He Picked Up Another Woman on Our Wedding Day Chapter 08

He Picked Up Another Woman on Our Wedding Day Chapter 08

The next morning, he actually drove to my building.

Not the same wedding car—no red ribbons on the hood, just a new bouquet sitting in the backseat.

He stood at the entrance, holding a revised route map.

In the community group chat, someone asked:

[Who owns the car parked downstairs? It’s been there all morning. Blocking the moving truck.]

My mother glanced at her phone but said nothing. My father pulled the curtains closed. She turned her phone face-down on the table and didn’t go back to the window.

Ryan called me. This time I answered. His voice was hoarse.

“Natalie. I’m not picking up anyone else today. I’m starting from your front door, following the original route.”

I looked out at the car. “Pickup isn’t something you reshoot. The people who were supposed to wait for you yesterday already waited.”

He spoke faster. “I know I was wrong yesterday. I shouldn’t have gone to get Shelby first. But we can start over—please.”

“My parents waited for you once.” The line went quiet. I kept going. “That car went to someone else’s place first. Coming back later—that’s not coming for me.”

Ryan didn’t answer for a long time.

The community group sent another message. [Owner of the car—can you move it, please?]

I opened the chat and typed: [Not my car.]

A few minutes later, the security guard walked over and tapped on Ryan’s window. “Sir, outside vehicles can’t park here for this long.”

Ryan looked up at my window. I didn’t open the curtains.

The bouquet in his hand was starting to wilt in the sun.

The guard said again, “If you’re waiting for someone, don’t block the entrance.” Ryan looked down at the route map, the route that started at my front door, clearly drawn.

The guard knocked on the window again, asking if he’d gotten the wrong building.

Ryan stood by the car, still holding the new bouquet, the one that never got handed up, the one no one came down to take.

Finally, he reversed the car.

When the spot was empty, my mother said quietly, “Maybe this is for the best.”

I didn’t ask what she meant. I knew.

My father pulled the curtains tight and didn’t look at the car again.

Ryan sent one more message: [I’m still downstairs.]

I turned my phone over and didn’t look at it.

The car’s headlights stayed on for a long time. Eventually they went dark, leaving only the car’s silhouette.

The new bouquet stayed in the passenger seat. Never delivered.

Three days later, Ryan came back. He didn’t drive the wedding car—he parked outside the community and walked to my building.

When I came down, he was holding a newly printed route map—from his house to mine, from mine to the venue. Every intersection had been re-marked in pen.

He handed the map to me. “Natalie. I was wrong that day. It wasn’t about being ten minutes late. I made you and your parents stand downstairs and look foolish.”

I looked at the map. The first stop said “Moore Residence.” Beside it, in red ink: The groom picks up the bride here.

If this had been before the wedding, I might have kept the paper and reminded him which roads got backed up. But now that line only reminded me of my parents waiting on the curb.

I didn’t take the map. Ryan’s hand froze in the air.

He said, “I read the itinerary you wrote later. You even thought about whether I’d need water before going up, whether I’d get nervous during the toast. And I went to Shelby’s first.”

I looked at him. His eyes were bloodshot, his suit rumpled, not like on the wedding day. But it was too late.

The image of my father folding that parasol flashed through my mind again.

He gripped the route map. “I can start over. I’ll book a new venue, hire a new coordinator, call everyone back.” He spoke fast, the map crumpling under his fingers.

I shook my head.

“The door that day—my father won’t open it for you a second time.”