The fightwith Wes still lingers in my body like a bruise I keep pressing just to prove it's there.
It's been days, but the sourness hasn't lifted. If anything, it's deepened and turned into this persistent ache—the kind that settles into your bones and makes a home there. Sets up furniture. Hangs pictures. Plans to stay awhile.
I thought I was confused before. I thought uncertainty was the worst of it.
Turns out, I was adorably naive.
Now the ground beneath me has shifted entirely. Like I've been standing on something unstable for so long I forgot what solid ground even feels like. Or maybe I never knew. Maybe I've been performing stability this whole time, and only now am I noticing the wobble.
And somehow, despite all of that—despite the bruise and the ache and the general sensation that my life is a carefully constructed house of cards in a wind tunnel—I'm standing in the middle of a wedding venue that looks like it was designed for royalty.
Someone else'sroyalty. Definitely not mine.
The kind of place where history hums in the walls and the airsmells faintly of roses and money. Old money. The kind that doesn't need to announce itself because the imported marble does it instead.
High arched ceilings. Stone floors that probably cost more than my first book advance. A sweeping staircase that seems to exist purely for dramatic entrances, which is ironic considering I only want to exit.
Everything is cream and gold and impossibly perfect.
Like a dream someone else is having on my behalf while I stand here wondering whose life I accidentally stepped into.
There are too many people here.
A wedding planner with a clipboard and a smile that never falters—I've tested it, she's either a professional or a very committed android. A florist pointing at arrangements I haven't asked for, didn't request, and definitely don't recognize. A venue manager explaining something about exclusivity windows and security deposits in a tone that suggests I should be grateful for the opportunity to hemorrhage money.
Others hover nearby, nodding, chiming in occasionally, performing roles I don't even know how to name. Professional Wedding Enthusiasts? Paid Encouragers? Witnesses to my slow-motion panic?
I'm five minutes in and already overwhelmed.
Also? Considering fleeing. The staircase would make for a dramatic exit, at least.
Wes stands at the center of it all, confident, assured, speaking in that smooth, executive cadence that makes people lean in and listen. Makes them nod like he's saying something profound instead of just expensive.
He arranged all of this. Did he ask for any of my input? No, of course he didn’t.
I didn't even know where we were coming today until we pulled up to the gates. Didn't know we were touring venues. Didn't know we'd reached the stage where other people are making decisions about flowers and chair covers and whetherour hypothetical wedding should have a string quartet or a jazz trio.
Apparently, we have.
The wedding planner approaches with her clipboard, that smile still perfectly intact. "So, Nora, what else are you envisioning for your big day?"
Honestly? An exit.
Preferably before the deposit is non-refundable.
But I smile instead. Say something vague about elegance and intimacy. Watch her write it down like it means something.
Wes catches my eye across the room and winks.
Like this is fun. Like this isus.
Like I'm not standing here wondering whose wedding this is for, because it certainly doesn't feel like mine.
My phone vibrates in my hand and for once, I don't let it go to voicemail.
"I'm so sorry," I say the second I answer, words tumbling out too fast. "I should have called you back earlier, I was at this awards thing and it was loud and?—"
"Nora," Mom says gently, firmly, the way she used to when I was a kid and spiraling. "Alfie passed away a few days ago."
