Chapter 2: The Wedding Swap

When I opened the door and saw him, every part of me tensed. "Why are you here?" The question came out sharper than I meant, but I was too tired to fake politeness.

Luke paused, then got right to it. "I need to talk to you." His jaw was set, stubborn and unyielding—the look I used to find comforting, now just made my stomach twist.

With the wedding looming, I felt it coming, but I still forced a smile. "What is it?" My go-to smile, the one I’d practiced for years at family dinners and awkward holidays.

He looked down. "Sophia’s health is unpredictable. I want to give her what she wants most. She looks so much like you—so I want her to take your place and marry me. Then, afterward, we’ll switch back."

I stared at him. "Is gratitude so important you’d give up everything for it?" I couldn’t stop the words, couldn’t hold them back.

Three years ago, he’d come to the Johnsons to propose. He’d stood in our living room in pressed khakis and a button-down, every mother’s dream.

After we got engaged, our families started doing everything together—Sunday dinners, Fourth of July fireworks, Christmas Eve gift swaps. All the small-town rituals.

He was always gentle, always thoughtful. Opening car doors, memorizing my oat milk latte order, texting me good morning without fail.

He knew I didn’t get along with my family, knew I felt guilty toward Sophia, knew how hard things were at home. He’d promised to take me to Denver after the wedding. It was easy to fall for someone who offered escape.

I thought he loved me, that our marriage was a sure thing. I’d even started looking at apartments in Capitol Hill and Highland, making plans.

I could finally leave home. Sophia wouldn’t have to worry about me taking the family’s attention.

Then, last year, I found out he and Sophia had been texting behind my back. Late-night messages, secret coffee dates when I was at work—all those “working late” nights that suddenly made sense.

Turns out, he only proposed to me because he thought I was his savior.

When I brought up gratitude, he frowned. Instead of answering, he shot back, "Are you really going to say again that you’re my savior?"

Somewhere along the line, that frown became permanent whenever he looked at me. The little crease between his brows that used to mean he was deep in thought—now it just meant he was tired of me.

He was just standing outside, but the distance felt like the Grand Canyon. The porch light flickered overhead—another thing I kept meaning to fix.

That’s what happens to a liar, right?

A chill swept through. I covered my mouth, coughing. "If you’ve already decided, do whatever you want." My voice was rough, the rawness in my throat giving me away.

Say something enough times, and you start to believe it yourself.

When Luke was seven, his stepmom tried to sell him to traffickers. I was the one who hid him in my room that night—under my pink princess bed, behind boxes of American Girl clothes, while counselors searched with flashlights.

The church camp counselor was known for treating women’s illnesses—a California transplant with herbal teas and prayers.

My brother took me there for treatment. We lived at that camp for a year—hymns, crafts, and one terrified boy I kept safe.

But that memory—everyone knew it was me—became Sophia’s story instead.

Luke just stood there, watching me. I could tell he was worried I’d ruin the wedding, maybe pull a “speak now or forever hold your peace” scene like in some cheesy rom-com.

I forced a smile. "Don’t worry, I won’t ruin your wedding." The same smile I’d given my parents a thousand times. Everything’s fine, I’m fine, we’re all fine.

He pressed his lips together, annoyed. "That’s our wedding. Don’t be spiteful. Since I’m engaged to you, it’ll always be you..."

I cut him off, mimicking his tone. "Are you going to lecture me again?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Nothing left to say.