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“Can you think of a better ending?” I ask, miserable.
“Yes. I can think of a lot of better endings.”
I was afraid she’d say that.
“But.” She takes in a deep breath and blows it out. “I support your choices. I always will. If this is what you want, then who am I to argue?”
From there she guides the conversation to wedding talk, and I, having become a master of compartmentalizing, lose myself in talking details and minutiae. I lean over her cell phone when she shows me photos of how her custom-made bridal gown will look when it’s finished. I give her my opinion about the reception location and whether or not she and Nate should write their own vows. (Yes, obviously.)
“That leaves one question,” she says an hour later as we each finish our second glass of wine.
“Which is?”
“Will you be my maid of honor?”
Gratitude thrashes inside me like a shark in the shallows. “Really?”
She nods, her smile wide and happy. Then, despite the promise I made to myself not to cry again this week, I burst into tears.
