The Sins You Buried Beneath My Wedding Bed

It was the week before New Year's Eve when Denise, a fellow teacher, suddenly appeared at my desk with a bouquet of flowers, insisting they were for me.

The card contained only a few sparse words: Wishing Shirley a happy New Year.

The signature was a simple, single English letter: B.

One look was all it took. I recognized his handwriting instantly, and the ghost of his face flashed in my mind.

Against my will, the memoriesthose wretched, deeply buried thingsbegan to claw their way back up.

My fingers, gripping the small card, tightened into a white-knuckled fist.

Moments later, with Denise watching, I walked the expensive arrangement straight over to the office trash can and dumped it in.

That man. We were days away from walking down the aisle.

But from the moment my brother's name was etched onto a marble headstone, he and I ceased to have any connection at all.

01

My colleague, Denise, must have guessed the truth from my actions.

After a long pause, she finally asked, "Was it him?"

I didn't answer, my focus fixed on the lesson plans I was writing.

Denise sighed softly. "I heard hes arranging a transfer back from out of state. Are you really going to keep this up when he gets here?"

"You'll be colleagues, Shirley. Besides, he was your brother's closest"

"Denise." I cut her off.

"Beckett lost the right to that title five years ago. He was not a brother in the twenty-seven years of Logans short life."

She looked at me intently. "Shirley, its been so many years. Do you still hate him?"

"Yes." My reply was swift and cold, clipped with finality.

Denises expression was startled. After a moment, she just shook her head and walked away.

Leaving the school that afternoon, I ran into Mr. Henderson, the principal, who had been a professor to both my brother and Beckett.

After a brief exchange of pleasantries, his tone shifted, becoming measured and complex.

"I got a call this afternoon. Beckett is coming back."

I offered a noncommittal "Mhm." The principal was silent for a moment, then offered his counsel.

"Your brother was a very forgiving person. If he were alive, he wouldn't want to see you two this way."

This way? As enemies?

I didnt understand why everyone kept telling me to let it go.

Did they truly believe that once a tragedy occurred, the victim was somehow obligated to accept it?

I had every right to my anger, to the moral high ground, yet they were constantly pressuring me. Colleagues, my boss, even my family friends.

Why were they all speaking up for Beckett?

I couldnt fathom it, and I didn't want to try.

On the walk home, the evening wind was sharp, making my cheeks sting. I smoothed the anger from my face and walked slowly up the stairs to my apartment.

I pushed the door open to the comforting sight of my parents and my husband, Ben, gathered around the kitchen island, making homemade meatballs for the sauce.

Three-year-old Rosie, our daughter, sat on the sofa, happily poking at a small piece of dough she held in her hand.

"Mommy!"

Rosies eyes immediately spotted me. She dropped the dough and toddled over on her short, chubby legs.

I bent down and scooped her up, kissing her soft cheek.

She held up the oddly shaped piece of dough shed been mangling and said sweetly, "Look, Mommy! This is the meatball I made for Uncle Logan."

I had to clench my jaw, fighting the sudden, fierce sting of tears.

"That's wonderful, Rosie-girl."

The steaming sauce and meatballs were eventually brought to the table. I placed a bowl of sauce and a few pieces of bread at the empty settingmy brother's spot.

It had been five years, but his place was always set, as if he might just walk in and join us.

Rosie tugged on my sleeve, confused. "Mommy, why does Uncle Logan always stay in the square box?" She was pointing to the large framed photo on the credenza.

"Why doesn't he come out and eat the meatballs?"

"Why won't he ever play with me?"

I looked at Logans photograph. He was forever twenty-four, frozen in the prime of his life.

The air went still. My parents paused their movements, then resumed them, their grief a familiar, quiet hum. Ben squeezed my hand under the table, offering a silent anchor.

I looked down at my daughters innocent, searching eyes, stroked her hair, and said nothing.

If Logan were here, I thought, he would be the best son, the best brother, and the best uncle.

But there was no if.

For five years, I thought I had buried the wretched past, and the man connected to it, deep in the darkest corner of my heart. But the slightest movement, a mere breath of wind, was enough to make the scabs bleed again.

02

I ran into Beckett the very next day, right as I entered the school gate.

Five years had passed, and the contours of his face hadn't changed, but the boyishness was gone. His eyes were sharper, his expression more mature and intense, surrounded by an impenetrable, chilly air.

Students passing by greeted me, but I barely registered them.

My gaze was locked onto Beckett's face, and my chest felt squeezed by an invisible hand, the pain so acute it stole my breath.

A brutal thought flashed: If it had been him five years ago, and Logan was standing here instead, how much better everything would be.

"How have you been all these years?" Beckett spoke first, his voice devoid of discernible emotion.

I didn't reply, turning on my heel to walk away, but his hand shot out, gripping my wrist with sudden force.

He frowned, his voice taking on a desperate, almost pleading edge I hadn't expected.

"Shirley, I know what happened back then was my fault, but no matter what, Im not ungrateful. I have never forgotten the kindness your family, the Samuel family, showed me. Can we just... let the past stay in the past?"

I spun around fiercely, staring into his eyes, a tide of pure hatred rushing up and turning my eyes red-rimmed.

"Beckett, who are you to decide when everything 'moves on'?"

His brows furrowed tighter. "Shirley, I know youre still blaming me, but so much time has passed..."

I cut him off. "Time doesn't change what happened!"

He was silenced, his throat bobbing.

"I know that Gena and I wronged you and your brother back then," he admitted, looking at me with a strained sincerity. "I came back this time because I want to apologize to you all face-to-face."

That sentence was a fuse. It instantly ignited the fury I had suppressed for five years.

I yanked my hand free with such force that he stumbled back a step.

"You don't deserve to say his name!" I screamed, the tears finally bursting free and streaming down my face.

I couldn't bear to look at him for another second. I turned and fled.

As I entered the office, a whirlwind of energy rushed toward me. It was my best friend, Tessa, who had just returned from a professional exchange programand who had been Logan's peer in their grad program.

She grabbed my arm, her voice frantic. "I heard Beckett was transferring back and I drove straight through the night to get here."

She noticed my red eyes. "You saw him, didn't you?"

I nodded.

Tessa immediately rolled up her sleeves, ready to storm out and find him.

"That monster! How dare he come back! I'm going to tear him to pieces!"

I quickly pulled her back, shaking my head.

She stopped, looking at my pale face, her own eyes filling with sympathetic tears.

"If it wasn't for your parents and Logan helping him, he wouldn't have even finished college," she hissed, her voice full of scorn.

"And he just turned around and got involved with your brother's girlfriend. An ungrateful snake like that deserves every bit of karma that comes his way!"

A familiar, throbbing ache spread through my heart.

Yes, I thought. Beckett deserves every consequence.

Back then, Beckett was Logan's best friend and college roommate. He came from a poor background; his father had died young, and his mother was chronically ill.

In their sophomore year, his mother passed away, and he couldn't even afford the funeral costs. Logan came home and begged our parents for help.

My parents, soft-hearted as they were, not only paid for the burial but continued to help him with living expenses. Later, he worked tirelessly, paying back every penny within a year. He even volunteered to tutor me for free for two years.

Logan treated him like a brother; my father treated him like a second son. My whole family thought we had taken in a good, grateful young man.

Who could have predicted that the person we treated as family would ultimately betray my brother and me in the most heinous way, shattering our lives?

03

The woman who was supposed to be my sister-in-law, but instead became the wedge in my relationship with Beckett, was named Gena.

She was outwardly sweet and compliant, and my parents adored her.

My wedding to Beckett was only weeks away; the invitations were already printed.

But at every get-together, I would catch Gena looking at Beckett. That look was all wrong. It was too soft, too intimate, filled with undisguised longing, like a still, clear spring.

She never looked at Logan that way.

I tried to subtly warn Beckett a few times, but he always laughed, ruffling my hair and saying I was imagining things.

"That's going to be your sister-in-law, Scar. I know the codea brothers fiance is off-limits." Hed tease, "If Logan knew you were this jealous, hed never let you live it down."

Seeing his seemingly open demeanor, I forced down the anxiety and pushed my suspicions aside.

But it didn't take long for their behavior to become overtly intimate. Joking and laughing together in front of me became routine.

Once, Gena offered Beckett the half-finished coffee shed been drinking. He took it without a second thought, finishing the cup in a single gulp.

My heart seized up.

I tore into Beckett when we were alone, arguing until my tears stained the carpet.

"How can you do that? How can you do this to Logan? To me?"

He fell silent, his head bowed.

When he finally looked up, his face was calm, and he promised he would avoid any unnecessary interaction with Gena from then on.

For a while, he did keep his distance. But I also keenly noticed his attitude toward me had grown cold, palpably distant.

No fighting, no obvious conflictjust the warmth and affection vanished into thin air.

My anxiety returned, sharper than ever.

Three days before our wedding, I went to our new home to place the delicate, hand-painted porcelain vase I'd bought for the living room display shelf.

I entered the code, twisted the handle, and pushed the door open.

The scene before me instantly froze the blood in my veins.

The bedroom door was ajar.

On our festive, scarlet-red wedding bed, two figures were tangled together. Discarded clothes littered the floor, a sight that burned into my eyes.

The porcelain vase in my hand crashed to the ground. The brittle shards scattered with a jarring, high-pitched smash.

The noise startled the figures. Beckett wrenched his head around. Seeing me standing in the doorway, his face went instantly ashen.

He practically shrieked, spitting out three words: "Get the hell out!"

I was shaking violently, beyond the capacity to cry. I stumbled back, turning and blindly running out of the new house.

My phone buzzed. It was a text from Gena.

The single line of text was a poisoned dagger, stabbing straight into my heart.

Sorry, sis. Some people you're just not strong enough to keep.

Tears burst forth. I collapsed on the curb, sobbing uncontrollably.

I couldn't understand how they could do something so vile. How could they betray me? How could they betray Logan?

I had to tell him. He couldn't stay in the dark.

I fumbled for my phone, my fingers trembling, to call my brother.

But before I could tell him anything, the accident happened. Logan crashed his car.

Boom. My world disintegrated.

04

Logan was in a coma for a long time after the surgery.

The doctor said his consciousness was intact, but his injuries were severe. They urged ushis closest relativesto talk to him. If his will to live was strong enough, he might wake up soon.

The police determined my brother had caused the accident by excessive speeding. They recovered his phone at the scene. It was battered but functional.

I hesitated, then entered a few digits. It unlocked.

The password was Genas birthday.

I scrolled to his texts. The most recent message was a voice note from Gena.

The date was the very day I had discovered Beckett and Gena cheating.

My finger trembled as I pressed play.

Her sickening moans and Becketts heavy gasps poured out of the speaker.

I lunged for the trash can, violently vomiting. Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the bile.

He was rushing, speeding, because they had sent him that. Because they had deliberately broken him.

They had killed my brother.

I hid the truth, not even telling my parents. They couldn't handle the shock, not now.

I went to the hospital every day to talk to Logan. I talked about our childhood, our growing up, every tiny, irrelevant memory. But whenever I neared the subject of Beckett or Gena, I deliberately circled around it, refusing to speak their names.

A week later, Logans finger twitched.

Before I could even register the relief, Gena arrived to visit.

Through the glass of the ICU, I saw her leaning over Logans bed, murmuring something to him.

When she saw me, she smileda sickeningly sweet curve of her lips.

"Shirley, you're here. I was just catching Logan up. We were talking about your wedding to Beckett, actually."

"He needs to hurry up and get better so we can all attend your ceremony together."

Her condescension and provocation were too obvious. I was shaking with suppressed rage.

I hadn't confronted her yet. That didn't mean I had forgotten her betrayal, her sleeping with my fianc, her breaking my brother.

It certainly didn't mean she could stand there, preening over his sickbed.

Rage flooded my body.

Ignoring the hospital rules, I burst through the doors, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her out.

I kicked her hard in the lower abdomen.

Gena hadn't reacted fast enough. I slammed her against the wall.

That was the moment Beckett arrived.

He shoved me with brutal force. My head cracked against the wall with a dull thud. The pain stole my breath.

He bellowed at me: "Shirley! What the hell is wrong with you?"

Before I could speak, Gena cried out from the floor.

"Beckett, my stomach! It hurts so much."

"The baby... our baby..."

Her words froze me to the core.

A baby? They had a child together?

Beckett glared at me, then gently comforted Gena, "Don't worry." He swept her up in his arms and rushed her off to find a doctor.

I remained on the floor, stunned, unable to move for a long time.

Genas baby was fine, but I was utterly shattered.

I forced myself to hide the pain and keep the truth buried.

I returned to the ICU after dropping my parents home. As I approached, I saw a scene that made me nauseous.

Gena was nestled in Becketts embrace. They were kissing passionately, heedless of their surroundings, right next to Logans bed.

Genas voice was soft and sickly sweet. "Logan would bless us once he wakes up."

Beckett pulled her tighter, his voice low. "As soon as he gets better, well tell him."

Just then, the monitoring equipment let out a deafening, continuous shriek.

Logans fingers suddenly curled, and the steady rhythm of his heart on the monitor instantly flatlined, becoming a cold, straight line.

"Doctor! Nurse!"

I screamed like a madwoman, my voice raw and shaking.

Nurses and doctors rushed in, and the room dissolved into chaos.

The sound of the defibrillator whined relentlessly, the doctors frantic instructions hammering against my crumbling sanity.

I rushed in, violently pushing Beckett and Gena out. "Get out! Both of you get the hell out of here!"

Becketts face cycled through pale and white. He tried to speak, but the sheer, raw madness in my eyes drove him back. He pulled Gena away from the room.

I sank down against the hallway wall, watching the frantic figures in the trauma bay, tears pouring down my face.

The monitors scream continued, each beat hammering my fragile heart.

I prayed desperately, over and over: Hold on, Logan. You have to hold on.

But heaven didn't hear my prayer. It took my brother away.

I watched the tall, protective figure who had shielded me my whole life pushed into the cremation chamber.

In a fleeting moment, he was reduced to a handful of ashes.

...

Sharing a city, let alone a workplace, with Beckett was simply too much. I shook myself back to the present, planning to go home and take a day off.

Suddenly, the elevator stopped on my floor.

Beckett rushed out, practically running, and clamped his hands onto my shoulders.

His voice was trembling as he asked, "Why are they all saying your brother is dead?"