Margaret pauses. "Nobody is entirely sure."
Somehow that makes it worse.
I'm reaching for the wax seal when George leans across me, his forearm warm against mine for just a moment before he pulls back and he's already scanning the guest names with a slight furrow between his brows. He's already absorbed in the next thought, already somewhere else entirely.
Get it together, Tessa.
"Once this wedding is over," Margaret says, with the voice of a woman who has earned every syllable, "everything will finally calm down."
Eleanor drops her head back and groans at the ceiling like she's appealing to a higher authority. "Promise me."
Everyone laughs, and I laugh too, genuinely, until the sentence catches somewhere in my chest and stays there.
Once the wedding is over.I turn it over quietly, the way you probe a loose tooth.That's the deadline. That's when all of this ends.
George passes me the next envelope. I take it. The rhythm doesn't break.
"You know," Eleanor says, resting her chin in her hand and watching us with the open delight of someone who has been right about something for a very long time, "you two are genuinely so cute."
Daniel nods with the solemn sincerity of a man giving sworn testimony before a committee. "Honestly a little intimidating, yeah."
Margaret says nothing. She doesn't disagree. Somehow the silence is louder than agreement would have been.
"We're just stuffing envelopes," I say, and it comes out lighter than I feel, smooth and easy, which I'm choosing to consider a personal victory.
George's jaw shifts slightly, something moving behind his expression, like he's turned a sentence over and decided againstit. Then he reaches for another envelope and the moment closes, and I don't know whether the relief I feel is real or just what I'm telling myself to feel.
Eight weeks, I remind myself quietly.Eight weeks, and it's done, and everyone sees what they need to see, and that was always the whole point.
The last of the invitations gets sealed, and Eleanor cheers with both fists in the air like we've broken a siege. Daniel slumps forward onto the table in theatrical exhaustion. George stacks the finished envelopes and squares the corners, precise and automatic, and I stand to help him gather them. Then, without looking at me, he places his hand briefly against the small of my back. His touch is light and automatic.
I step away before the warmth of it can settle anywhere it shouldn't, busying my hands with a stack of envelopes I have absolutely no reason to touch.
George carries the finished pile to the sideboard. Eleanor watches me watch him. I look away before she can say whatever she's already composing on her face.
This has an expiration date, I tell myself, deliberate and firm.And I am not making the mistake of forgetting that again.
