Chapter 3Left Behind At The Gate

Phoebe walked over, her eyes red and downcast.

"This is all my fault," she whispered, her lip trembling. "If my family hadn't joined at the last minute, your parents would have had their flights. But my parents have never traveled this far, and I was so worried about them being alone."

Wayne immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her from me. "How is any of this your fault, Phoebe? Stop taking the blame for things out of your control."

I watched him defend her, and a laugh bubbled up in my throat—hollow and bitter.

My parents were stranded at a station because of his negligence, and his first reaction was annoyance. Phoebe shed a single tear, and he looked as though his entire world was crumbling.

An hour later, Wayne's assistant brought my parents to the airport.

The moment my mother saw me, she tried to hide a torn plastic bag behind her back. Inside was the homemade pecan brittle she had spent days making. The bag had snagged during the rush at the station, and the brittle was crushed, sticky fragments clinging to the plastic.

My father was holding his lower back, his face dangerously pale. Yet, when he saw Wayne, his first words were, "Son, I'm so sorry for the trouble. We should have checked the date on the tickets ourselves."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Dad..."

Wayne glanced at his watch. "Well, at least we didn't lose too much time."

My mother timidly offered the torn bag, trying to smile. "Wayne, I made some pecan brittle. And there's some cured venison in here too, for your parents. We wanted to bring something from home."

Wayne looked down at the bag, his eyebrows knitting together in immediate distaste.

"Helen, the resort in Maui has fully catered meals. Things with such... strong odors really shouldn't be brought onto the island. The wedding has a very specific, minimalist aesthetic. These don't really fit."

My mother's hand froze in midair.

The hopeful smile on her face slowly withered away, though she tried desperately to keep her eyes bright. "Oh. Of course. I didn't think of that."

She quickly pulled her hand back, tucking the bag behind her coat. "I won't bring them then. I don't want to cause any trouble."

My chest felt so tight I could barely draw breath.

Across from us, Phoebe’s aunt let out a soft, mocking chuckle. "Well, small-town folks get nervous when they travel. Bringing homemade snacks to a luxury beach wedding... it really is a bit much."

My mother heard her. She clutched the plastic bag tighter, her head dropping. "I'm sorry. We just don't know any better."

Wayne didn't even acknowledge the cruelty of the remark. He simply looked out toward the terminal exit. "Phoebe’s family has a lot of luggage. Iris, why don't your parents ride in the shuttle van behind us?"

I looked out the window. The shuttle van behind us was a cargo vehicle, packed to the ceiling with camera gear, luggage, and folding chairs. It was meant for the hired staff.

My voice was ice. "My father’s spine is injured, and you want him to squeeze into a cargo van with the luggage?"

Wayne’s patience snapped. "Iris, do you have to make everything so difficult? It’s just a short ride to the hotel. We’re flying out tomorrow anyway. Do you really have to pick a fight over this right now?"

I stared at him.

In that moment, I understood everything.

Wayne hadn't "forgotten" to show my parents respect. He simply didn't believe they were worthy of it.

My mother gently grabbed my hand. "Iris, please. It's fine. We can sit anywhere. The wedding is what's important."

Even now, they were terrified of ruining my wedding.

I looked at my father's pale, exhausted face, and then at my mother’s trembling hands holding the ruined bag of pecan brittle. The last dying ember of my love for Wayne flickered out.