My throat aches. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I’m going to need updates. Constant updates. And pictures. And probably a detailed explanation of how ‘hired a fake boyfriend’ turned into ‘I’m in love with a mysterious man whose exes keep dying.’”
“It’s a long story.”
“I have nothing but time.” She pauses. “Well, I have a wedding in San Diego this weekend that’s driving me insane. But emotionally? Nothing but time.”
I laugh. “I should go. The rehearsal is in an hour. I need to look like I haven’t been crying over century-old trauma.”
“Century-old?”
Crap. “Figure of speech.”
“That’s not a figure of speech, Poppy. That’s oddly specific.”
“Goodbye, Sage.”
“Text me after the rehearsal!”
“I will.”
“And Poppy?”
“Yeah?”
Sage’s voice softens. “Listen, if he truly sees you—all of you—then maybe the terrifying parts are the price of admission.” Shepauses, a half-laugh escaping. “Okay, I can’t believe I’m saying this. Me, of all people.” Her eyes meet mine through the screen. “But maybe love isn’t supposed to be comfortable. Maybe it’s just supposed to be worth the cost.”
I swallow hard. “Since when are you philosophical?”
“Since I started planning weddings for a living and realized that the couples who last aren’t the ones who avoid problems. They’re the ones who face them together.” She smiles. “Now go put on something gorgeous and walk down an aisle.”
“Love you, weirdo.”
“Love you, too.”
I hang up. Stare at my reflection in the foggy mirror.
Sage is right. The couples who last are the ones who face things together.
Tomorrow, Julian and I face Damien.
Today, we face my family.
I’m not sure which one is scarier, but I guess I’m going to find out soon.
Getting ready takes longer than it should.
The rehearsal dress code is “smart casual,” which is the most useless phrase in the English language. Smart how? Casual compared to what? I change three times before settling on a floral sundress that says “I’m a put-together bridesmaid” without screaming “I’m trying to upstage the bride.”
Julian is waiting in the living room when I emerge. He’s in dark slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearms in that way that probably took him decades to perfect.
He looks up when I enter. His face changes—guard dropping, eyes warming.
“You look absolutely lovely,” he says.
“You look like you haven’t slept.”
“I don’t sleep.”
