“Arrival chic,” she said, handing me my favorite dark jeans and a silk blouse.
“Friday flirt,” she added with a smirk, holding up a slinky navy dress that was understated but still sort of stunning. “You’ve got curves and collarbones—let them work for you.”
Then she held up the bridesmaid dress I’d be wearing Saturday. Her nose wrinkled. “Now this one... this one was definitely chosen by someone who hates you.”
I laughed. “You think Serena picked it with malice?”
“No. I think she picked it for herself and expected the rest of you to fit the mold.” She eyed me. “You’ll look incredible, all the same. Just don’t breathe or bend over, and you should be fine. That is a lot of cleavage.”
“Perfect,” I muttered. “Nothing screams 'desperate single mother’ like boobs up to my chin. I don’t know if I can do it.”
“Sure you can. You’re a goddess. Besides,” she winked, “if you’ve got ’em, flaunt ’em. Just don’t go getting yourself knocked up again.”
She laughed.
But she’s the only one who knows about Esme’s dad.
About Spencer.
To everyone else, Esme’s the product of a one-night stand I never elaborated on. A mystery man. A privatedecision. I’m the librarian who went rogue—single mom, surprise baby, no ring, no apology.
Standing up at Carter and Serena’s wedding?
I’m fairly certain it took a full-blown negotiation on my brother’s part. Serena never liked me. That wasbeforeI became a scandalous walking question mark in their perfectly curated story.
And as the icing on the cake, I’m to be paired with my brother’s college friend, Cash Banks. I mean, are you kidding me? Who does that? Who names their trust fund baby with not one but two names that suggest money?
I’m sure he’s thrilled to be paired with Carter’s librarian sister, who's practically a nun except for that one little detail. She’s got a secret baby.
Still, I said yes.
Because Carter’s my brother. Because he’s Esme’s only uncle - her only real family. And because I still believe in showing up.
So here I am.
Dressed like someone I barely recognize.
Wearing heels that pinch.
Already missing my daughter like someone’s torn a piece out of me.
I glance in the mirror one last time before getting out of the car.
And, yes, damn it, I put on the lipstick. My eyes are a little too tired. My smile is somewhere between brave and fake.
“You’ve got this,” I whisper.
And step out into the unknown. Again.
TWELVE
SPENCER
I hate weddings.
The syrupy vows. The drunken toasts. The look in people’s eyes like they know something you don’t. Like love is a currency, and you’re just too broke to believe in it anymore.
Not that I haven’t tried.
