“I heard about the tabloids,” he says finally, voice tight, his blue eyes dark and serious.
I bite back the urge to sayI told you so, instead saying, “You should go talk to your sister.”
Nate nods and toes off his wet sneakers. As he passes me on the stairs, our shoulders brush—electric, unbearable. I catch a whiff of him, rain and something familiar, and suddenly I remember every reason this is impossible and every reason it still hurts.
Today is going to be a long day.
The rain is still coming down, but there’s plenty to do inside.Mom’s working on the strawberry cake, Tripp’s volunteered to iron the creases out of the tablecloths, while Pete ties twine bows around the cloth napkins. Linney is trying to wrangle the kids into practicing their flower girl and ring bearer routines. I tug on my—Nate’s—raincoat to help Cooper haul the florist’s buckets in under the covered porch before the arrangements drown in the downpour.
On my way back downstairs after grabbing a towel from the blue bathroom linen closet, I notice a glittering tiara bobbing through the half-open door to my bedroom. Myactualbedroom, not the storage room.
I push open the door. It feels weird to be in this room—at once so familiar but with unfamiliar touches: Cara’s hairbrush on the dresser, her contact solution in the bedside table.
She’s clearly been sleeping on the bed closest to the window—the one closer to the door is still crisply made with Mom’s sharp hospital corners. That was the bed I preferred, too, when I was growing up. The other one was left open for friends sleeping over, or, more often, a mountain of dolls and stuffed animals.
Anna Carol is currently sitting behind the bed closer to the window. I can see my pageant crown bobbing up and down.
I step beside the bed to get a better view of what she’s up to and find her surrounded by creamy white envelopes and RSVP cards. “What’re you—oh.” I rush forward. “No, sweetie.”
A ribbon of spent stamps curls around her, and a cobalt blue crayon has left a mark on nearly every piece of paper.
“I’m coloring, Aunt Nikki.”
The envelope she’s holding is covered with probably twenty dollars’ worth of stamps.
“I need you to give those to me.” I reach for the paper.
“No!” She clutches the papers to her chest and pulls away. As shedoes so, the crayons come dangerously close to scraping against her pale pink dress.
The words are out before I can stop them. “Don’t! You’ll make a mess of yourself!” The words are sharp, laced with urgency, enough so that Anna Carol freezes.
For a moment, there’s shocked silence between us. It’s a harmless statement—yet one that was wielded against me, in just that tone, for so much of my own childhood.Nikki-Belle, you look so pretty. Don’t ruin it. Nikki, be careful. Nikki, don’t make a mess of yourself!
Slowly, Anna Carol releases the envelope, but narrows her eyes at me. “Aunt Nikki, you’re being mean,” she says. And then she crosses her arms and stomps out of the room.
I want to go after her, but first, I bend down to collect the papers she pulled loose. Most of the RSVPs are still readable, thankfully. I peel off a few stamps. I realize with relief that lot of them are just RSVPs from Cara’s friends who have scribbled notes in the margin saying they wish they could make it, but they can’t on such short notice.
There’s an unopened envelope without a postmark, and my heart sinks. Cara forgot to send an invitation to one of her friends. And by this point, it’s absolutely too late for them to make it. But maybe they’re local and can drive out… I flip it over and see who it’s addressed to.
Aaron Brinkley.
29
FOR A SECOND,Ijust stare at the name, certain I’m reading it wrong. My pulse stumbles, then starts to race.
What is he doing on the guest list?
Lightning flashes—just once, bright enough through my window to catch the gold edge of the invitation. The envelope is a different shape from the rest of the invitations, I realize—a rectangle instead of a square. I hold it up to the light, hoping to be able to make out what’s inside. There are lines of writing, but it’s impossible to decipher. It’s definitely long, though, a piece of paper folded over itself. Not an invitation then. A letter.
But what could Carapossiblybe writing to Aaron for?
And could this be related to the thing she and Nate were arguing about yesterday in front of the gazebo?
And—what does it mean that she never sent the letter? Did she end up reaching out to Aaron some other way?
Part of me feels like I have a responsibility to tell Cooper. Caradidlie to him. She told him they haven’t talked in years, but she’sclearly been in contact with Aaron. Another part of me is tempted to just grab the dress steamer and ease this envelope open right now, to satisfy my own morbid curiosity.
But everything is already so messed up. And much as I’ve been joking about all my subtle sabotage, the idea of interfering like that worries me, feels like overstepping. Besides, Cooper’s been so defensive of Cara all this time, if I told him about the letter, he’d probably just accuse me of manufacturing the whole thing for drama.
