99 Pictures of My Sister and My Fiancé Chapter 01

The day I went to try on my wedding dress, my sister Sierra Clark said she wanted to help me pick it out.

I came out of the fitting room, and there she was—fixing my fiancé Logan Hughes’s bow tie.

I was about to say, “I’ll do that,” when the makeup artist smiled and walked right past me toward her. “The bride’s over here.”

They exchanged a little smile. My childhood best friend Jordan Simmons, who was supposed to be taking my wedding photos, brushed past me without a second look.

Nearly a hundred photos. And every single one was my sister and my fiancé. Not one shot of me—the bride.

I just stood there, frozen.

When we were kids playing house, Jordan and Sierra always played the groom and bride. I threw the flower petals.

When I grew up and got a fiancé, the three of them laughed and shoved each other around. I held the bags. “Hey, Nora, can you grab that bouquet for me?”

Logan saw I wasn’t saying anything. He walked over and gently pulled the flowers out of my hands.

“What’s wrong, Nora?” he said softly. “Go pick out some invitation samples. I’ll come find you after I’m done with photos.”

Jordan held up his camera and peeked out from behind the viewfinder with one eye.

“Nora, move over a couple steps. You’re blocking the light.”

I moved. Quietly. I stood in the corner.

That’s when it hit me. I was extra.

Since this wedding didn’t actually need me—I wouldn’t show up either.

***

I picked up my bag from the bench by the door and pushed it open.

The wind chime rang once. No one called after me.

I looked back. Sierra was twirling in front of the mirror. Logan stood behind her, fixing the bow on her waist.

Jordan raised his camera. “Yeah, right there—perfect angle.”

The shutter clicked five or six times in a row.

I turned around and walked out of the shop.

When I got in the car, my phone screen lit up.

A message from the wedding planner. [Ms. Clark, the wedding’s coming up. Have you picked an invitation design yet?]

Before I could reply, another one popped up. [Or you can have your sister choose for you. She has great taste.]

The car was quiet.

Quiet enough that I could hear myself breathe.

One breath at a time. Like I was counting something.

What was I counting?

How many times I’d been forgotten in this relationship? Overlooked?

I typed three words. “Let her decide.”

And I meant it. At the end of the day, Logan would listen to her anyway.

They replied instantly. [Got it, thank you.]

I stared at those four words and figured they were probably relieved.

No more back-and-forth with the indecisive bride. So much easier.

Before I could put my phone down, messages started pouring in.

Jordan was uploading photos to the group chat one after another.

I opened one full-screen. Jordan’s composition was beautiful—light falling across their faces like a bridal ad.

I let out a bitter laugh.

When I was a kid playing house, I used to envy whoever got to be the bride.

Then I met Logan, and I thought—finally, I get to be a real bride for once.

I put everything into this wedding. Every little thing.

Like it was my one and only proof that I deserved to be the lead for once.

I never thought—at the end of it all—I’d still get pushed outside the frame.

I brought my sister this time because she’s the closest person I have.

And trying on a wedding dress—that’s serious, right?

There should only be one bride and one groom in those photos. And I was the bride.

What could possibly go wrong?

Same story.

My phone screen kept lighting up and going dark, lighting up and going dark.

Message after message in the group.

I didn’t reply.

No one noticed.

I drove back to my apartment.

On the fridge was a sticky note I’d written. [7 days until the wedding.]

I peeled it off gently, crumpled it, and threw it in the trash.