"Hey," I say softly, moving closer. "You okay?"
"I'm fine." Her voice cracks on the second word, and tears roll down her cheeks. "Everything's fine. I'm just . . ." A sob escapes. "I can't breathe in my wedding dress, and my mom hates the flowers, and Preston keeps pushing Matt about that job in Charleston, and I . . . it's all . . ."
I pull her into a hug, and she buries her face in my shoulder, her whole body shaking.
"I don't even care about the dress," she whispers. "Or the flowers. Or any of it. I just want to marry Matt. We could do it in a dive bar and I'd be happy. But Mom keeps going on about family legacy and proper society weddings and," she hiccups. "I love her, I do. But it doesn't feel like my wedding anymore."
"Hey." I pull back, holding her shoulders. "Look at me. What doyouwant?"
She lets out a shaky laugh. "Matt. Just Matt. The way he was when I first saw him—running through the Boston Commons in neon shorts, belting 'Eye of the Tiger' completely off-key." Her smile softens. "He showed up every morning, making an absolute fool of himself, and I . . . may have started planning my running route around his. One day, I tried to pull off this casual hair flip while jogging past and ate pavement. Twisted my ankle bad." She chuckles. "And there's Matt, in those god-awful shorts, dropping everything to help. Carried me to a sketchy food truck, bought me the worst coffee I've ever tasted, and spent an hour makingterrible puns about 'falling' for me." She shrugs, eyes shining. "And that was it. I just . . . knew."
"Knew what?"
"That he was going to change my life." She wipes her eyes. "He pushes me to try new things, to be brave. To stop being so careful all the time. And I help ground him, give him focus when he needs it. We balance each other." Her smile falters. "But now Dad keeps dangling this job in front of him, and Matt's trying so hard to be what they want."
"And Wyatt's not helping?" I venture, recalling his lingering looks at her. "You two have history?"
Sarah sighs, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her robe. "High school sweethearts—if you can even call it that. Our mothers basically planned our wedding before we ever went on a date." She rolls her eyes. Then I moved to Boston, and it was like finally being able to breathe. Matt's wild. Unpredictable. Nothing like the life I left behind. And that's what I love most about him."
"Sometimes that's exactly what our soul needs," I whisper. "The right person doesn't change you. They give you permission to become who you were all along."
"Exactly. Just like Caleb."
I blink at the sudden shift. "What?"
"Oh, come on. You must see it. Caleb's special in his own way. Matt's always going on about him. How sharp he is with computers, how he can make anyone laugh, how he practically glows when he talks about game design." She tilts her head, smile tugging at the corners. "Kind of like how Caleb lights up when he talks about you."
"He lights up about breakfast sandwiches too. It doesn't mean anything." I say quickly, before that thought can take root. "And we're just friends."
"Mhmm." Her smile turns teasing. "Is that why you looked ready to set Virginia on fire?"
"I did not . . . she was . . ." I stop, flustered. "She was being very . . . Virginia."
"That's a very nice way to say she was being a bitch." Sarah laughs. "But she's harmless. Don't let anything she said get under your skin. Caleb's a good guy. She's just hurt and bruised about Jefferson."
"Your friends are a lot."
"They're not really friends," she sighs, settling onto the platform beside me. "More like . . . social obligations. People my mother thinks I should be close to. Matt and I have this amazing group back in Boston—just regular folks who've become family. Our favorite bartender who's studying culinary arts, a tattoo artist who does the most incredible work, a couple of Matt's gaming buddies who started a food truck together. Mom would have an actual stroke if they were here instead of her carefully curated guest list of 'appropriate connections.'" She adds air quotes, rolling her eyes.
"That's ridiculous," I say, frustration bubbling up. "It's your wedding, not a business merger."
She shrugs, but there's sadness tucked in the motion. "I've learned to pick my battles with my parents. Besides, Matt and I are having our own celebration back in Boston next month—pizza, beer, and absolutely no color-coded schedules or fish forks."
"Well," I bump her shoulder with mine, "now you've got one real friend here."
"I'm really glad you're here, Ivy. And I know Caleb is too. He's lucky to have someone like you."
Lucky to have someone like you.
The words hit differently coming from Sarah—the kind of girl who probably never spent a Friday night charging crystals on her windowsill, or pulling tarot spreads to make sure the timing was right. She went for what she wanted. No sage. No signs. No careful rituals or second-guessing whether the universe was trying tosend her a message.
I spend my days helping other people find love. Reading their cards, blending their teas, reminding them to trust the universe's timing. And Idobelieve in it. I believe things unfold as they're supposed to.
But watching everyone else's love story unfold so easily makes me wonder . . . aren't we supposed to meet the universe halfway?
Maybe that's been my mistake. Not in believing the signs, but in holding space for everyone else's magic while forgetting to make any of my own.
I always tell people that manifestation without action is wishful thinking. And yet here I am, waiting for some grand cosmic signal about Caleb . . . when maybe the only sign I need is the way my heart still stumbles every time he smiles.
