The Future We Gave Away

At five-thirty on Thursday afternoon, Sloane Harper took the arm of the man she'd once planned to marry and practiced walking toward someone else's wedding.

Caleb's sleeve was warm beneath her palm.

That was unfortunate.

So was the fact that her body recognized the shape of his arm before the rest of her had decided how she felt about seeing him again.

Twenty-six months.

She had gone twenty-six months without touching Caleb Reed.

Now a wedding coordinator named Danielle was standing at the far end of a brick-walled venue in Somerville, waving both hands at them.

“Slower, please. You two are not evacuating the building.”

A few people laughed.

Sloane did not.

Caleb did, quietly.

She kept looking straight ahead.

The aisle was maybe forty feet long. Forty-five at most. White folding chairs stood in neat rehearsal rows on either side of them, not yet dressed for Saturday. Late-afternoon light cut through the high industrial windows and landed in long rectangles across the concrete floor.

Forty feet.

She could walk forty feet beside him.

People had survived worse things.

“Still fast when you're nervous,” Caleb said under his breath.

Sloane turned her head.

That was her first real look at him.

Photographs had been useless.

Her sister had posted plenty over the last two years—birthdays, Thanksgiving, Owen's engagement party, a Red Sox game, one Christmas morning where Caleb had been half hidden behind their mother's ridiculous tree. Sloane had become very good at scrolling past him without pausing long enough to admit she'd paused.

None of those photographs had prepared her for the annoyingly physical reality of him.

His hair was shorter than she remembered. There were faint lines at the corners of his eyes that had not been there at thirty-one. Black-framed glasses sat low on his nose.

He looked older.

Not much.

Just enough to make the missing two years feel like an actual period of time instead of a blank space she'd been carrying around.

“You're imagining things,” she said.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

Caleb looked toward the end of the aisle again.

“Then we're both imagining that we're six feet ahead of everyone else.”

Sloane glanced back.

Damn it.

Tessa and Owen were still near the entrance with the rest of the wedding party.

“Maybe they're slow.”

“Could be.”

His voice hadn't changed.

She disliked that more than the glasses.

Danielle clapped once.

“Okay. Again.”

Sloane released Caleb immediately.

His arm dropped to his side.

No hesitation.

No lingering touch.

Good.

Exactly right.

Two adults who had once shared an apartment, a dog they never actually adopted, a checking account for wedding expenses, and seven years of their lives could certainly walk down an aisle together without making it weird.

“Sloane?”

She turned.

Her younger sister stood three rows back wearing leggings, a white sweater, and the expression of someone who was one minor inconvenience away from canceling an event she'd spent fourteen months planning.

“What?”

“You're supposed to come back.”

“I know.”

“You're standing there.”

“I was waiting.”

“For what?”

Sloane looked at Caleb.

He had already started walking back.

“Apparently him.”

Tessa's eyes narrowed in warning.

Not now.

Sloane knew.

She hadn't meant anything by it.

That had been one of her worst habits with Tessa growing up—saying something sharper than she intended and only recognizing the edge after it landed.

“Sorry,” she said.

Tessa's face softened.

“You okay?”

There it was.

The question everyone in her family had spent two years carefully not asking.

Sloane adjusted the cuff of her blouse.

“I've been in Boston for four hours. Mom has asked if I'm eating enough twice. Your florist thinks I work here. And in thirty minutes I'm supposed to have dinner with forty-six people who remember when he and I were engaged.”

Tessa considered this.

“So...medium?”

“Medium.”

“That seems fair.”

Owen appeared behind Tessa and hooked an arm around her waist.

“Are we discussing emotional stability without me?”

“No,” Tessa said.

“Good. I'm terrible at it.”

He kissed the top of her head.

Sloane looked away before she could help it.

Not because the affection bothered her.

Because once, she had lived inside that kind of casual touch without noticing how much it meant.

A hand at the waist.

A knee pressed against hers under a restaurant table.

Caleb leaving his palm on the small of her back while reaching past her for something in the refrigerator.

Nothing anybody would photograph.

Everything she remembered.

Danielle called for them again.

The wedding party reshuffled.

Sloane returned to her mark.

Caleb was waiting.

This time neither of them said hello.

Maybe that part was done.

She put her hand through his arm again.

He smelled different.

Not radically. Nothing dramatic.

Soap, clean cotton, something woodsy she couldn't name.

Her brain searched uselessly for the old scent anyway.

“Ready?” he asked.

“It's walking.”

“That wasn't an answer.”

“Yes, Caleb. I am emotionally prepared to cross a room.”

His mouth moved.

Sloane caught it.

“Don't.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“You don't know that.”

She looked at him.

He looked back.

For one stupid second, there was no wedding venue.

There was their old kitchen in Cambridge at eleven at night, Caleb leaning against the counter while she tried to convince him that cereal counted as dinner.

There was a rainy sidewalk in Back Bay where they'd argued about whose umbrella was broken.

There was the mattress they'd bought when neither of them could afford the one they wanted.

There was his face the night she gave back the ring.

Sloane looked away first.

“Let's walk.”

They did.

This time she matched his pace.

Halfway down the aisle, something changed in Caleb's posture.

Small enough that nobody else would notice.

Sloane did.

She followed his line of sight.

A woman had entered through the side doors.

Leah Morgan.

Caleb's fiancée.

Sloane had seen photographs of her too.

Enough to know the basics against her will.

Thirty-two. Health-policy researcher. Brown hair. Good smile. Ran half-marathons, apparently, which Sloane considered an unnecessary personality trait in anyone.

In photographs, Leah had been easy to flatten.

Fiancée.

That was all.

A label was convenient.

The woman crossing the venue was less convenient.

She had a canvas tote over one shoulder and two coffee cups in one hand. Her dark green coat was unbuttoned, her hair slightly windblown. She stopped near Owen, said something that made him laugh, then looked toward Caleb.

Her whole face changed.

Not dramatically.

It just warmed.

Caleb's did too.

Sloane felt the difference through his arm before she saw it.

That was worse.

Danielle told them to separate at the end of the aisle.

Sloane did.

Caleb crossed toward Leah.

Leah handed him a coffee.

He took it, leaned down, and kissed her.

Quickly.

Normally.

Like a man kissing the woman he was going to marry.

Sloane turned toward Tessa.

“What's next?”

Tessa looked at her for half a beat too long.

“Pictures of where everybody stands.”

“Great.”

“Sloane.”

“I said great.”

“You said it like you're about to fire somebody.”

“I've had a long day.”

Tessa let her have the lie.

That was kindness.

It also meant her sister had grown up while Sloane wasn't looking.

Danielle positioned everyone around the imaginary altar.

Sloane stood to Tessa's left.

Caleb stood across from her beside Owen.

Leah moved to the first row with the parents.

Caleb's mother, Diane, kissed Leah on the cheek before sitting down.

Sloane saw that too.

She wished she didn't notice so much.

Work had trained her badly for this.

A documentary producer made a living noticing the thing a person did with their hands when they lied. The pause before an answer. The photograph somebody kept on a shelf. The name that appeared three times in an interview before anyone explained why.

Sloane noticed for a living.

Now there was nowhere useful to put the skill.

Danielle talked them through the ceremony.

Sloane listened.

Mostly.

She knew Caleb was across from her even when she wasn't looking at him.

The knowledge sat in her body like a phone vibrating in another room.

After ten minutes, Tessa missed her cue.

After fifteen, Owen forgot which hand he was supposed to use for the ring.

After eighteen, their mother interrupted the coordinator because she wanted to know whether the officiant would remind everyone to sit.

“Mom,” Tessa said.

“I'm only asking.”

“They will sit.”

“At Stephanie's wedding, half the room stood through the first reading.”

“Who is Stephanie?”

“Your cousin.”

“I don't have a cousin named Stephanie.”

“Second cousin.”

“That feels relevant.”

Owen bent his head, shoulders shaking.

Even Caleb looked down.

Sloane laughed before she could stop herself.

When she looked up, Caleb was watching her.

He didn't smile.

That made it worse somehow.

His eyes stayed on hers for maybe one second.

Two.

Then Leah touched his mother's shoulder and said something Sloane couldn't hear, and the moment disappeared into the room.

Good.

Let it.

Danielle finally released them at six-fifteen.

The rehearsal dinner was upstairs in a smaller event room, and people immediately began moving toward the stairs.

Sloane stayed behind.

Her phone had buzzed three times during rehearsal.

All work.

That was a language she understood.

She opened the first message.

Nina: Patel confirmed Monday. Cambridge location wants final insurance cert tonight. Call me before 7.

The second was from production.

The third contained twelve links to archival footage she was supposed to review before morning.

Perfect.

Sloane picked up her bag and headed toward a folding table near the wall where she could open her laptop before dinner.

“You're working?”

She didn't need to turn around.

Caleb had always asked questions as if he already knew the answer.

“Five minutes.”

“It's rehearsal dinner.”

“I know what event I'm at.”

“You flew across the country today.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

Sloane looked at him then.

He had removed his glasses and was cleaning one lens with the edge of his shirt.

“You still do that.”

He stopped.

“What?”

“That.”

He looked at the glasses.

“I clean them?”

“With your shirt.”

“I've been doing it successfully for years.”

“You scratched your last pair.”

“My last pair were six years old.”

“Because you kept cleaning them with your shirt.”

Caleb put the glasses back on.

“Nice seeing you too.”

There was no sharpness in it.

That irritated her.

She would have preferred him angry.

Anger had rules.

This—whatever this was—did not.

“Sorry,” she said.

Caleb's expression changed slightly.

Maybe he hadn't expected that.

Sloane hadn't either.

She pulled out her laptop.

“How's work?” he asked.

“Busy.”

“Still producing?”

“Still architecting?”

He gave her a look.

“That isn't a verb.”

“It is now.”

“Then yes. Still architecting.”

The old rhythm came back too easily.

Sloane hated that her first instinct was to smile.

She opened her laptop instead.

Caleb slid both hands into his pockets.

For a moment neither spoke.

The room emptied around them.

That was the first time all evening Sloane became aware of how dangerous quiet could be.

“How long are you here?” Caleb asked.

There it was.

Not how have you been.

Not are you seeing anyone.

Not did you ever miss me.

A practical question.

Of course.

“Eight weeks.”

Caleb stared at her.

She watched him process the number.

“Eight?”

“That's what I said.”

“I thought you were leaving after the wedding.”

“I start a project Monday.”

“In Boston?”

“Yes.”

“What project?”

“Documentary series.”

“About?”

“I can't give you the whole treatment before dinner.”

“I didn't ask for the whole treatment.”

“You asked three questions in twelve seconds.”

“That used to be considered conversation.”

“That used to be considered interrogation.”

His jaw shifted.

Not quite a smile.

“Eight weeks,” he repeated.

Sloane looked down at the laptop.

“Why do you keep saying it like it's a diagnosis?”

“I'm surprised.”

“You'll recover.”

“I probably will.”

Footsteps sounded behind him.

Leah.

Sloane knew before she looked.

That fact annoyed her too.

Leah came toward them carrying Caleb's untouched coffee.

“You forgot this.”

Caleb glanced at the cup.

“Again?”

“You made it six minutes.”

“Personal record.”

Leah handed it over.

Then she looked at Sloane.

Up close, she had a small scar through one eyebrow that hadn't shown in photographs.

“Hi,” Leah said. “We haven't actually met.”

Right.

Of course they hadn't.

Sloane closed her laptop.

“I'm Sloane.”

“I know.”

Leah seemed to realize how that sounded.

“I mean, Tessa talks about you.”

“That version is probably heavily edited.”

“Depends on how much wine she's had.”

Sloane laughed.

Damn her.

Leah was funny.

Not aggressively charming.

Not trying too hard.

Just funny.

“I'm Leah.”

They shook hands.

The diamond caught the light between them.

Sloane made herself look at Leah's face instead.

“It's nice to finally meet you,” Leah said.

Finally.

A reasonable word.

A terrible one.

“You too.”

Leah glanced at the laptop.

“Are you working?”

“Apparently that's tonight's most controversial decision.”

Caleb lifted his coffee.

“I asked one question.”

“You asked several.”

Leah looked at him.

“You ask questions like you're filing a permit.”

Sloane's laugh escaped before she could stop it.

Caleb stared at both of them.

“Great.”

Leah grinned.

For one absurd second, Sloane liked her.

The feeling arrived cleanly enough to hurt.

Leah wasn't standing in the ruins of Sloane's relationship.

She hadn't taken anything.

She had met a single man and fallen in love with him.

Whatever story Sloane had privately told herself about the woman Caleb chose after her, the actual Leah Morgan refused to cooperate.

“Tessa said you're staying awhile,” Leah said.

“Eight weeks.”

Leah blinked.

“Really?”

Sloane nodded.

“Through November?”

“November twentieth.”

Something subtle passed across Leah's face.

Recognition.

Then she smiled.

“No way.”

“What?”

“Our wedding is the twenty-first.”

The room seemed to get strangely precise.

The buzz of voices from upstairs.

A fork dropping somewhere in the kitchen.

Caleb's thumb against the seam of his coffee cup.

November twenty-first.

Sloane had known they were getting married in November.

She had deliberately not known more than that.

There was a difference.

Apparently, the difference lasted exactly one second.

Leah laughed softly.

“So you'll practically be here until the day before.”

“Apparently.”

“That's wild.”

It wasn't wild.

It was a date on a calendar.

Nothing more.

Caleb hadn't said anything.

Sloane looked at him.

Bad decision.

He was already looking at her.

Leah turned toward the stairs when Owen called her name.

“I should go rescue him. I think your mom cornered him about the seating plan.”

She touched Caleb's arm.

“I'll save you a seat.”

“Thanks.”

Leah headed upstairs.

Caleb remained where he was.

Sloane stared at the blank screen of her laptop.

She could feel him there.

“You didn't know the date,” he said.

Not a question.

Sloane lifted her eyes.

“I knew November.”

“Right.”

His voice held no accusation.

That somehow made her defensive.

“I wasn't tracking your wedding countdown, Caleb.”

“I didn't say you were.”

“Good.”

He nodded once.

Another silence.

Then someone upstairs called his name.

Caleb turned toward the stairs.

“Sloane.”

She looked at him.

For a moment he seemed about to say something else.

He didn't.

“Dinner.”

“I'll be up.”

He walked away.

She waited until he disappeared before looking at her calendar.

October filled the screen first.

Production days. Interviews. Travel holds. Edit sessions.

She swiped.

November.

Her last Boston field day sat in a blue block on Friday the twentieth.

The next square was empty.

Saturday, November twenty-first.

Sloane stared at it.

Two years ago, she'd returned an engagement ring to Caleb in the kitchen of the apartment they'd chosen together.

Eight weeks from now, he was going to put a different ring on someone else's hand.

And for every day between now and then, she would be here to watch his life move toward it.