This can be Piper or Reyna, whichever you want. I'm thinking of doing a Annabeth/Percy/Hazel(? Maybe Gwendolyn, I don't know) one. If you DO want that, review and I'll post another one. I fixed the mistakes, thanks for pointing them out, guys.

At first I wasn't sure I heard him right.

It'd taken my brain a couple of minutes to actually process the first words. Then the shock hit, followed quickly by the frustration, tailed by the anger.

Yes, I wanted him to choose, but he was supposed to choose right, for once in his life. He was supposed to choose us, his friends. Us, his home. Me, his love.

He wasn't supposed to choose them, the enemy. Them, foreign territory. Her, his "other" girl.

It was the day I'd been waiting for, the day we finally found him. Or the complete him. The day I'd hoped to be reunited with him, the real him.

Instead he'd shown up with her, laughing at a joke I was too shocked to hear, his arm draped around her shoulders, walking with the same rhythm as she. His eyes fell on me, and widened. He spluttered out my name, looking as if I'd just smacked him in the forehead, which I honestly felt like doing.

She'd been looking between us in confusion, her stupid mouth curling in a tiny puzzled pout. She asked who I was. I told her stiffly. She blinked, looking at him, like she couldn't believe he could have another girlfriend. Then her face got hard in anger, and I knew we were both fighting to win.

We asked him to choose.

I couldn't believe those words had come out of his mouth. I just stood there, staring, mouth open, as she smiled brightly back at him, reassured, and slid back under his arm, as if she'd been made to fit there.

Then he had the nerve to tear his eyes away from her and say to me, "I'm sorry. I've been confused for a long time now, but only she's been there to show me what's right."

Gods, I wanted to barf. They stared into each other's eyes, so in love, so transfixed. I tasted bitter bile in my mouth. "Screw you," I spat. I turned my back on them, arms crossed, the tears already sliding down my face. I hated crying; I couldn't believe that I, of all people, was crying over Jason.

Yes, gods yes, I loved him. Stupid Fates just had to give me the short end of the stick that day. And now, they're using that same stick to stab me right in the heart.

Yup, I'm sitting in her "mansion" years later, still pining over him, staring blankly at the sign in front of me, bearing in gaudy pink paint: Congrats, Mr. & Mrs. Grace! Everything in my peripheral vision is a blur of fuchsia ribbons and white lace, everything according to "their" vision of perfection.

My dress, simple, glittery black, suddenly feels tight on me. My heels, not worn by choice, suddenly pinch my feet. My hairpins, holding my disobedient locks into an "elegant" knot, suddenly prick my scalp. My eyes, unblinking and blank, suddenly sting with the coming of tears.

I saw her earlier, sparring with a sister of hers in the backyard and going over last-minute prep with another sister at the same time. I didn't talk to her; I was too busy holding in the barf. She isn't even supposed to like weddings, from what everyone's saying about her. "Happiest day of her life" my ass.

Gods, I can hear her laughing in the next room, no doubt at a joke passed on to her from him like a game of Telephone. No doubt she's adjusting her bridal gown, checking her hair, polishing whatever jewelry she's decided to wear. No doubt they're all inside with her, giggling and complimenting her.

But no one's with me.

I don't want to look up when I feel someone sitting next to me. I catch a glimpse of hair, and my worst fears are confirmed.

"Are you alright?"

Even years later, I don't know much about her, just that she's his sister, courageous Thalia Grace, the girl who sacrificed herself for a couple of runaways. The girl who came back from dead-limbo. The girl who can, somehow, sympathize with me. What can I say? Rumors fly. She's a bridesmaid by default, in her golden dress that she's somehow turned punk and gorgeous at the same time. All I care to know about her is that she's exactly like him, aside from looks. Brave. Impulsive. Rebellious. Loyal. All characteristics I love about him.

For a few seconds, I wonder if he sent her to talk to me, maybe because I look so pathetic sitting by myself, but I bury the thought as soon as I think it. I'm trying to plan what to say to her, planning to sound brave, impassive. Indifferent.

But nothing goes according to plan. Or, at least, my plans.

"No," I manage. I bite my lip, shaking my head slightly. "No, I'm not."

To my surprise, Thalia Grace lays her hand on my arm. "Don't mope," she tells me, her electric blue eyes completely serious. "There are others. You might love my brother, but," she laughs to herself suddenly, "he's definitely not the best. And he's not for you, if you're not the one fixing your hair in there." She nods at the door.

"Thanks," I mutter, though I'm not really reassured.

She smiles, obviously trying to make me feel better. "If you want to walk out, you can, you know. He'll understand." She searches my face for an answer, then, after a moment of silence, adds, "He'll miss you if you do go, though. You're his real best friend, no matter what he decided."

"Thalia!" echoes toward us, turning her head, but not mine. The voice is immediately recognizable, sending the tears charging through my eyelids. Thalia seems oblivious.

"What?" she calls, sounding annoyed. That thought strikes me as odd. Thalia? Annoyed at being dragged away from me?

"Um…I'm stuck!"

I try and fail to suppress the heartbroken sob that bursts from my lips, but, thank the gods, Thalia's yelling drowns me out.

"I'm not getting you out, Jase! It's your own fault!"

"Please, Thals! Come on! I don't have any oil or soap or anything!" His voice sounds strangled, bringing a pained smile to my lips.

Thalia's smirking. "What did you do this time?"

"…are you really going to make me shout it?"

"Do you want my help? I'm talking to your ex!"

There's a beat of silence. I add another of their shared characteristics to the list: bluntness.

"His head's stuck in the banister!" Annabeth Chase's voice calls, sounding just as annoyed as Thalia.

"I didn't do it!"

"It's not my fault!"

Percy Jackson and Leo Valdez yell at the same time. They sound so afraid it's almost funny… except it's not.

Thalia rolls her eyes. She grabs the Green Day tote bag at her feet, digging through it irritably. "Stupid Jason," she mutters. "He's so lucky I carry butter with me now."

I momentarily abandon my depression. "You carry butter?" I ask. "Why?"

"For situations like this," she says, rolling her eyes again. "And for the mall, when their pretzels are flavorless." She's walking away before I can even think of responding, yelling for him to "stop squirming or he'll get himself stuck more."

And I'm alone again.

I glance down at the wedding program in my hands, no doubt her idea. It reads her name and his on the cover in gold calligraphy. I hate calligraphy.

The sound of shuffling feet and giggles pulls me away from the stupid program; I realize the guests—Greeks, Romans, gods, demigods—are filing in, squeezing each other into the white benches draped in pink silk.

I'm the only one in the back, except for two other men in black tuxedos—one of which I recognize as Nico di Angelo—but neither of them spare me a glance.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join these two in holy matrimony…" Queen Hera/Juno (whatever you want to call her) begins, but I'm already zoning out. I don't want to listen. I'm staring at him. He's so cute, squirming in his tuxedo, with the little drop of yellow butter on his ear.

I can see from here he's nervous. She makes him nervous. Her.

I turn away. It takes me countless time to even block the queen's voice from my ears, but by the time I do, my control slips, and all of a sudden I'm hearing—

"If any mortal believes these two should not be together this day, speak now, or forever hold your peace."

There's silence. Eyes flick around tentatively, as if they're expecting something. My fingers twitch. My toes ache. I'm dying to shoot to my feet and let the angry words spill out, but hell, I can't even look him in the eyes.

I stand up. Every pair of eyes is on me, some fearful, some excited, as if waiting for drama. I don't look at anyone. I don't even speak. I keep my mouth tightly closed as I turn my back on the guests, the altar, the queen of the gods, the bride…the groom, and walk for the door.

The queen, ever-impatient, moves on without having the mere decency to let me escape first.

"…and do you, Jason Grace, take this lovely lady to be your lawfully wedded wife in the eyes of the gods?"

That's all I hear. I don't hear her part, or her "I do" that I know she's already said. My hand's gripping the doorknob. My arm screams at my brain to just twist my wrist and I'll be gone, but my head turns ever so slightly to the left, where I can just see him—and only him—standing dumbstruck.

But he's not looking at her in that loving way that's oh-so-nauseating. He's staring in my direction, his piercing blue eyes sending a shiver down my spine.

Don't say you do. Run away now. Love me. My own thoughts surprise me. I'm not supposed to be silently begging him to change his mind. It's too late.

The doorknob is on the point of breakage in my fist. My lips are pressed tightly together, stopping myself from saying anything.

"Jason?" Her high, ringing voice tears into my ears like claws. Gods, I hate her. I hate her for being so happy. I hate her for being the one in the stupid white dress. I hate her for being the winner.

I hate her because I'm the loser.

"I do."

My hopes and my world come crashing down with those two simple words. I'm out the door before I can hear more, ignoring the sound of my name being called behind me.

I breathe in the clean air with my eyes closed. I open them. Suddenly I remember I'm on her turf. Not home, where my camp, my family is. Her home.

I'm suffocating all over again. I bring my hand up to rub my forehead, then I stare at my hand, suddenly realizing I'm still holding her fancy gold doorknob in my fist. I pitch it back at her house without another thought, feeling a leap of pleasure as I hear shattering glass, a crunch, and a shriek.

I don't stick around to see who I hit, though.

Screw him. Screw her.

I hate choosing.