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“Do you mind my asking, why was Ferris really here this morning?”

Ferris? What?

For a moment I’m too stunned to reply.

“To go couch shopping,” I say eventually, as though the answer is obvious.

“Yes, so he said. But did he state his actual reason for coming?”

I wrinkle my brow. I am intelligent enough to gather his insinuation, and I don’t like where the path of this conversation is leading. “He’s marrying my sister in four weeks. They want a couch for their new living room.”

There’s a long silence—so long, in fact, I spot the courthouse coming into view through the flurry-dappled windshield.

“Savannah. I’d like to ask you a few questions, not as your employer, but as . . .” He hesitates. “As your friend. You are welcome to say no, of course. But if you don’t mind indulging me for a moment, I’d appreciate it.”

He sounds so sincere, with such good intention, that I can’t help giving in.

“Of course you can,” I say. “Ask away.”

He jumps right in. “How long exactly did the two of you date?”

“About . . . eight years.”

He gives such a startled look, I amend with, “On and off. Sometimes off for years.”

“Are you serious? That man dated you for eight years. And now is engaged . . .” He looks like he can’t even bring himself to finish the sentence, so I do it for him.

“To my sister. Yes.”

“And how long did he date your sister before they got engaged?”

“Three months,” I reply, well aware of how this sounds. “Now engaged for nine.”

There is such a lengthy silence this time that I go ahead and cut to the chase. “I know how it must look from the outside, but they are in love,” I explain, repeating the mantra the family has said a thousand times.

“And he left you for her,” he says, his face taking on one of those terribly intimidating expressions he gives when he’s about to fire someone, “but comes back to ask you to go couch shopping for his future bride. Your sister.”

“I know how this sounds. But this is how my family works. We are loyal to each other to the end. It’s kind of our family mission statement.”

Will pulls into the last, lonely empty parking spot at the corner of the courthouse. He puts the gearshift in Park, hesitates for the blink of an eye, then turns to face me.

“And that’s where I wonder if I should correct you, Savannah. You may be loyal, but it doesn’t sound as if the rest of your family is loyal to you.”

He sounds so harsh, as if editing my life.

But despite his words, and the way he is frank in a manner that no one—not even Lyla—has ever been, I feel myself crack a little beneath them.

The strength and conviction in them. The unwavering support of my side. It’s been so long now that I’ve been trained to ignore those words and beliefs myself that I’ve forgotten the emotions are still there. The words bring up such a reaction that I know I must still be hurt, so very hurt, by all that’s happened. Not just the loss of Ferris. Perhaps not even the loss of Ferris at all. But the sense of loneliness. Betrayal. And the requirement to put on a brave face and repeat my rehearsed lines through it all.

Always.

I open my mouth to say my usual “You know how it goes. ‘The heart wants what it wants.’” But then I feel my breath stall. It’d be pointless anyway. He wouldn’t believe it.

“Well, I do harbor a secret hope it rains on their wedding day.” I say the words and then clap my hand over my mouth.

Will looks unsurprised. In fact, he smiles a little. “And the venue gets soaked?”

“Floods,” I continue with a smirk as I drop my hand. “Floods so hard that the guests can’t make it over the tiny, ornate bridge to the wedding venue. And every photograph is so foggy you can’t see the people. And all the curls fall from Olivia’s hair. And all those stupid, stupid flowers the family has talked about nonstop the past nine months get carried off into the wind.”