until the words blurred. She didn’t even breathe properly. Her mouth went dry like crackers left out too long. She tried to type back, but her fingers felt too slow, like her hands were stuck in warm mud.

In the mirror, her face looked older than it should have, eyes bright with anger and fear fighting over who got to speak first. She grabbed her phone with both hands and pressed call.

Gary picked up on the third ring, and his voice came through rough, like he’d been running. “Sharon - ”

“Where are you?” Her words came out sharper than she meant, but she couldn’t soften them fast enough. “It’s my wedding weekend. I need my best man.”

There was a pause, and in it she could hear something - wind? a busy road? - and the sound of his breathing trying to calm down. “I messed up,” Gary said. “I didn’t mean for it to - ”

“I don’t care what you meant,” Sharon snapped. Then her voice cracked, just a little, surprising her. “I care that you’re not here.”

“I’m trying,” he said, and for the first time he sounded smaller than stubborn. “I swear I am.”

Sharon looked at the box of flowers she hadn’t opened yet. The twine lay across it like a knot someone hadn’t finished cutting. She imagined him showing up too late, shoes wet, excuses spilling out, and she hated the thought of being the one who forgave first.

“Listen,” she said, forcing her voice steady. “If you can’t come, say it to me. Right now. No guessing. No maybes.”

Gary was silent for a beat too long. Rain ticked at the window again. Then he said, “Give me ten minutes. If I’m not in your driveway by then, I’ll tell you the truth - every bit of it.”

Sharon swallowed. Ten minutes was like holding a balloon string in your fist, knowing it could slip any second. But it was something. It was a chance to stop the wobbling and make the waiting real.

“Ten minutes,” she repeated, and hung up before her voice could betray her.

She moved fast after that, like she was sprinting through a game. She pulled the long box closer and untied the twine with careful fingers, even though her hands wanted to shake. The flowers inside were pale and bright, almost too pretty for what she felt, and she pressed her cheek against the cool wrap for one quick second - just to breathe. Then she set the bouquet beside the dress and stared at the clock, counting each second with her thumb.

When the rain slowed, just a little, the driveway sounded louder. Tires on wet pavement. A car door. Footsteps.

Sharon rushed to the window and leaned in until her breath fogged the glass. Outside, headlights washed the porch steps in white light.

Is it him? And if it is, what’s the first thing you’d want to say - something kind, or something honest?