100 Yellow Doors

7:44 p.m.

As the music dwindled to a waltz, Fritz guided Iman over to the edge of the dance floor, his face in a grim frown.

    "Who was that?" Iman demanded as Fritz let her go. Her attention was split between Julien, who she could see getting further and further away, and Beck, who had noticed she was no longer near him and was starting to search around for her with obvious distress in his face. "That woman?"

    "Someone you never want to meet," said Fritz, gritting his teeth. He took Iman by the shoulders, peering closely into her face—his eyes black as the night sky above them. "Listen. You forget about this alright? It's your wedding night. Celebrate. You know, show Beck a good time—"

    "Fritz. So not the time."

    "True. Anyway, just let me handle this, alright?" he said, but even as he did his voice quivered with an undeniable unease, something in his eyes almost solemn. He did not look as though this were any minor inconvenience. Those eyes had looked into the future, and they had seen nothing but fire and ash.

    Iman didn't like it. No. Iman hated it.

    "I will call you. Okay?" said Fritz, nodding his head, as if he were talking more to himself than to her. "I will call you."

    "Fritz—" Iman started, but he had already vanished from in front of her, leaving only a gust of wind to suggest he had ever been there at all.

    Iman stood there, defeated, her mind lost in a thick, inscrutable fog. Had she been so wrong to want this—had she been so wrong to want just one day, just one night, to go as it was supposed to? She kept replaying the fleeting moment her eyes had met Julien's before he was pulled off into the murk—there had been a message in the way he looked at her, silent but nevertheless insistent: Don't you dare follow me.

    Fingers interlaced in hers; Iman turned to find Beck frowning at her. "Iman? Is everything okay?"

    She considered lying, but in the end, lying took energy she no longer had. Slumping against Beck's chest—he let out a small "oof"—she sighed and said, "Guess."

    "Julien?"

    "Bullseye."

    "Shit," Beck said pleasantly, rubbing a gentle thumb back and forth across Iman's cheek, his hand moving in absent way that indicated he was doing it without much thought. "What now?"

    "I'm not sure. Fritz wouldn't tell me anything."

    Beck exhaled, his chest falling underneath Iman's ear as he did. The scent of the sea lingered on him, water and sand, the weightless, temporary spritz of ocean spray. "Maybe it's better that we don't know."

    "Beck," Iman groaned, tilting her chin up. Beck's mouth parted, his hand falling to rest on her arm instead. "I hate it. I hate worrying so much about him. How can I make it stop?"

    Beck's frown deepened for a moment, but it was brief. Soon enough he had craned his neck and sealed her mouth with his, hands cupping her chin, the soft flutter of his eyelashes against her face as the sweet taste of him blessed her lips.

    Cameras flashed; there was a collective, dreamy sigh from the remainder of the wedding attendees.

    "But you can't stop," Beck said, his mouth opening in a grin. "It isn't in your nature not to care. You can't. It's just not who you are."

    "Beck—"

    Kneeling down, forehead against hers, cool breath against her face. "I'm not stupid enough to think I can stop you, Immy," he said. "You and I both know that you have to go."

    Iman blinked tears away from her eyes, tears she had not known where there until she felt them catch on her eyelashes. She pressed closer to Beck, memorizing his embrace, his warm arms sturdy around her, his pulse beneath her ear her very favorite song. "I love you," she said. "I love you, Beck."
     He nodded his head. "I know you do. Get out of here, already."

    "You're—" She sputtered, not realizing what was missing until it struck her like a bullet in her chest. "You're not going to say it back?"

    "I will when you get back," Beck said, and when he smiled at her then, it was but a breath away from a sob. "So make sure you come back, okay?"

    She stepped back, staring at him. Come with me. Come with me, Beck. Who says I have to do this alone? But the words caught on her tongue. She knew, and perhaps more importantly, so did he. Beck didn't have anything to do with this; he never had.

    This was her fight—hers and Julien's.

    She held his hand for a moment more, palm to palm, and when she finally let him go, it felt like a thousand nerves had suddenly severed.

    Iman fled.

    She didn't change out of her dress, didn't stop to grab anything save for her car keys. Passersby on the beach and guests at the bed and breakfast paused to give her strange looks as she sprinted about, but Iman barely noticed. Her mind was elsewhere: searching, always searching, for Julien. Who was that woman he was with? Where had she taken him? Why had she taken him?

    Iman climbed into her car, engine roaring to life, hot leather scent and pine air freshener and an eerie, feathery sensation in her stomach—

    Realization like a slap to her face, the edges of her vision swimming with black. She said, "No—wait—"

    And she traveled.