With less than forty-eight hours left before we were supposed to register our marriage, Natalie and I still hadn’t settled on our honeymoon. I brought it up casually over dinner after work. "How about Florida?" Her fork didn’t stop moving. "Been there. I don't do repeat trips." "What about Lake Tahoe?" "I haven't been," she said, her voice completely detached. "But Brody asked me to go with him next year." My grip tightened on my fork. I knew exactly what she meant. Because she was going with Brody, she wouldn't go with me. Natalie was the kind of person who loathed repetition; she never visited the same place twice. And over the last few years, she and Brody had already traveled to almost every corner of the country. The sub-zero sunrises in Alaska, the dizzying climb up Angels Landing in Zion, the quiet peaks of Banff—she had experienced every single one of them at Brody's side. My phone buzzed on the table. It was a text from my dad. "Ty, have you and Natalie picked a honeymoon spot yet? Want me to book a cabin for you guys?" "Dad, don't worry about it," I typed back. "I'm actually not planning on getting married anymore." I booked a one-way ticket to Lake Tahoe. Since there was no room for me in her travel plans, I would go to the place I wanted to see, by myself. … I set my phone down and forced a bite of food into my mouth, letting the silence stretch between us. Natalie put her fork down and stared at me for a long time. "Why’d you quiet down all of a sudden?" she asked, her voice light. "It's not like I said I wouldn't go with you." "Then tell me. Where are we going?" I challenged, unable to keep the exhaustion out of my voice. She frowned. "Let me think about it." "Let me think about it." She had said those words so many times before. During our first year of dating, my childhood friend gifted us a weekend getaway package to New York. I asked Natalie to go with me. She said she'd think about it, then turned around and gave the plane tickets to Brody. During our third year, I told her it was time to meet my parents. She said she'd think about it, and then she stood them up on the night of the dinner. My dad was furious, telling me to break it off. I made excuses for her, claiming she had a last-minute business crisis. Only to see her later that night in a travel vlog Brody posted. I didn't know how much longer she needed to think. But I was done waiting. I offered a flat, dismissive "Sure" and kept my head down, eating in silence. Then, her phone chimed. It was the custom ringtone she kept only for him. Natalie unlocked her screen, a soft smile immediately tugging at the corners of her lips. "Natalie, my followers in the comments are saying your video editing is absolutely incredible," Brody's voice drifted from a voice note. "Work?" I asked, though I already knew the answer. "It's Brody. He wants me to help him edit his new travel vlog." She stood up, heading toward the home office. Watching her retreat, I suddenly remembered that trip from our first year that never happened. The plane tickets to Colorado. My friend had told me about a scenic trail at Loveland Pass where couples hung love locks, and that I should take Natalie. I never got to go. Brody did. He shot his very first travel video there, which launched his career as a viral influencer. "Natalie," I called out, stopping her in her tracks. "Have you figured out where you want to go?" She paused. "Not yet," she muttered carelessly, pushing open the office door. "How much longer are you going to think? I only have a week of vacation approved." My pushing seemed to irritate her. Her tone sharpened. "Fine, Oregon. Neither of us has been there." "I can't do Oregon. The altitude and steep hikes are too much for me." When Natalie and Brody had gone hiking in the Hoh Rain Forest, they got separated from their group. I had organized a search party, looking for them for seven straight days and nights. I pushed myself to the point of acute myocarditis and collapsed. When I woke up in the hospital, the doctors told me high-altitude, strenuous environments were permanently off-limits. She forgot. "Then Nashville. Don't you love spicy food?" "My stomach can't handle it anymore." I had stopped eating spicy food two years ago. To save up enough money for a down payment on our house, I had transitioned into sales—a grueling corporate job I despised. The endless networking dinners and heavy drinking sessions had completely wrecked my stomach. Spicy food hadn't been on our dining table in ages. She hadn't noticed. "Then where "can" you go?" she snapped, her voice rising in frustration. "You decide. Just book the tickets and let me know." She slammed the office door shut. The living room fell dead silent. I pulled out my phone and texted my boss, changing my time-off request from "wedding leave" to "paid vacation." My flight confirmation and a text from my dad arrived at the exact same time. "Ty, are you really calling off the wedding?" "Yeah, Dad. I'm not doing it." The three dots indicating he was typing appeared and disappeared for a long time. I sat at the table, staring into space, trying to figure out what I would say if he pushed for answers. What could I say? Should I tell him about the honeymoons that never happened? Or about Natalie, who spent every evening locked in her office, editing another man’s videos? The dinner on the table had gone cold, barely touched. I picked up the plates and scraped the food into the trash. Finally, my dad’s reply came. Just a single sentence. "Ty, whatever you decide to do, I'm behind you." I turned off my screen, folded my arms on the table, and buried my face in them, letting the tears fall. The next morning, I woke up alone. I reached out to the other side of the bed. It was freezing. Natalie hadn't slept in the master bedroom last night. When I opened the bedroom door, there was a paper bag on the kitchen counter. The breakfast wraps inside were ice-cold. Whoever bought them had been gone for hours. I put one in the microwave to heat it up. I took a bite—chorizo and jalapeños. Painfully spicy. It burned my throat, making my eyes water. Brody’s little preferences—she remembered every single one of them. No onions, no garlic. Whenever they went out, she always made sure to remind the servers. Yet, despite me telling her just yesterday that my stomach was ruined, she had already forgotten. "Busy day at work, might be home late," read a sticky note next to the bag. It was written on a stylized notepad she’d bought during one of her trips with Brody. I crumpled the note and threw it in the trash. I unlocked my phone and opened Instagram. Right at the top of my feed was Brody’s newly uploaded travel video, the one Natalie had stayed up all night editing. He had also posted a teaser on his story—a photo of an airport terminal. Looking at the reflection of the glass in the background, I let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. Natalie hadn't gone to work early. She had gone to the airport to see Brody off. The comments section of his post was flooded with fans. One comment read: "Are we sure the photographer and the editor aren't dating? The chemistry is insane." Brody hadn't denied it. He had simply replied with a single emoji—the monkey covering its eyes. I grabbed my wallet and walked out, finding a quiet local diner down the street. "Just a plain bagel with light cream cheese, please," I told the woman behind the counter. She gave me an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry, sweetie. We just sold out of plain. It'll be about ten minutes for the next batch." Sitting there, it suddenly clicked. It wasn't that Natalie had forgotten my stomach was ruined. She just didn't care enough to wait. When I got back to the apartment, a massive cardboard box was sitting by the door. It was our finalized wedding album, shot a month ago. I cut the tape and flipped through the pages one by one. In every shot, her face was devoid of warmth, wearing her signature detached look. Since our college days, Natalie had been the untouchable ice queen of our department. I spent four years chasing her before she finally agreed to be with me. Once we were together, she rarely smiled. I had convinced myself that was just who she was—reserved, aloof. Until I saw her editing Brody's videos. In one clip, Brody stood in front of a rock shaped like a giant peach, pretending to take a massive bite out of it. She had been so captured by his silly, playful energy that she was laughing behind the camera—a bright, genuine sound. I tossed the album back into the box and carried it out, leaving the cardboard for the building's handyman. Back inside, I pulled out my phone and typed a message to Natalie. "We don't need to go to the clerk's office tomorrow. Let's call it off. We're done." The status changed to "Read," and my phone immediately began to ring. "What kind of tantrum are you throwing now?" was the first thing she demanded when I picked up. "You're calling off our marriage over a honeymoon destination?" She sounded furious. "Yes," I said, my voice entirely flat. "Over a honeymoon destination." "You're being impulsive," she said, her tone suddenly shifting into a cold, analytical register. I almost laughed. A heart doesn't break all at once; it happens in quiet, agonizing increments. There was nothing impulsive about my decision. "Look, just find a place I haven't been to yet," she negotiated, still clinging to her ridiculous rule. "We'll go there." Even now, she didn't get it. "No need," I said, and hung up. She immediately flooded my messages with a dozen itinerary options. I didn't open them. I only saw the preview of her final text: "This is the itinerary Brody put together for one of his trips. Take a look and draft something similar for us." It read like a manager assigning a project to an assistant. Even when she was trying to make amends, she spoke down to me. I pulled my suitcase out of the closet and began to pack. I remembered how meticulously I had decorated this place when we first moved in. Our lives were supposed to be woven together in every corner. But as I packed, I realized most of those shared pieces were already gone. Our matching keychains had been lost during one of her spontaneous trips with Brody. My favorite mug had been shattered on a night she stayed up late editing Brody's footage. When I finished clearing out my things, everything I owned fit into just two suitcases. "Are you done being mad?" Natalie texted that afternoon. "Let's get dinner. I made a reservation." It was rare for Natalie to suggest eating out with me. She was always willing to hit the trendiest spots across the country with Brody. But whenever I suggested a nice dinner for our anniversary, she would shut me down without a second thought. "Brody and I already ate there. It's overrated," she’d say. Or, "Brody actually wants to try that place next week." My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long time. I deleted the angry refusal I wanted to send. I typed a simple "Okay" and hit send. She seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. "Great. I'll pick you up at seven." To her, this dinner was a reconciliation. To me, it was a funeral. At seven, she drove me to an upscale restaurant downtown. "Brody and I came here a while ago. He loved it," she said, leaning in to share the menu with me. I quietly shifted my weight, leaning away from her. The air in the private booth went cold. The waiter, sensing the tension, quickly slipped another menu into my hands. As we ordered, she spoke up. "No onions or garlic, please." My hand clutched around my menu, then slowly let go. I didn't bother correcting her. I didn't tell her she had confused her dining partner’s preferences once again. "This is a dish Brody and I had when we were in Charleston," she said, sliding a plate of seafood toward me. "Very authentic Southern style." Charleston. I remembered that city, and I remembered the day she went there. Brody had sprained his ankle while exploring the historic district. Instead of calling an ambulance or his crew, he called Natalie. That was the exact afternoon I was wheeled into the operating room for an emergency appendectomy. She had walked me to the doors of the OR, but the moment the doors closed, she bought a ticket and hopped on the next flight to South Carolina. When the nurses wheeled me out of surgery, I was left lying in a cold hallway for hours because there was no family member to sign my release. I had spent months believing she was called away by an urgent corporate emergency. It wasn't until I saw Brody's vlog months later that I realized the truth. She had been in Charleston. I chewed a piece of the fish. It tasted like cardboard. A deep, hollow ache settled in my chest. "Natalie, tonight—" I started to speak, wanting to end this cleanly, but her phone lit up. A breaking news notification flashed across her screen: "Severe rainstorms trigger massive landslide in the Cascade Mountains; multiple hikers stranded." I remembered Brody's Instagram story about "conquering the Timberline Trail." The Timberline Trail was right in the heart of the Cascades. Natalie bolted upright, her chair scraping violently against the hardwood floor. "I need to drop you home." She grabbed her purse and dragged me out of the restaurant before I could say a word, shoving me into the passenger seat of her car. "Brody is out there. He's in the Cascades right now," she muttered, her hands shaking on the steering wheel as she tore down the road, pushing the speed limit. I sat beside her, my voice entirely calm. "They have professional search and rescue teams, Natalie. You aren't trained for this. Going out there won't change anything." She slammed on the brakes, pulling over to the curb. "Get out," she commanded, her voice icy. "I have wilderness survival training. I'll be fine. I'll go get him, and I'll be back in time for us to get our license tomorrow." I stepped out of the car. Before my feet even settled on the pavement, she hit the gas. The edge of the car door caught my sleeve, pulling me off balance. I crashed hard onto the concrete. I stared at my scraped elbows and bleeding knees, slowly pushing myself up. "There is no tomorrow, Natalie," I thought, watching her taillights vanish into the night. The iodine stung fiercely as the nurse cleaned my scrapes at the urgent care clinic. The male nurse frowned, looking at my bruised limbs. "Rough fall, man. Looks pretty bad. Where's your girlfriend? Why didn't she bring you in?" I let out a tired, empty laugh. "She had someone more important to look after." The nurse paused, then sighed. "No matter how important someone is, they shouldn't come before the person standing right next to you. Don't let yourself get treated like second best, kid." By now, she was probably already on a flight to Oregon. When I got back to the empty apartment, I crawled into bed and slept heavily. I didn't let myself worry about whether she would survive the mountains, or what she and Brody were doing. When I woke up, it was already eight in the morning. I made breakfast, sat down, and opened my phone. My inbox was full of texts from Natalie. "2:00 AM: Just landed near the Cascades. The storm washed out the roads, cell reception is terrible." "4:00 AM: Found Brody. He's okay, just shaken up with a few minor scrapes." "7:00 AM: I'm sorry I had to rush off last night. Please don't be mad." "7:30 AM: Don't forget our appointment at the city clerk's office today. I'm wrapping things up here and catching the next flight. I'll make it in time." Four messages. Every single one of them centered around Brody. She hadn't even chemical-tested her conscience to ask if I made it home safely after she kicked me out of the car. She hadn't noticed me fall. My flight to Lake Tahoe was at two in the afternoon. I called an Uber and headed to the airport. The driver had the local news playing on the radio, reporting that all stranded hikers in the Cascades had been safely evacuated. After passing through security, I walked toward my gate. A crowd of arriving passengers rushed past me. And there she was. She was still wearing her clothes from last night, her jeans splattered with dried mud, a button missing from her jacket. She was dragging two large suitcases. Walking right beside her was Brody, looking perfectly put together, his hair styled, wearing fresh clothes. "We have just enough time to make it to the clerk's office before they close," Natalie was saying as they walked. It was a two-hour drive from the airport to downtown, and it was already past one. "Are you seriously going to register your marriage looking like that?" Brody teased softly. "Won't Tyler be pissed?" "He won't care," Natalie replied confidently. "Marrying me has been his dream for years. He won't care about the details." "As for you, don't go doing anything that dangerous again..." Their voices faded into the hum of the terminal. I didn't try to hear the rest. The PA system announced the boarding call for my flight to Lake Tahoe. I pulled my carry-on toward the gate, ignoring the persistent buzzing of my phone.
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