He takes my hand and leads me toward the door. As it opens, that familiar knot in my stomach cinches tight.
You love him,I tell myself.You’re getting married tomorrow. This is the plan.
The door clicks shut behind us, and for reasons I’m too tired to unpack, the quiet of the hallway feels louder than the entire town below us.
Four
“Fucking hell,” Rowan mutters under her breath. “Who picked the funeral music?”
I don’t even have to look at her to know she’s scowling. Rowan scowls with her whole face. Brows, nose, mouth, all of it.
“It was his mother, wasn’t it?” she adds.
“Rowan!” I hiss.
The string quartet in the corner launches into something slow.
She turns toward me, her red hair swinging over one shoulder. Madison and Rowan both inherited our grandmother’s coloring, with copper and fiery hues. My brother Noah and I have dark hair from our parents.
“I’m just saying,” Rowan continues. “If someone dies in the middle of this dinner, the soundtrack is already sorted.”
“I love a good funeral,” my mother says suddenly, sipping her wine.
All three of us turn to stare at her.
Madison blinks. “Mom? Seriously?”
“What?” she asks, perfectly innocent. “You don’t do funerals right over here. Not properly.”
We exchange the same look we’ve been exchanging since childhood. It’s equal parts affection and alarm.
Mom moved to the States from Ireland in her early twenties, but if you give her a good funeral, she’s back home in a heartbeat. My aunt died three years ago, and we flew over for the service. We came back hoarse and hungover.
Madison leans forward, lowering her voice. “You didn’t pick the music, Piper?”
I shrug, feeling heat creep up my neck. “There was a lot going on.”
Rowan narrows her eyes. “Like what?”
“Stop it,” I warn.
“She’s a world-famous violinist,” Rowan presses, gesturing vaguely at me. “They couldn’t let her pick the music for her own rehearsal dinner?”
“I’m not world-famous,” I mutter.
“Not yet,” Mom chimes in.
Jesus.
Madison reaches over and takes my hand, grounding me as always. She’s the buffer. The peacekeeper. The one who learned early how to smooth sharp edges before they draw blood.
“The music is…” She searches for a word that won’t hurt my feelings.
“Shit,” I say, smiling. “The music is shit. You can say it.”
Rowan grins triumphantly. “Thank you.”
Dinner plates are cleared away, and we’re left at the far table with half-empty glasses and faces sore from smiling. I’ve answered the same question about ten times tonight.
