She looks up. “What about your parents?”
I pause, mug halfway to my lips.
Here we go.
“We’re not close,” I say finally. My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
She must notice, because her voice softens. “You don’t have to answer if it’s a thing.”
“It’s a thing.”
She waits. Not pressuring. Just… open.
I set down my mug and exhale. “They’re not the dramatic, disown-you kind. Just… disappointed. Always have been.”
Olive watches me closely, her hands wrapped around her mug. Silent, steady.
“My dad was a structural engineer. My mom stayed home. Very traditional. Very stable. They didn’t get it when I quit school to play guitar. Didn’t come to my first show. Or my fifth. Or my first stadium tour.”
I laugh, but it’s not really funny. “I think my mom still tells people I’m in ‘entertainment consulting.’”
Olive winces. “Oof.”
“And when I became the guy in the magazines with tattoos and eyeliner and rumors about hotel rooms—I think they gave up trying.”
I don’t mean for it to come out bitter. But it does.
Olive reaches for a pen and taps the paper gently. “You could still invite them.”
I raise a brow. “Why would I?”
“Because maybe it’s time. And maybe you’d regret it if you didn’t.”
I scoff. “You’re seriously advocating for the people who called my last album ‘concerning noise pollution’ to sit front row at our fake wedding?”
She smiles. “Not for them. For you.”
I go quiet.
Then I glance at her page, which she’s been mostly avoiding. “What about you? Who are you inviting?”
She shrugs, light but careful. “Nina, definitely. A couple of teachers I’m close to. My old neighbor, Marlene—she used to bring me pie every Sunday. Maybe Grace from book club, if she doesn’t bring her ex again.”
She smiles, but it flickers around the edges.
I glance down at the empty section markedFamily of the Bride.Still blank—except for Liam’s name. My chest tightens.
“You know I don’t have anyone else in my family. Not since Grandma passed. She became my guardian after my parents died in that car crash. Liam was already an adult, so it wasn’t the same for him. But I was only fourteen. And Grandma… she became my everything.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, because it’s the only thing I can say.
She nods, looking into her coffee like it might explain something to her.
A small, fond smile tugs at her mouth. “I think she would’ve liked this whole fake-marriage plan. She was chaotic like that. She once faked a sprained ankle to get out of a blind date.”
I smile too. “She sounds like a legend.”
“She was.” Olive runs her thumb along the rim of the mug.
