I snap my mouth shut.
Caleb shoves his hand through his curls, leaving them standing on end, and I hate that I know what that means—he's nervous. Caleb Miller doesn'tdonervous. He does cocky and charming and sure of himself. But right now, he looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, and that hurts.
"You don't have to make this okay," he says finally. "I know I—"
"But itisokay!" My voice goes squeaky at the end. "Really. You were being a good friend. Making sure I didn't do something stupid because I was drunk and . . ."Lonely. Wanting you. Tired of pretending I don't.
His eyes lock on mine, and for the briefest heartbeat, a fissure runs through that carefully blank expression.
Then his lips curve into his signature smirk, and relief hits me so hard I deflate against the couch cushions. "Never seen someone try to seduce me with hiccups before. Gotta say, that's a new one."
"That's me," I manage, clinging to his humor like a life raft, "breaking new ground in bad decisions."
"At least you didn't throw up on me." He grins. "Too soon?"
"Yeah, how about we never mention last nightorthis morning again?"
"Deal."
Just like that, we're back to normal. Or something close to it. Even if part of me wants to scream that none of this is fine.
"You should get ready," he says, pushing off the bed. "Wedding walkthrough in an hour."
"Right." I wrap my arms around my ribs like that'll keep my heart from spilling out all over the floor.
He pauses in the doorway, and for one stupid second, hope claws its way up my throat. That he'll turn around. Say something real. Make last night count for more than just another almost.
Instead, he nods. "See you down there."
The moment the door clicks shut, I collapse back against the couch and dig my palms into my eyes until colors burst behind my lids.
"Get it together," I whisper to the empty room, but my voice cracks on the last word.
Maybe he never saw me that way. Maybe it was always me, mistaking scraps of attention for something real. That's worse. Because if I imagined it all, then I'm even more pathetic than I wanted to believe.
Movement is the only thing keeping me from falling apart, so I walk to the suitcase and start pulling out clothes even though my chest is splintering open. I make everything easier for everyone else, smooth things over, pretend I'm not hurt when I am.
Two more days.
Just forty-eight hours of pretending I'm fine. Of holding it all together and acting like nothing's changed. Of swallowing the phantom taste of his mouth. Of being the girl who can joke about almost fucking her best friend like it wouldn't have destroyed me if he'd said yes.
I can do that.
I have to.
Because Caleb Miller might not want me, but I'd rather have pieces of him than nothing at all.
Twenty-four hours after mymortifying display with Caleb, and twelve hours after I finally stopped wanting to die from my hangover, I'm drowning in bridal warfare.
"Where are the backup bobby pins?" Sarah's voice carries the precise pitch of a bride who's ninety minutes away from walking down the aisle and has just discovered her updo is held together by hopes and prayers.
"Found them!" I call back, diving into the bridal emergency stash Kristal assembled after yesterday's rehearsal meltdown. Hair elastics sorted by color, makeup touch-up stations, and enough industrial adhesive to rebuild the estate's foundation. "Plus, I grabbed that weaponized hairspray Magnolia had shipped from some fancy Charleston salon."
Virginia shoots me a look through her reflection in the vanity mirror, her arched eyebrows climbing toward her hairline. "You've been here for six days and suddenly you're the wedding coordinator's second-in-command? That's commitment, to a role you didn't audition for."
"Survival instinct," I shrug, passing Sarah the pins while compulsively checking my phone. No emergency duck updates from Amelia, which means my feathered children are behaving and I can channel my anxiety into more immediate disasters. "Better to be useful than trapped listening to Carter's investment portfolio stories."
Forty minutes later, I'm kneeling on the floor in my azure bridesmaid dress—which fits perfectly after Magnolia's personal seamstress performed miracles—trying to demolish a chocolate croissant without baptizing the silk with butter stains, all while simultaneously pinning Dixie's loose hem.
