Holly
Did my mom give you bread?
I look at the loaf on my counter, partially covered in Rebecca's kitchen towel.
She did. I’m eating it now.
At midnight?
Couldn’t sleep. Thinking about today.
Good thinking or bad thinking?
Good. Definitely good.
It's good, right? The bread?
It's incredible.
She'll be thrilled. She stress-bakes when she's worried about something.
What was she worried about?
You. Whether you felt welcomed.
I stare at that message.
Tell her I felt welcomed. Tell her the bread is the best thing I've eaten in months.
I'm not telling her that. She'll send you home with a whole bakery next time.
I wouldn't complain.
Holly
“You look stunning. That dress is going to make my mother ask when the wedding is.”
Evan's standing in my apartment doorway in a midnight-blue suit that makes his eyes look like they're lit from within, and I lose my train of thought.
“Then I guess Taylor chose well.”
“She did.”
I grab my clutch from the console table. The dress is deep emerald silk—Taylor's choice after a twenty-minute FaceTime consultation about what reads as “belongs here” versus “trying too hard” in rooms full of people who've never worried about belonging anywhere.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Ready.”
* * *
The elevator ride down is quiet. He's standing on one side, I'm on the other. We are maybe 6 inches apart, but it feels like miles.
He clears his throat. “You'll be great tonight.”
“I'm not worried.”
“Liar.”
