Chapter 1 #3
The bubbles burned faintly against her throat.
Brooklyn continued, bright and helpful. “He hates anything too formal. Elaine will push for black tie, but Luke always feels trapped in those kinds of events. He likes things warm. Personal. Family-oriented.”
Grace set down her glass. “Luke and I talked about a small evening wedding. Maybe candlelight, good food, dancing. Not stiff, but still elegant.”
Brooklyn blinked.
Then smiled.
“That sounds beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“Very you.”
Grace could not decide whether that was praise.
Brooklyn tilted her head. “I only mention it because Luke sometimes agrees to things to make women happy.”
The words entered Grace quietly.
No crash. No slap.
Just a blade sliding between ribs.
“Women?” Grace asked.
Brooklyn gave a soft laugh. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How did you mean it?”
“Just that he’s generous. Sometimes too generous. He’ll say yes even when something isn’t what he wants.”
Grace thought of brunch. Luke’s silence. His apology in the car.
“Has he told you he doesn’t want the wedding we discussed?”
“No.” Brooklyn’s answer came quickly. “No, not at all. Please don’t think that.”
Grace believed she was not supposed to think that, which was different.
“I’m just saying, if you ever want a Luke translator, I’m happy to be one.”
Grace looked at her across the small marble table.
Brooklyn’s face was open. Kind. Almost earnest.
A woman would have to be very small, very jealous, very ungrateful, to resent such an offer.
“I don’t need a translator,” Grace said. “Luke speaks to me.”
Brooklyn’s smile held.
“Of course,” she said.
Their salads arrived.
For the next twenty minutes, Brooklyn was delightful.
She asked about Grace’s work, complimented her ring, told a funny story about Luke at twelve accidentally setting fire to a science fair volcano in Elaine’s kitchen.
She did not mention Marissa again. She did not imply Grace was choosing the wrong wedding.
She did not say anything that could not have been repeated in front of Luke.
By the time the check came, Grace was almost annoyed with herself.
Maybe she had been unfair.
Maybe Brooklyn was simply confident and overfamiliar because everyone in Luke’s life had allowed her to be.
Maybe the little barbs were not barbs at all.
Brooklyn reached for the bill. “My treat.”
“Oh, no. We can split it.”
“Please. Bridesmaid privilege.”
Grace smiled. “Thank you.”
Brooklyn handed over a sleek black card.
Then she said, casually, “Do you already have a dress appointment?”
Grace relaxed slightly. Dresses were safe. Dresses were simple.
“Yes. Saturday at Belle Maison. My sister’s coming, and my friend Tessa.”
Brooklyn’s face lit. “Belle Maison is perfect. Ask for Anya. She’s the only one there who really understands mature brides.”
Grace went still.
Brooklyn looked horrified a moment later.
“Oh my God. That came out terribly.”
Grace took another sip of water.
“I only meant second weddings,” Brooklyn said quickly. “Women who know themselves. Not twenty-two-year-olds drowning in tulle. Honestly, I admire it. You know who you are.”
Grace set the glass down with care. She was older than Brooklyn and Luke, who were both twenty-nine, a fact Brooklyn liked to bring up at every opportunity. “I’m thirty-one, Brooklyn. Not dead.”
Brooklyn laughed too loudly, then reached across the table and touched her hand.
Again.
“I’m sorry. Truly. That was clumsy.”
Grace looked down at Brooklyn’s fingers until she removed them.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not. I feel awful.”
The waiter returned with the receipt. Brooklyn signed it quickly, then gathered her purse.
Outside, the sidewalk shimmered with heat. Brooklyn put on oversized sunglasses and turned to Grace with another apologetic smile.
“I’m really glad we did this.”
“Me too.”
“We’re going to have so much fun.”
Grace looked at her reflection in Brooklyn’s lenses. Small. Distorted. Split into two dark versions of herself.
“I’m sure.”
Brooklyn leaned in and kissed her cheek again.
This time Grace smelled her perfume, something floral with a sharp green edge underneath.
As Brooklyn pulled away, she said softly, “Luke deserves the perfect day.”
Grace’s smile faded.
Brooklyn was already walking away, heels clicking neatly against the pavement, when Grace understood what had bothered her.
Not our perfect day.
Not your perfect day.
Luke’s.
Grace stood on the sidewalk for several seconds with the restaurant door opening and closing behind her.
Then her phone buzzed.
A text from Luke.
How was lunch?
Grace looked down the street, where Brooklyn slid into a white Mercedes and lifted one graceful hand in farewell.
Then Grace typed the truth.
Interesting.
Luke sent back a laughing emoji.
That bad?
Grace hesitated.
On the sidewalk outside The Lark, with the taste of sparkling water still bitter in her mouth, she made her first mistake.
She softened the truth.
No. She’s nice.
Luke replied almost immediately.
Told you.
Grace stared at those two words longer than she should have.
Then she put the phone away and went back to work.