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And while, yes, my sister initially played the black sheep by breaking the Cade code and allowing the man who had broken my heart to capture hers, the moment he dropped down on one knee, the situation changed.

In fact, the situation required an intervention. Precisely twelve hours after the engagement announcement, my parents “dropped” by the apartment. Sat me down (on Olivia’s couch). Insisted they hear out the whole story. My feelings. My claims. My hurts. Then, with half a box of tissues used up, Mom patted me on the hand, gave me the biggest sympathetic eyes she could, and said, “Darling, we’ve got a wedding in four months. We’re going to have to speed things up.”

This was followed with a lengthy, statistics-laden explanation that they had passively watched as bystanders, wanting to give me room to move through the five stages of grief, from the first denial phase (aka a full month of bubbly overenthusiasm and overbright statements to anyone within earshot that we were just “on a break”) all the way toward acceptance. Only apparently, according to my parents, I was stuck on stage two—the anger stage. You know, where you are discovered sitting cross-legged in your closet, cutting old letters to shreds by the light of the old photos of the both of you at prom now in flames on a dinner plate. That stage.

Which was all fine and well, except now he was going to be a Cade, and by golly, Mother had a dress fitting at Harold’s on Monday. They were going to have to help me along.

And so, after many such lengthy discussions, I eventually did come to terms with things.

Even, bizarrely enough, started to see everyone else’s point of view.

After all, for everybody except me it did make sense. It was quite romantic, even.

The boy who had dated the older sister all through high school and never noticed the one three years younger with braces, watching them through the stair rails while they went off to their proms and parties. The younger sister who eventually grew up and went to her own university, gained her independence, blossomed into her own strengths, and then, nearly a decade later, ran into the boy-now-man she’d (apparently, as I was to discover in the glowing how-we-met stories they like to share at parties) had such a crush on before. How, when I moved into Olivia’s apartment last year after my financial crisis, their eyes locked that first evening. And while I—sweat soaked and panting in stained T-shirts—hauled boxes up to my room, they apparently had “hilariously” stumbled into one another in the hallway, where she had “the cutest lock of hair that had fallen out of place” and he had “fallen in love with her at first sight.”

He was, as he says, “captivated against his will. Love had chosen him. Cupid had shot his arrow.”

And there was nothing he, nor I, could do about it.

Like I say, it’s romantic. For everybody but the girl who gets dumped and replaced by her successful, beautiful, younger sister.

But I will say that for his part, Ferris does feel terrible about what it did to me. Even now, he always tries to make up for how things happened. Always tries to include me. Make sure I feel important. Make sure I know I’m loved and not alone. I honestly think that’s why they’ve pushed the wedding out twice now. For me.

I look at the clock. Ferris sees my fingers fidgeting on the counter.

“You’re going to do great, Sav,” he says, giving me a little smile. “You’ve mastered the ropes. Could probably run the whole conference by now.”

I give him a smile back. He’s assuming I’m nervous about the LOA wreck from my first year. The assumption is off base—I’ve double-, triple-, and quadruple-checked that all the books, bookmarks, and bookplates will be safely secured beneath the booth table by the time we get there. Still, it’s thoughtful.

He’s trying.

He just wants us all to get along.

“You know what? I may just walk down there after all,” I say, scraping together as much kindness toward my sister as I can muster. It only, all collected, comes to a pinch worth, but it’s enough. “May help with the jitters.”

Ferris’s smile widens as Olivia turns from the fridge where she’s holding a glass under cold running water while jogging in place. “Yeah?” Her eyes flicker from the clock above the sink to me, then brighten. “Yeah, that’s a great idea. And . . . good luck today.”

I manage a tiny smile. “Thanks.”

There, I think, my grin broadening as I look to Ferris. Olive branch given. Olive branch received.

The Cade name preserved another day.

But the noble gesture looks awfully pale by the time I stride, freezing fingers wrapped tightly around the waist of my coat, through the twentieth stoplight and up the steps of the Music City Center. And thanks to an unforeseen 5K, with the street taped off and a mass of runners sprinting by with country music blaring, I was forced to detour an extra dozen blocks I hadn’t accounted for.

I’m painfully late. I can feel it. I know it so deep in my soul I’m afraid to check my watch.

As I reach the doors, I clench my jaw and dare a glance.

Nine-oh-three a.m.

Shoot.

As I follow the signs, Music City Center is buzzing with activity that, after only two years, still makes me feel a bit like a kid in a candy shop.

Oh! Look at that banner! I didn’t know Sophie Kinsella had a new one coming out.

Oh! That person has an entire suitcase of books! What did they find . . .