Abby meets his gaze without blinking. “Sweetheart, that’s because herpes is forever.”
The table erupts in laughter. Jagger shakes his head, fighting a grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re mean.”
“And you’re lucky I’m choosing to stay seated,” she shoots back.
He smirks, raising his glass toward her. “Keep talking like that, and?—”
“Keep dreaming,” Abby interrupts, raising her glass with a wicked grin. “You couldn’t handle me on your best day.”
By the time dessert hits the table—some kind of chocolate torte Abby brought—the laughter’s easy and the tension is gone.
Reese returns from grabbing another bottle of wine. She sits beside me, sliding her fingers through mine.
“You good?” I ask quietly.
She nods. “I think I’m perfect, actually.” Her thumb brushes the back of my hand.
The evening fades into late-night drinks and scattered laughter. One by one, my family drifts out. Abby is the last to leave, hugging Reese so tightly she nearly lifts her off the ground.
“I’mso happy for you,” she shares with a huge smile. “And I mean that, Reese. You deserve this. You both do.”
Reese grins, eyes shining. “Thank you, Abbs.”
When the door closes behind her, the house is finally quiet. Reese turns toward me, barefoot, her hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. There’s something new in her expression; certainty, maybe, peace, definitely.
“So,” she says softly. “Next month?”
I nod. “Next month.”
She steps closer, hands sliding up my chest, fingers curling against my shirt. “Guess I should start looking for a dress.”
I cup her jaw, thumb brushing her bottom lip. “Tomorrow. I plan to be thinking about you without clothes for the rest of the night.”
Her lips curve. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m in love,” I correct quietly, gathering the hem of her sweater in my hands. “Let me show you how deeply.”
The past month has been a blur, though not the kind of chaos I’m used to. Instead of the adrenaline-fueled rush of deadlines, redacted documents, late-night sources whispering into burner phones, this one has been made of florists and fittings, seating charts and song choices, catering trials and canapés. It’s strange how fast the gears shift, how easily I traded my notepads for napkin swatches, my restless nights of fact-checking for ones spent curled up beside Chris, arguing about whether “At Last” is too cliché for a first dance.
Every morning, I wake up to Chris’s voice instead of an alarm. Every night, we collapse into bed surrounded by half-finished to-do lists, talking about colors, music, and family. There’s a domesticity to it that feels foreign to me, almost surreal. Like I’m borrowing someone else’s life for a while. A life I stopped dreaming was possible a decade ago.
I’m sitting in front of a wide vanity mirror, morning light spilling across the room, the faint scent of roses and hair spray lingering in the air. The makeup artist leans close, herbrush moving in slow, practiced strokes. I watch her reflection as she finishes with a final swipe of mascara, her touch light and precise.
“There,” she says, stepping back. “Natural, radiant, and still very you.”
I smile, tilting my head. My reflection stares back—soft waves of hair pinned loosely at my shoulders, faint shimmer at my eyes, and my lips tinted a barely there rose. Not a stranger. Not an overdone magazine bride. Me. Just a little more luminous.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, meeting her eyes in the mirror.
The moment she leaves the room, Mom and Abby start humming with a nervous, electric anticipation. They move around me, gathering fabric and zipping me into my gown before smoothing the wrinkles. The hem whispers against the floor as they make their final adjustments.
Mom steps back first, eyes glistening. “You look absolutely gorgeous, Reesy.” Her voice wavers as she presses a hand to her chest. “He’s an idiot for not doing this sooner.”
“Mom!” I protest, laughing.
Abby snorts, tugging lightly on the veil. “Well, she’s not wrong.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You two are unbelievable.”
