He kissed my cheek and offered his arm, and I took it.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Peter said, pulling back. “I was just telling Evan this morning. Eight months ago, you couldn’t get out of bed. Look at you now.”
“You picked a good one for me, big brother.”
“I always do.”
He kissed my cheek and offered his arm, and I took it.
The music started. The doors opened. Two hundred faces turned toward me, and I walked down the aisle on my brother’s arm, certain, finally certain, that I had chosen right.
The vows still hummed in my chest as the reception spilled into laughter and clinking glasses.
Halfway down, I caught Peter mouthing something to Evan over my veil. I couldn’t make out the words. I told myself it didn’t matter.
The vows still hummed in my chest as the reception spilled into laughter and clinking glasses. I moved through the room like a woman who had finally been forgiven by her own life, accepting kisses on the cheek, posing for cameras, letting strangers tell me I looked radiant.
Across the ballroom, Evan stood by the cake with my brother, their heads tilted together, two champagne flutes raised in a private toast.
Peter laughed at something Evan said. Evan laughed back, the kind of laugh that felt rehearsed for an audience that wasn’t watching.
I almost walked over. Then Sophie appeared at my hip.
