Though it was the first day of Iman's Thanksgiving break and all she truly wanted to be doing was nothing, Hana had set up this appointment at one of the premier bridal shops in town a month ago—and nothing Iman or anyone else said could convince Hana to reschedule. If it were up to her, Iman kept thinking, she would be gone with Beck already, driving up to Newark, far enough away from DC, far enough away from Julien's perpetually stinging absence. She could practically see it: car radio cranked loud, her feet on the dash, Beck humming along to the melody as he drove.

"Miss Patel?"

Iman sighed, checking her watch. But that car ride was at least another three hours away. Beck had to be at work, and Iman had to be here, so any lofty ideas of quick getaways were effectively extinguished.

"How does that fit?"

Iman lifted her eyes to the mirror. The dress was lace-sleeved, a sweetheart neckline, a sweeping chiffon skirt and a long train to match. It was glittery and white and fluffy, all in a glaring sort of way that almost made Iman feel overdressed. Iman frowned at her reflection, messing at the curls of her hair with restless hands. "It's fine," she said.

The attendant, taking a few pins from between her teeth, stepped back with one eyebrow risen. "You don't seem too happy."

Iman shrugged, glancing at her over her shoulder. "My mom and my sisters will want to see it, anyway."
"But—"

Iman shook her head, already edging out of the fitting room and down the hall. She knew how this worked. She put on a dress, she waltzed out and did a twirl or two until Hana and the others made their judgments, and then she came back and put on another one. It was tedious, made more so by the fact that not one dress seemed to be the one yet—everything was either too much or too little, too tight or too loose. It was as if the white fabric blurred Iman's vision; enough times standing before the mirror, and she no longer recognized her reflection.

Iman rounded the corner, where Cam, Hana, and Annette Patel all sat huddled close to each other on the waiting room's couch. Iman had wanted to invite Beck's younger sister, Wendy, but her distance from DC combined with a basketball practice she had scheduled conflicted.

There was no buffer, in other words, to keep Hana from losing her mind over every single detail.

As Iman entered, Hana sat up with a gasp. Her heat-straightened hair was slightly frizzed—there was a consistent rainstorm outside, gray and tumultuous—and every few moments her fingers mindlessly flitted up to fix the strands."Immy. You look stunning."

Iman grimaced, tilting her head. "I do?"

"Beck would love this one!" Cam added with an exuberant nod. "No, really. If he saw you coming down the aisle in this I'm sure he'd cry like a baby."

Iman grimaced more. Beck was many things, but he was not much of a crier. "I can't really imagine that."

"Well you don't have to. Because it's gonna happen."

"Camelia," said Annette, in a way only a mother could do: fond but admonishing all at once. "Don't you think we should ask Im how she feels about it?"

Hana opened her mouth to protest, but was silenced by a sideways glance from their mother.

Iman sighed, turning to face the mirror, her back to her family. She ran her fingers along the bodice, nails catching against the finely-detailed sequins and floral designs, smoothed her hand down the bountiful skirt. Would Beck cry if he saw her in this? Would she want him to?

In the mirror's reflection, Iman watched her mother rise from her seat. The attendant handed Annette the veil, and with a reverent silence Iman's mother raked her daughter's hair back with gentle fingers and settled the veil within the curls.

Annette's hands fell to rest on Iman's shoulders. "I do wish your father were here to see you," she said with a tired grin that formed lines in her dark brown cheeks. "You look positively beautiful."

Iman turned her head. "You don't think the dress is a bit much?"

Annette sighed, gripping Iman's hand. "I wasn't talking about the dress."

"Mom..."

Iman's ringtone sang suddenly over the classical quartet that hummed from the shop's overhead speakers. When Iman and her mother turned, Cam was rustling through Iman's purse. Finally Cam lifted the phone to show Iman the screen, a confused knit to her brow. "It says 'Mr. Caulfield.' Is that Beck?"

Iman shook her head, hurrying over to Cam's side. "No," she said, concern forming a black mass in her throat, difficult to swallow around. "That's his dad."

The only reason Beck's father's number was in Iman's phone was because Beck had given it to her; most contact she had with Lemmy Caulfield was, after all, through his son. What could have compelled him to contact her so out of the blue? Change of Thanksgiving plans, maybe, but no...she knew he would have just called Beck.

Cam pressed the phone into Iman's hands, which Iman hadn't realized until then were starting to tremble.

She picked up. "Hello?"

"Iman?" A cough. "Hey. It's Lemmy."

"Yes. Is everything okay?"

There was a moment of silence so poignant that Iman's ears would ring with it for many minutes after. "It's Beck, honey," he said, his voice raw, as if most of it were gone away. "Wendy and I are here with him at the hospital. I'm afraid he was in an accident."

Iman's stomach did a painful twist inside of her, even as the rest of her body went suddenly rigid. All the questions that suddenly filled her brain gave her a pounding headache, a persistent throb at her temples that said, again and again, No, no, no.

Cam, Hana, and her mother were all watching her, but Iman barely noticed. All she could think was Beck, Beck, Beck—was he alive? Was he okay? Was he alive?

"Is—is he okay?" Iman stammered, though the words were slow to come.

Lemmy let out an exhausted breath. "Iman?" he said. "I'd just get here as soon as you can."

Iman did not wait for explanations, not to receive any, not to give any. She merely threw off the wedding dress, apologized to the attendant as she haphazardly tossed on the jeans and sweater she'd arrived in, and sprinted for her car. Even as she drove she knew it was not a good idea to be doing so. If the throbbing at her temples were not enough of an indicator, her stomach was flipping and twisting about like a worm on a hook—but no. She could not slip now, could not go anywhere, anywhere but here, until she made sure Beck was okay.

Beck needed her. If she couldn't be there for him now, she didn't deserve to wear his mother's ring on her finger.

Rain slapped against the windshield as Iman drew closer and closer to the hospital, a loud, jarring noise that only exacerbated Iman's unrest: dim weather for an even dimmer day. She should have cancelled. If she'd cancelled that stupid bridal appointment, maybe she would have been with him, somehow, maybe she would have—

In the back of her head, Beck held her face and caught her tears on his thumbs and told her: Don't even go there, Iman.

I've been there—all the I should have, I wish I would haves—and it's a very ugly place.

Iman parked the car. She was too otherwise concerned to even think about huddling underneath an umbrella or purse, so by the time she stepped beyond the hissing glass doors of the hospital and into the instant coffee-scented waiting room, her hair and clothes were dripping.

"Beckett Caulfield?" she said to the receptionist, halfway craning over the counter, her shoulders sunken with an exhaustion she hadn't felt since she'd watched her father die. She couldn't do that again. No one else, please, no one else. "Beckett Murphy Caulfield. I'm his fiancée, Iman Patel?"

A shadow passed over the receptionist's face that Iman didn't like. For a moment, all she could hear was the clacking of fingers against a keyboard, clack-clack, clack-clack-clack, no rhythm, more aggravating the more she heard it—until finally the receptionist looked up. "142," she said, and pointed down the hall. "He's not far."

Iman thanked her, though with her mind already down the hall and in room 142 she may have said nothing at all.

When she opened the door, Beck was sitting up in bed, flanked on either side by Wendy—still in a damp basketball uniform, shuddering from the rain—and Lemmy, something in his finely-lined face suggesting relief and horror all at once.

The atmosphere of the room was too grim for the scene that greeted her. He was fine, save for a butterfly bandage at his temple and a bruise along his brow, his glasses missing and his favorite winter suit replaced by a hospital gown. He looked fine. Yet something about the very air she breathed tasted of defeat.

"Iman," said Lemmy, getting to his feet. "Goodness, you're soaked."

"Iman?" said Beck, whipping his head around suddenly. Wendy reached out to calm him, a hand gripping his shoulder. "She's here? Where is she?"

Iman mopped her wet hair back from her face, sparing Wendy a smile as she came to Beck's side. "I left as soon as you called me, Lemmy," she said, taking Beck's hand. As she did, he flinched, his head turning in her direction but his eyes never truly locking on hers. "What happened, Beck?"

"Immy..." he said, and there was a quiet distress in his voice, in his face. "I hydroplaned when I was leaving work? Crazy, I know. I don't really remember much, but the doctors all told me I hit a tree on the side of the road. I'm lucky to be alive, they say."

"That you are, kiddo," offered Lemmy.

Wendy sighed and slumped against the wall. "Thank God."

"The thing is..." His fingers slipped out of Iman's, reaching up instead and fumbling about until they landed on her chin. Iman trembled. It was the aimless way he moved, the way he seemed to be looking behind her and not at her—that was how she already knew. "I hit my head pretty hard, Immy. Damaged the nerves. I can't...I can't see you."

Iman lifted her gaze to Lemmy, who was crumpled over the bedside, his face in his hands.

A choked sob escaped her before she much knew what happened, her whole chest heaving. "Oh God, Beck. Beck, I'm so—"

With his quivering fingers, Beck traced her mouth, her cheeks, the skin underneath her eyes. He drew them back sharply when he sensed her tears. "Oh, Immy," he said, his face breaking into a smile. "I'm okay, really. Don't cry for me. Don't cry, please? I'm okay."

But Iman couldn't help it. The tears were already there, and there was nothing she could do to stop them now. She slumped forward, into Beck's chest, hugging her arms around his torso and listening to his heart as it thumped beneath her ear. He's alive, she told herself. At least he's alive. But still some part of her felt empty—as if it were her fault, as if he would still be able to see if only he hadn't ever met her, fallen in love with her, proposed to her.

"I'll be okay," Beck said, but his voice broke at the end of the sentence. "The only thing I'm sad about is...is, well, I wish I could have seen you in your wedding dress."

Iman shook her head. "Don't. Please don't."

"I just..." She felt the shudder of his breath underneath her ear, a cold kiss on her forehead that she realized a second later was one of his tears. "It's so dark now, Im. I'm...really scared."

Iman was terrified, a big messy tangle of terror in her chest beating along with her heart, but she didn't say so. For him, she said nothing, only crawled onto the bed beside him and held him, until she reconciled that this was not at all the nightmare she wished it was, but reality. There was no pinching herself, no water in her face, no reassuring hug and a Go on back to sleep, now.

Beck had lost his eyesight, but she too, felt blind, like the only candle she had left was snuffed out, leaving only a thin gray tendril winding dismally away into the black.