Something tightens in my chest. Because the way she says it? It’s not wistful. It’searned.The kind of grief you carry quietly. Daily.
And now I’m the only person sitting at this kitchen table who has parents still breathing—and I’m the one refusing to call them.
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe Iwillregret it if I don’t invite them.
Maybe it’s not about whether they come.
Maybe it’s about proving to myself that I’ve built something anyway.
“I’ll think about what you said—about my family,” I say at last.
***
The wedding planner’s name is Celeste, and she has the energy of someone who drinks espresso straight from the pot and considers seventeen Pinterest boards a “warm-up.”
She sweeps into the living room like she owns it, dressed in flowy beige linen and delicate gold jewelry. She greets Olive like they’ve been best friends for years and greets me like I’m lucky to be marrying someone so “naturally radiant.”
Olive blushes. I bite my tongue.
We’re seated side by side on the couch, a coffee table between us littered with swatches, invitation samples, and an iPad glowing with wedding inspiration that looks vaguely terrifying.
Celeste taps the screen like a conductor preparing a symphony. “Okay, lovebirds. Let’s talk vision. Vibe. Venue. Do we want something sleek and modern? Or more rustic fairytale? What’s theenergyyou want people to feel when they walk in?”
I open my mouth to give a rehearsed, neutral answer.
But Olive speaks first.
“Well…” she says slowly, glancing at me. “We’re pretty much opposites, so I think we should lean into that a little. Maybe classic black-tie with some unexpected soft elements. Like dramatic candles and velvet—but also flowers that aren’t too fussy.”
Celeste gasps like Olive just reinvented marriage. “Ohhh yes. Juxtaposition. Romance meets rock and roll. Ilovethat.”
I glance at Olive, eyebrows raised. “You’ve been thinking about this?”
She shrugs, cheeks pink. “Of course.”
Cute. Dangerously cute.
Celeste turns to me. “Ash? Thoughts? Colors? Details?”
I lean back, draping one arm across the back of the couch behind Olive, and say smoothly, “She’s the boss.”
Olive snorts. “He says that now, but wait until he finds out there’s a tasting menu involved.”
“Are we talking actual cake or one of those weird tower things made of tiny donuts?”
She nudges me with her elbow. “Cake. With layers. Like a grown-up.”
“Lame,” I mutter.
Celeste practically claps. “You two areadorable. Honestly, it’s always obvious when a couple has theitfactor. The chemistry. The comfort. This is going to be magical.”
I smile. Olive’s smiling too. But there’s a strange heaviness in my chest.
I catch Olive looking at me, eyes crinkling with amusement as she points to a three-tiered cake photo that looks like it belongs on the cover of a fairytale cookbook.
I nod. I’d buy ten of them if it made her laugh again like that.
