"On a more serious note," she says, "how are you doing?"
The honest answer involves words like "existential dread" and "emotional wreckage." I mean, what else would anyone expect when your fiancé dumps you but suggests you stay friends with benefits in the same sentence?
But again, this is her night, and I'm not about to spoil it.
"I'm great," I say, and I make it sound true. "I still can't believe you'll officially be Harper Mitchell in three months!"
Nice deflection, Beth.
"Sometimes I still can't believe it either," she replies, her smile going soft and a little dreamy.
"Well, believe it. You found one of the good ones. Probably thebestone." I squeeze her hand. "I'm happy for you. Like, genuinely. I might ugly-cry at the wedding, but that's a future-Beth problem."
She smiles and looks like she's about to say something when a voice cuts through the party.
"Harper, sweetie! Photo time!"
It's Ben's mother. Camera in hand.
"Go," I tell Harper. "Photo ops wait for no bride."
She hesitates.
"I promise I'mfine," I smile, and that seems to be enough.
She gives my hand a quick squeeze and heads toward the mother of her groom, and, once again I'm left standing by the buffet like the world's most overdressed shrimp guardian.
I exhale and turn back to the table, noticing a messy napkin stack that I immediately start rearranging.
This is my life now, apparently. Attending a growing number of engagement parties and weddings while pretending I have my shit together. To be fair, thingscouldbe worse. At least my misery comes with frequent open bars and excellent appetizers.
"Special delivery, fresh from the oven."
I turn to see Maren smiling over a tray of pastries that smell like a cinnamon-infused hug. She's traded her usual flour-dusted apron for an emerald silk dress tonight, and the contrast of the deep green against her copper hair is absolutely gorgeous. But beneath the glam, she’s still radiating that signature omega warmth—the kind that makes you want to curl up and tell her all your problems. Which, for the record, I have done. Extensively.
"Sothisis what you snuck into the kitchen earlier," I say, grinning.
"And I somehow nailed the timing with the reheating." She slides the plate in front of me. "You know, given how you look like you could use emergency carbohydrates."
"Too bad I'm already full," I say, even as my hand drifts toward the plate.
"Which means that hand has a mind of its own?" she teases.
"My hand has gone completely rogue," I smile. If I'm being honest, there's always room for a puff. Just like dessert. Especially when the baker is one of my very talented best friends.
I take a bite, and it takes every ounce of willpower I have to not roll my eyes back into my skull.
Oh my god.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is obscene.
"What did youputin this?" I manage, still chewing.
"Just brown butter and sea salt." She steals one for herself and takes a bite. "Anyway, how's the hiding going?"
"Does standing near food really look like hiding?" I ask.
"You've been here for at least forty-five—"
