And another thing—I thought rehearsal dinners were supposed to be the night before the wedding? The wedding is weeks away. We haven’t rehearsed a damn thing. Unless you count me rehearsing my “polite face.”
Edward is still deep in conversation with his uncle and two other men. Every now and then, he looks over, gives me a curt smile and nod, likegood girl, you’re doing great, and then immediately goes back to being a serious and important man discussing serious and important things.
I stab my potato with more aggression than necessary, because once my plate is empty, then what? Just sit here, wistfully staring at my crumbs? Start counting the number of chandelier crystals reflecting off my wineglass?
I nod along to the wedding chatter.
“Hey, Daisy,” Hugo calls over.
I snap to attention, plastering on my best smile. “Yep?”
“How’s work going at BritShop?”
I know what he’s doing. He’s rescuing me from my own irrelevance at this table.
We banter back and forth for a few minutes—safe topics, easy jokes, my exaggerated horror over the latest product we’re selling. It’s a lifeline, and I cling to it.
This feels wrong. I’m here with my boyfriend—or lover, or person I’m dating, or whatever we’re calling it—and my best friend, and yet I feel like a spare wheel.
Not because anyone is being actively awful to me, but because I could get up, leave, and no one would notice. The buzz I’ve felt these past few weeks dims, just a little.
“Sophia, stop rubbing that rash on your neck.” Mrs. Cavendish’s voice slices through the hum of conversation, cutting across the table. She reaches over and physically removes Sophia’s hand from her own body, like she’s a child caught picking at a scab.
“I told you,” she continues, her tone steeped in disapproval. “You should never have gone on thatcampingtrip.”
I tighten my grip around my fork, the engraved metal digging into my palm.
She says camping like it’s a slur. Like I dragged her daughter into the wilderness to be skinned alive by a pack of wolves, rather than a luxury glamping retreat complete with private bathrooms and catering.
And, naturally, she doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t need to. Mrs. Cavendish has long mastered the art of cutting me down without so much as glancing in my direction.
I grab my wineglass and take a long sip, ignoring the way my throat tightens.
Sophia catches my eye, her face tight with apology, and squeezes my leg under the table.
I give her a small, reassuring smile. It’s not her fault. She doesn’t control the demon matriarch.
And yet . . . my stomach twists.
Because sure, Sophiahadsaid she’d loved it . . . but had she really?
Or had she gone home, scratched at her rash, and admitted to her mum that she regretted it? That it was abitof a disaster?
ThatIwas a bit of a disaster?
Mrs. C hums, unimpressed. “So close to the wedding! And now you can’t stop scratching. Edward, do take a look at it please.”
“Actually, I’d say it’s stress related. Perhaps if you stop talking about it, it might improve,” Edward says sharply.
Mrs. C’s lips purse. She says nothing, but the air around us crackles with the sheer force of her silent judgment.
I’ve never been more grateful for Edward’s medical degree. Or his ability to shut down his mother without actually telling her to shut up.
“Thank you, Edward,” Sophia says lightly, forcing a laugh, trying to smooth over the tension. “Yes, Mum, let’s move on to something more fun. Nobody wants to discuss my rash over dinner.”
I swallow, shifting in my seat.
Why does it still feel like I did something wrong?
