His eyes find mine, and I think he might actually answer honestly. Instead, he clinks his glass against my own. "To the happy couple," he offers, safely neutral.
"To happiness," I agree, though the word tastes bitter.
The truth is, seeing other people's love stories unfold makes me acutely aware of what's missing in my own—Matt looking at Sarah like she's the miracle he never expected, Preston's hand finding Magnolia's during the toasts, even Greg watching Dottie when he thinks no one notices.
It makes me wonder what it would be like to be seen that way. To be chosen openly and without reservation.
The string quartet hitstheir first note, and my brother, who once shotgunned four beers in under a minute, tears up as he leads Sarah onto the dance floor. Even I have to admit, the wedding was beautiful. The vineyard ceremony, with its rows of white chairs facing the rolling hills, had been picture-perfect, and now the reception barn glows with thousands of string lights woven through exposed wooden beams overhead.
Matt spins Sarah with such easy grace it's like they've stepped straight out of one of those fancy wedding magazines Kristal's been clutching all week. Speaking of our tiny dictator, she's still crushing it, bedazzled headset catching the light as she orchestrates this circus.
She's been a caffeinated miracle worker all day. Wrangling Mabel mid-ceremony, when she tried to make a break for it. Keeping Magnolia's glass suspiciously full so Sarah could enjoy her own damn wedding, and somehow getting everyone down the aisle in the right order. Now she's darting between farm tables adorned with lushgreenery and clusters of blue hydrangeas, making sure every detail of this rustic-chic extravaganza meets Bell family standards.
My gaze drifts, uninvited, to where Ivy stands beneath the string lights. The bridesmaid dress clings in all the right places—dark blue, pleated through the bodice, with delicate sleeves that brush her shoulders like an afterthought. She tips her head back, laughing at something Dixie says, champagne glass loose in her hand. I shouldn't be looking. Not after everything. But I am. And I can't seem to stop.
She seems fine. Better than fine. Like that night never happened, and we didn't almost cross a line that would've destroyed us. She'd laughed it off yesterday and called it a mistake. It was just proximity and alcohol and the wedding clouding our judgment.
I knock back my drink, catching the bartender's eye for another. The burn helps, but it doesn't touch whatever's twisting in my gut when Ivy's laugh carries across the room. She's good. We're good. So why does my chest cinch two sizes smaller every time she laughs and it's not because of me?
At least Carter's kept his distance since our almost-brawl, though he still watches Ivy. It takes everything in me not to plant my fist in his perfect jaw.
Movement catches my eye—my mom, laughing at something one of Preston's work friends is saying. Some silver-fox type in an expensive suit, who keeps touching her arm while they talk. I can't remember the last time I saw her smile like that, all bright eyes and genuine joy.
Then I spot Dad.
He's standing by the cake table, grip white-knuckled around his champagne flute, watching Mom like her laughter is a personal offense. For a moment, a shadow passes over his face, sharp and unguarded. Almost human. But he doesn't move. Doesn't go to her. Just stays rooted in place, seething in silence while she glows beneath whatever story Silver Fox is spinning.
"Found you!" Kristal appears out of nowhere, her tiny hand latching onto my arm with terrifying efficiency. "Family dance time. You're up with Sarah."
"I'm good here."
"Wasn't a question, sugar." She's already hauling me toward the dance floor, and for someone who barely reaches my shoulder, she's got a strong grip. "It's tradition!"
Sarah waits at the center of the floor, both of us shifting awkwardly as the quartet starts up. My hands hover for a second before landing on her waist, and we fall into the world's most uncomfortable box step.
"You don't like me very much." Sarah breaks the silence, voice matter-of-fact.
"What? No, that's not—"
"Then what is it?"
I stare over her shoulder, jaw working. Fuck, I hate conversations like this. But something about her direct question makes lying feel worse than telling the truth.
"You took him away," I finally mutter.
"You think I'm the reason Matt traded his band shirts for business meetings?"
I focus on not stepping on her dress, something hot and defensive rising in my chest. "He did change after meeting you."
"How would you know?" The question lands like a punch. "When's the last time you actually had a real conversation with him? I'm not talking about showing up for dinner out of obligation and disappearing the second it ends. Or making up plans every time we visit so you don't have to spend time with us."
"I see exactly who he is now." The words taste bitter. "Corporate Matt with his fancy job titles and pressed shirts. Dad's new favorite topic; how mature his oldest son has gotten." But after this week, I'm not sure howmuch of it is true.
Sarah lets out a laugh. "You mean the same Matt who still keeps that disgusting Metallica shirt hidden in his drawer like contraband? The one who has your hideous birthday card from senior year tucked away as if it's some kind of priceless artifact?"
"That card wasn't that bad."
"It had googly eyes, Caleb." She arches an eyebrow. "And enough glitter to be classified as a biohazard."
