Chapter thirty-six
Tessa
Istop just inside the doorway, one hand still resting on the frame, and watch the reception for a moment. The room has found its rhythm. A band playing something jazzy and warm, laughter cresting and falling in waves, the bright percussion of glasses meeting glasses. Candles throw gold light across round tables draped in ivory linen, and the air smells of gardenias and someone's very committed perfume. I don’t belong to any of it yet.
My eyes are already moving across the room before I’ve made a conscious decision to look for him.
George is near the far wall, standing with a cluster of groomsmen, holding a drink he probably hasn’t touched. He is smiling at something someone says. It's a good-looking smile, practiced, the kind that covers all the social requirements without giving anything away. I know that smile. I’ve watched him deploy it with difficult clients and awkward family functions and at least one very bad gallery opening.
“Tessa.” Someone grabs my arm, pulling me sideways into a small orbit of bridesmaids trailing tulle and lip gloss. Beth materializes in front of me, eyes bright, already talking.
“The ceremony was incredible, I cried twice, once during the vows and once because the flower girl tripped and kept going like an absolute professional—” She presses her hands to her cheeks. “Did you cry?”
“Almost,” I say, which is true, though not entirely for the reasons she’d assume.
I let myself be folded into the group because it is easier than standing alone by the door looking like I’m casing the place. I answer questions and smile on cue and laugh at the right moments. But some quieter, more disloyal part of me keeps a running tab on George. He has shifted slightly, angled now toward an older man in a very serious suit, nodding with the slow gravity of someone listening hard to something they only partially care about.
Good, I think. That’s easier.
I don’t believe it for a second.
“So is it true you’re a matchmaker?” A woman I vaguely recognize from the bride’s side of the family leans in close enough that I can smell her champagne.
“Professionally, yes,” I say, and hear how careful my own voice sounds, like I am carrying something across a room with wet floors.
“You must look at a place like this—” she gestures grandly at the whole reception, “—and just see it. Who should be with who.”
I glance across the space. Across the candles and the swaying couples and the groomsmen and George, who is now laughing politely at something, mouth only. Right now, I think, I can barely see myself clearly, let alone anyone else.
“Sometimes,” I say, and smile, and steer us gently toward the subject of the centerpieces.
The groom’s cousin appears at the edge of our group then, cradling a small wicker basket lined with cream-colored ribbons, grinning like she has personally invented romance. “If you’re open to meeting someone tonight, you wear one.” She lifts the basket slightly, an offering. “It’s not a rule. Just a vibe.”
There is a ripple of laughter, a few theatrical groans, and at least two people reaching for the basket before she has finished the sentence.
Ribbons disappear quickly, tied to wrists and clutch straps and jacket buttonholes. When she turns to me, she extends one in a simple open-handed offer.
My hand moves before I have finished a thought.
Then I look up.
George has turned slightly. It's just a small shift in posture, his jacket pulling across his shoulders as he reaches to set his glass on a nearby table. And something about it stops me so completely I forget what my hand is doing.
The ribbon hangs in the air between her palm and mine.
“Single?” she asks, lightly.
“It’s complicated,” I say, which is the most accurate thing I’ve said all evening.
She tilts her head with a slow, knowing look that I absolutely do not have the emotional bandwidth to be dissected by right now.
I look down at the ribbon. It's pale and simple, a small flag for a territory I am not sure I am still claiming. Then I look at George, who has laughed at something across the room.
I shake my head gently and meet her eyes. “No. Thank you, though.”
She lowers the basket without comment, unbothered, already pivoting toward the next person.
I stand there with my empty hand and a clarifying ache settling into the space where the reflex had been.
