I will die in winter, missing my own spring wedding

The white lace dress hung in the garment bag inside my closet, waiting for next month.

I sat on the paper-lined examination table, staring at Dr. Miller as he adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. He held my chart with two hands, his fingers pressing into the cardstock.

"I asked you here alone, Pamela, because these results require an immediate conversation," he said.

"Is the anemia worse?" I asked. My palms rested flat on my knees. "Bob and I have the tasting menu on Friday. If I need iron supplements, just write the script now."

Dr. Miller didn't reach for his pen.

"This isn't anemia." He set the folder on the rolling stool between us. "The bone marrow biopsy showed an aggressive, rare cellular malignancy. The rate of replication is unlike standard cases."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you need to be admitted to oncology by tomorrow morning."

"The wedding is in thirty days, Dr. Miller." A dry laugh escaped my mouth. "I can't check into a ward tomorrow."

"Pamela, listen to me." His voice dipped, rough and low. "Without intervention, we are measuring your remaining time in weeks. Even with aggressive treatment, the projection is three months. Perhaps ninety days."

The clock on the wall ticked with a rhythmic snap.

"Three months?"

"That is an optimistic estimate."

"I picked the veil yesterday."

"Call your fiancé," Dr. Miller said, pushing a box of tissues toward me. "Bring him in. We will discuss palliative options together."

I didn't take a tissue. I stood up, gathered my purse, and walked out into the corridor.

The heat of the parking garage hit my skin like a wet blanket. I climbed into the front seat of my sedan, shut the door, and locked it. My fingers trembled against the steering wheel. Ninety days. That meant July. August. Dead before October.

My phone chimed against the center console.

The screen lit up with Bob’s contact photo—the one I took in Maine two summers ago, his arm hooked around my neck, grinning into the wind.

I snatched the phone, pressing it hard against my ear.

"Bob," I breathed out, the words catching in my dry throat. "Where are you? I'm at the medical center. Something happened with the labs, and I need you to come get me—"

"Pamela, don't talk for a second," Bob interrupted. His tone sounded crisp, clipped at the edges. "I'm calling because we have to make an adjustment."

"An adjustment?"

"We need to push the wedding back."

I froze, my thumb digging into the phone case. "What did you say?"

"The wedding. We're moving it to next spring."

A cold spike drove down my spine. "Next spring? Bob, that's nine months away. Why would you say that? We already sent the invitations. The deposits—"

"I’ll handle the deposits," he said, shifting something on his end of the line. Papers rustled. "Spring makes more sense. The weather will be better, and I have too many things pulling at my schedule right now."

"You said October was perfect," I said, my voice climbing higher. "You wanted autumn leaves. Bob, listen to me. I just saw the oncologist. I don't have until spring!"

He let out an exhausted sigh that crackled through the speaker. "Don't be dramatic, Pamela. You always catastrophize when you get stressed about planning. Just take a breath."

"I am not being dramatic!" I yelled into the receiver. "The doctor told me—"

"Emily is back," he cut in.

The silence that followed was so absolute I could hear his shallow breathing.

"What?" I whispered.

"Emily returned to New York yesterday," Bob said, his voice dropping into that careful, defensive register he used whenever he knew he was crossing a line. "Her mother reached out. Things are complicated with her family, and she doesn't know anyone in the city anymore. I need space to figure things out, Pamela. I owe her that much."

"You owe your ex-girlfriend?" My fingers went white against the phone. "You're postponing our wedding because your college ex moved back to town?"

"She isn't just an ex, and you know that. Don't make this ugly."

"Bob, I am sick!"

"We will talk later tonight," he said coldly. "Go home. Have some tea. We'll sort it out when I'm done here."

The line went dead.

I pulled the phone away and stared at the dark screen. He hung up. My fiancé hung up on me while I held a ninety-day death warrant in my lap.

I started the ignition, the engine roaring to life. Emily always stayed at the Mercer when she visited Manhattan. Bob had mentioned it years ago, back when I thought his memories of her were just harmless history.

Rain started to pelt the windshield by the time I crossed into Soho. Heavy drops smeared the glass, the wipers squeaking across the surface.

I double-parked half a block down from the Mercer Hotel.

Through the blur of rain, the hotel's black awning came into focus.

The brass double doors pushed open.

Bob stepped out first.

He wasn't wearing his work suit; he had on the dark wool sweater I bought him for Christmas, the collar folded neatly against his neck. He held a massive black umbrella, angling it carefully over the person walking beside him.

Emily emerged under the canopy.

She looked small next to him, wrapped in a cream trench coat. She laughed at something he said, tipping her head back.

Bob didn't smile like a man overwhelmed by work. He smiled with a soft, open expression I hadn't seen on his face in over a year. He leaned down, his free hand lifting to tuck a damp strand of dark hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on the curve of her jaw, stroking her cheek with practiced familiarity.

Emily rose on her toes, looping both arms around his neck.

Bob pulled her against his chest, dipping his head, and kissed her.

It wasn't a friendly peck. It was deep, lingering, his mouth moving against hers while the city traffic splashed through the gutters around them. He held her like he never intended to let go.

I pushed my car door open and stepped out into the downpour.

The cold water instantly soaked through my blouse, plastering my hair to my forehead. I didn't feel the chill. My chest burned with a sudden, suffocating heat.

I took three steps toward the awning, stopping beside a parked delivery van.

Bob broke the kiss, resting his forehead against hers. Neither of them looked toward the street. The entire world could have vanished around them, and Bob wouldn't have noticed.

He didn't postpone the wedding because of stress.

He postponed it because he was waiting to see if she would take him back.

A sharp, ragged laugh tore from my throat, drowned out by the hiss of rain on asphalt.

"Enjoy your spring, Bob," I muttered, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.

I squeezed the oncology report in my fist, the thick paper crumpling under my nails until the ink bled through the damp edges. If he wanted to wait for flowers to bloom, he could stand by my grave to do it.

I turned on my heel, ready to walk back to the car and erase him from whatever breath I had left.

Then Emily shifted her umbrella hand.

Her right sleeve rode up her forearm, exposing her wrist to the glare of the hotel lanterns.

Gleaming against her pale skin was an intricate, braided platinum chain with a tiny engraved compass charm.

The air vanished from my lungs.

It was the engagement gift I had custom-ordered for Bob six months ago, engraved with our coordinates.

She was wearing it.