Trish’s heart squeezed painfully. She wanted to reach out, to hug him but the look on his face stopped her. It was faith—the desperate kind that hurt to watch.

She glanced toward Joey, hoping for some kind of reassurance, but he merely shrugged. His eyes, though, told a different story—full of pity, frustration, and the unspoken truth that none of them wanted to say aloud.

Trish sighed, her chest tight. As she turned to walk back toward Sylvia, she murmured under her breath, "God, I hope she gets her head out of her ass soon."

Joey leaned toward Winn. "I’ll go talk to the guests," he murmured. "Try to buy you some time. Tell them to be a bit more patient." His eyes scanned the pews — the restless movement, the whispers, the sideways glances. They were all waiting, half out of curiosity, half out of pity.

Nothing was more brutal than the collective anticipation of a wedding that might never happen.

"You don’t have to," Winn replied. He didn’t even look at Joey. His eyes stayed fixed on the altar. "Whoever wants to leave can leave. I don’t need anyone here to marry her. I just..." He clenched his fists. "I just want her."

Joey swallowed hard but then his phone began to vibrate against his thigh.

Joey’s heart leapt. Please, he thought. Please, let this be her. Let this be news that leads me to her. He fumbled the phone from his pocket, nearly dropping it in his haste, and pressed it to his ear. "Yeah... this is he—"

And then, mid-sentence, his world stopped. His face drained of color. The words on the other end of the line became a blur — static and fragments. His throat closed up. "No..." he whispered.

Winn’s head snapped toward him instantly, alert, desperate. "What?" he asked. "Is it Ivy? What, Joey? What!"

Joey lowered the phone slowly from his ear, his fingers suddenly numb. He turned to face Winn, eyes dazed, as if the very act of speaking might shatter him. "There’s been an accident," he managed. He could feel his legs growing weaker by the second, and he pushed himself up with the pew for balance.

Winn followed suit immediately, his face pale. His heartbeat roared in his ears. "What? Where?" he demanded, grabbing Joey’s arm. The grip was firm — his panic bleeding into his strength. "Where is she?"

Joey met his eyes then — those hopeful, frantic eyes — and the pain in his chest grew unbearable. "She’s dead," he said softly.

The air left Winn’s lungs in a single, broken exhale. For a moment, he didn’t move — didn’t blink — didn’t breathe. Then the denial hit him. "No... God fucking no!" he exploded. His shout tore through the silence, so full of grief it made people flinch. The guests turned toward them — startled, whispering.

Winn staggered back a step, then forward again, his hand tangling in his hair as he shook his head violently. "You’re lying," he rasped. "You’re fucking lying!" He grabbed Joey by the lapel of his jacket. "Say it’s not true, Joey! Say it!"

Joey didn’t fight back. He didn’t even raise a hand. His eyes were hollow, dazed, tears glistening at the edges but refusing to fall. "Diane’s dead."

For a heartbeat, Winn just stared at him. The confusion flickered in his eyes — Diane? Not Ivy? He blinked, the name cutting through his grief, but before he could even process it, Joey was already stepping away.

Joey’s movements were slow, mechanical. His hand dropped to his side, phone dangling loosely between his fingers. He walked down the aisle. The life had drained out of him, his posture hollowed, his expression haunted.

"Diane’s dead," he whispered again, this time to no one in particular.

For one second—one terrible, shameful second—Winn felt relief flood his chest. It was instinctive, uninvited, and vile. Diane was dead. Not Ivy. Not the woman who owned every breath in his lungs. The thought barely formed before guilt came crashing in. The relief was gone, replaced with a suffocating sense of horror at himself.

How could he feel that way? Diane was Joey’s wife. They had their disagreements but she wasn’t a bad person. And now she was gone. Just... gone.

He pressed a trembling hand to his forehead and exhaled sharply, trying to fight off the chaos swirling in his chest. He should stay. He should wait for Ivy—God, what if she came back and he wasn’t there? But Joey—Joey was his brother in everything but blood. And right now, Joey was broken.

Winn looked toward the altar then back at his friend, who was stumbling toward the doors. The choice tore him apart for all of two seconds before instinct made it for him.

He went after Joey.

Joey stood by the steps, the wind teasing at his dark hair, his eyes empty, his phone still clutched loosely in his hand. His shoulders shook once.

"Give me your keys," Winn said. "I’ll drive."

Joey didn’t argue. He didn’t even speak. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his keys with trembling fingers, handing them over without looking up.

As Winn took the keys, Sylvia called out sharply behind them. "Winn!"

Sylvia came running up. She grabbed Winn’s arm as Joey ignored her and walked toward the car. "Have you found her? Please tell me you found Ivy."

Winn shook his head, forcing himself to stay steady. "No," he said. "It’s Diane. She’s dead. Got in an accident." His jaw tightened, emotion flickering in his eyes before he masked it again. "I’ll know more soon. But I need you to stay here. Wait for Ivy."

Sylvia blinked, her lips parting in shock. "Wait—what?"

"Please," Winn said, already half in the car. "If she shows up... I don’t want her to think I gave up."

He didn’t wait for a reply. He shut the door. The engine roared to life, and before Sylvia could process what was happening, Joey’s car peeled out of the courtyard.

Sylvia stood there for a long moment, the wind lifting strands of her hair.