Finally, the planner declares the rehearsal “good enough,” allowing us to dissolve into casual conversation. The procession toward the dining room happens in loose waves. Family first, then the bridal party.
Sky is immediately swallowed by the girls. Soleil hooks an arm through hers. Sera takes her other side. They draw her over to Marisol and Lupe, where they form one seamless little cluster of bright voices, dark curls, and wedding energy.
I don’t get within ten feet of her.
Dinner takes place in a smaller hall tonight. Lower ceilings. Dark wood paneling. The windows overlook the gardens where dusk is settling over the hedges and stone paths. The table glows in candlelight. White linen. Gold-rimmed glasses. Small arrangements of pale roses and greenery. Plates of fresh bread and whipped butter already wait at intervals along the center.
By the time I enter, Sky is already seated between Soleil and Marisol on one side, with Sera beside Miranda a few seats down. I end up directly across from her because fate, apparently, enjoys irony.
Voices overlap in every direction. Julian and his father are debating the proper order of toasts. Véronique compliments the flowers. Irving is on his second glass of wine looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Sky still won’t look at me.
Her attention is fixed on the twins as they chatter about tomorrow’s flower petals and whether they are allowed to eat cake before the adults. She smiles. Nods. Tears bread into neat pieces and passes the basket to Miranda.
Sky’s freezing me out.
I clear my throat softly and reach for my water. Nothing. Not even a flicker.
The first course arrives. A clear consommé with herbs and delicate, tiny dumplings floating in the center. Sky lifts her spoon. Blows once. Tastes it.
I know the exact shape of her mouth when she’s pleased by something because I’ve spent fifteen years cataloging things I never admitted mattered.
By the second course, conversation and wine is flowing over roast chicken with root vegetables and a rich mushroom sauce. Fred tells a story about Julian at fourteen trying to impress his high school girlfriend with a borrowed guitar and exactly three chords. Laughter ensues.
Sky laughs. I catch the curve of her smile. A sharp pull of relief hits me square in the center and makes me stupid enough to think I can fix what’s wrong with one well-timed glance.
I address her directly. “Sky.”
She hears me. I know she does because her shoulders slope almost imperceptibly. No acknowledgement though.
“So,” Miranda reaches for her wine, “how was the famous Prague pub crawl bachelor party?”
“Uneventful,” Irving deadpans.
Fred snorts into his glass.
Jose smiles. “You mean irresponsible.”
“Only in the best possible way.” I raise my glass and once again try to catch Sky’s eye.
Nothing.
Julian laughs. “Hudson would have hated every minute.”
Irving sets his glass down with more force than necessary. “Hudson hated most things I enjoyed.”
I glance at Sky’s face, lightness drains from her expression.
Lupe lifts a brow. “Good riddance. He wasn’t a good fit.”
“He was a fraud.” Irving emits a short laugh with no amusement in it.
All of us freeze. Julian even stops cutting his chicken.
“The man spent ten years pretending we were partners.” Irving shrugs one shoulder, but there’s an edge under the movement. “What he really wanted was an accessory. Someone to orbit his life while calling it love.”
No one interrupts him.
