People dance. Toasts are made. Laughter floats above the clink of glasses and the scuff of boots on the dance floor.
And me?
I laugh when I’m supposed to. Sip my champagne. Catch the bouquet because Olive insists I have to because, of course, the emotionally shattered bridesmaid should pose for photos with symbolic flowers and pretend she still believes in love.
Will claps along with everyone else, his expression unreadable. But when our eyes meet, something flickers behind his smile. Something tight. Troubled. Suspicious. Like he knows. Like he’s figured out I’m planning something.
And he’s right.
At eleven, I’m off to the side watching Liam twirl Olive around the dance floor, her dress billowing like a fairytale in motion. My throat tightens. I feel like a ghost haunting someone else’s happy ending.
That’s when Will appears beside me.
“Hey,” he says, bumping his shoulder gently against mine.
I don’t answer.
“Phern?” he prompts again, quieter this time.
I blink, pulling myself back to the moment. “Sorry. Just lost in my thoughts.”
I nod toward the room. “You did a good job decorating the bar.”
He shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You make it sound like I hung every strand of lights myself.”
“Well, didn’t you?”
“Maybe,” he says, with a half-shrug. “Doesn’t matter. Still didn’t get your attention until now.”
That hits harder than it should. My gaze snaps to his, and I huff out a bitter laugh.
Becauseof course.Of course he’s still looking for my attention, now that I’m finally done offering it.
Then he asks, casual as anything, “So, what do you have planned tomorrow?”
My heart skips and my breath stalls. He can’t know. Right?
“For the farmer’s market,” he adds quickly, taking a sip of his beer like he didn’t just nearly catch me mid-runaway.
I swallow. “I won’t be there.”
His brow creases. “What do you mean? You’re always there.”
I don’t answer right away. Mostly because I’m weighing how much I want to let him see.
Finally, I turn fully to him. “I won’t be there this time.”
His gaze narrows slightly. “Why? Got a date?”
The words are a joke, tossed out carelessly but they land like a blade. I flinch. And it’s enough.
“I suppose that would be funny to you,” I say, voice low, “after finding my list.”
His expression shifts. Guilty. Cornered. “Come on, kiddo, I didn’t mean it like that.”
But I’m already backing away.
“You did. And it’s okay. I get it.” My smile is tired, a thin, bitter thing. “I’ll always just be Sam’s little sister to you.”
