Seven Days to the Altar: Goodbye, Mr. Arrogant

Becky and I had been best friends since elementary school—inseparable until we both got into this top university and became roommates.

We used to lie in our dorm beds, staring at the ceiling, and swear an oath: when we got married, the gap between our weddings would never exceed one week.

I waited for Steven for four full years.

From freshman year to senior spring, I ghostwrote his papers, nursed his drunk stomach, and endured the rotating cast of girls who always seemed to need him.

Until the night Becky got proposed to—when the whole crowd egged Steven on to drop a knee too, he flung my hand away without a second thought, all because Claire, some sophomore, let out a shriek.

"Not now, Rachel. Claire's hurt. Can you not make this about you for once?"

That was all he left me with before he scooped her up and melted into the crowd.

What he didn't know was that there would never be a "not now" again.

In seven days, I'd be walking down the aisle in a wedding dress, just as promised.

Only the groom—wouldn't be him.

The roar of the crowd nearly blew the roof off the Sigma Chi house.

"Kiss her! Kiss her!"

In the center of the lawn, Becky pressed both hands over her mouth, tears of joy streaming down her face.

Her boyfriend Daniel was down on one knee, holding up a diamond ring that caught every string of patio light above them.

Confetti rained down. Becky nodded furiously, screamed "Yes!", and threw herself into Daniel's arms for a kiss.

I stood in the front row, clapping with every ounce of genuine happiness I had. My eyes stung at the corners.

Watching that ring on her finger, I was truly, deeply happy for her.

"Steven! You're up! Don't be a coward, bro!" Someone bellowed, and the whole backyard ignited.

Right on cue, Becky spun around and snatched the microphone out of Daniel's hand.

Her gaze cut through the rowdy crowd and landed on Steven, standing right beside me.

"That's right, Steven!" Becky's voice rang across the backyard, crisp and commanding.

"Rachel and I made a pact—no more than one week between our weddings. Daniel just delivered. You've made Rachel wait four years. Are you seriously not going to step up tonight?"

Every pair of eyes in the yard swung toward us.

The frat brothers started clapping in rhythm: "Steven! Get down! Steven! Get down!"

My heart skipped a violent beat.

My palms went slick. Four years.

From the moment he took my hand at the freshman welcome dance, I'd pulled all-nighters on papers that were more mine than his, held him together when his father's business went bankrupt, and turned down a semester in Europe—all to stay by his side.

I looked up at Steven, eyes full of hope.

He stood there in his signature leather jacket, but his brow furrowed—just barely—when Becky's words hit him.

He wasn't looking at me. His gaze swept the chanting crowd with visible irritation before his lips curled into a careless half-smile.

"Becky, what is this? A shotgun proposal? Rachel and I have our own pace."

"What pace? The pace of stalling?" Becky fired back. She knew exactly what these four years had cost me.

"Steven! Propose! Propose!" The chanting swelled.

I saw his hand slide into his pocket—the pocket with the small, square box.

I knew it was there. Last week, while sorting his dry cleaning, my fingers had brushed against it.

That moment, I'd believed four years of waiting were finally about to pay off.

He sighed, as if conceding at last. His hand came out, and he turned to face me.

I stopped breathing. The noise around us hit mute.

I looked into his eyes, waiting for the scene I'd imagined a thousand times.

"Rachel—" he began.

"Ahhh—!"

A piercing scream ripped through the crowd from the other side of the yard, cutting him off mid-syllable.

The crowd parted, opening a path.

Claire—a sophomore—sat crumpled among shards of broken glass, blood seeping between the fingers clamped over her ankle.

Chalk-white face, tears streaming, wide eyes locked on us with picture-perfect helplessness.

Here's the tightened version:

"Claire!"

Before I could even process it, Steven was already gone from my side.

He didn't glance at me—not once. His shoulder clipped mine as he shoved past, and then he dropped to one knee in front of Claire.

The exact pose that was supposed to be mine.

"What happened? How could you be so careless?" His voice was thick with worry.

"Steven… it hurts so much. I think I stepped on a broken bottle. There's so much blood—do you think I'll be okay?" Claire collapsed into his arms on cue.

"You'll be fine. I'm taking you to the hospital right now." Without a moment's hesitation, he lifted her into his arms, bridal-style.

Dead silence.

Every single person stared at me.

One second ago, I was the girl about to be proposed to. The next, I was the punchline left standing alone.

Becky was shaking with rage. She stormed down the porch steps and blocked his path.

"Steven! Have you lost your mind? This is Rachel's moment! Claire has a scratch on her foot—call campus health or have literally anyone else take her! If you walk out that door tonight, you and Rachel are done!"

Steven looked at Becky over Claire's body, his expression cold and annoyed.

Then his eyes flicked to me, his tone dripping with impatience.

"Rachel, control your friend. Claire is bleeding. Do either of you have an ounce of compassion? Does a proposal really have to happen tonight?"

I stood perfectly still, watching the man who was glaring at me because of another woman.

"Steven," I heard my own voice, impossibly calm. "Was that box in your pocket for me?"

He froze. He clearly hadn't expected that question right now.

His hand instinctively covered his pocket, his eyes darting away. "Tonight's a mess. Next time, Rachel. When everything's set up right, I'll give you the perfect moment. Don't do this right now."

And with that, he carried Claire out the front door of the frat house without looking back.

Next time.

Those two words looped in my head like a curse.

Sophomore year, Valentine's Day—"next time," and he went to console a heartbroken Claire over drinks.

Junior year, my birthday—"next time," because the frat had some crucial gaming tournament.

Senior year, the dinner celebrating my offer from a top-tier investment bank—"next time," again, because Claire's laptop was broken and apparently only he could fix it.

Every single time. A gentle tone, a hollow promise shipped off to some imaginary future.

I didn't cry. I didn't collapse the way everyone around me expected. I just lowered my gaze to the crushed rose petals scattered across the grass.

In that moment, something I'd held onto for four years made a clean, quiet snap.

"Rachel…" Becky rushed over, eyes brimming, reaching out to hold me.

I looked up and gave her the most natural smile I had. "Becky, congratulations. Your wedding's next Saturday, right?"

Becky froze, red-eyed, and nodded. "Yes, but you—"

"Good." I smoothed back the hair the night breeze had tousled, my tone as detached as if I were commenting on tomorrow's forecast. "We made a promise. No more than one week."

Steven didn't know it, but there was no next time.

Because I was already getting married next week.