"How are we doing in here?" I ask, forcing brightness into my voice.
"Caleb's boutonniere is off-center," Matt interrupts his circuit to inform me, wild-eyed with pre-ceremony panic. "And I've forgotten whether I lead with left or right foot during the processional and—"
"Matthew," I cut through his spiral, gripping his shoulders. "You survived that idiotic water tower stunt senior year and somehow convinced Sarah to fall in love with you. Walking down an aisle is amateur hour compared to that."
His laugh carries relief. "Shit, I'd forgotten you witnessed that disaster. You and Caleb were what, sophomores? You drove getaway while we ran from security."
"My finest criminal achievement," I agree. "Now focus on Sarah. Everything else is just background noise."
"Right. Sarah. I can do that." He takes a deep breath. "Thanks, Ivy-league. Always knew you were the smart one in Caleb's life."
I flush at the childhood nickname he hasn't used in years, then turn toward Caleb, and his supposedly askew boutonniere, which looks perfectly fine to me, but provides the excuse I need to approach him.
"Your brother's being dramatic," I murmur, reaching for the perfectly positioned flower on his lapel.
"Shocking development," he replies, but his voice has dropped to a rough register that does problematic things to my nervous system.
My fingers brush his chest as I pretend to adjust the boutonniere, and I swear I hear his breath catch. We're close enough for me to see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, and to breathe in the cologne that's been haunting me all week.
"There," I murmur, smoothing his lapel. "Perfect."
"Thanks," he says quietly. "You look . . ."
I glance up and find him studying me with an expression that defies categorization. Not quite longing, not quite regret, but something murky and unreadable.
"Beautiful," he finishes quietly. "You look incredible, Ivy."
My heart executes a gymnastic routine I'm not equipped to handle, and I drop my gaze before he can read the pathetic hopefulness I'm sure is written all over my face. "You clean up surprisingly well yourself, Miller."
"Don't sound so shocked," he teases, but something in his voice is off-balance.
This entire week has been an exercise in mixed signals. One minute he's looking at me like I'm water in a desert, the next he's maintaining a careful distance likeI'm radioactive.
"FIFTEEN MINUTES!" Kristal's voice could wake the dead. "Places, people!"
I retreat so fast I nearly collide with the doorframe. "I should . . . Sarah needs . . ."
"Yeah," he agrees, but doesn't move. Something flickers across his face, like he wants to say more.
I'm halfway to the door when his voice stops me.
"Ivy."
When I turn back, the same indecipherable expression clouds his features, like he's waging some internal battle I'm not privy to.
"Nothing," he says finally. "Just . . . good luck out there."
"Thanks," I manage, and flee before my face can betray how thoroughly he's demolished my carefully constructed defenses with three syllables and a look.
In the hallway, I press my spine against the wall, forcing oxygen into lungs that tighten in protest. I'd been doing so well—keeping busy, staying focused on Sarah's needs instead of my own pathetic feelings. But one look from him and I'm right back to being sixteen, convinced every glance means something more than it does.
The man rejected me with crystal clarity. Whatever I think I see in his eyes, whatever heat I imagine between us, it's just wishful thinking from someone who's been in love with her best friend for too long.
The ceremony unfolds with a particular brand of beautiful chaos that makes the best wedding stories.
Sarah appears at the end of the aisle on Preston's arm, luminous in her hand-beaded gown, and Matt's composure disintegrates instantly. I'm talking full emotional collapse and waterworks that have Dean frantically passing him a handkerchief while the guests collectively melt.
"Oh my god," Virginia hisses from beside me in our bridesmaid formation. "Is he actually sobbing?"
