Eleven #2
I open mine with a little less ceremony.
The tissue paper inside is an overkill shade of lavender, and the robe is a deep wine colour, with “Harper” stitched on the back.
The card inside says, “You’re my first call, my last text, and the only person I trust to fix my veil after a tequila shot.
” The words are silly and over the top, but I find myself tearing up anyway.
Liv tucks her robe under her arm and opens the mini champagne with the heel of her hand, sending a spray across the table. “To our Queen Bride,” she says, “and to the poor man brave enough to sign his name to your brand of chaos.”
“Seconded,” Luca says, pouring juice into the champagne flute because it’s 8 am.
Elsie blushes. Noah, who has been behind the counter this whole time.
When did he start working here more than his own job?
Comes over carrying a tray of croissants and what looks like a tiny cake.
He sets it down with a nod at Elsie, and she smiles at him in a way that makes my heart ache.
“Okay, but can we talk about the fact that you found someone who actually likes doing taxes with you?” Liv says, eyeing Noah. “I thought that was just a myth invented by couples that married in the 40’s.”
Noah shrugs, the picture of unbothered. “She makes spreadsheets fun.”
Luca puts a hand to his heart. “That’s the real fairytale, right there.”
For a while, there is nothing but the comfortable chaos of people eating, drinking, and arguing about which season of The Great British Bake Off is superior.
It’s easy to forget about the outside world.
Easy to let go of the job, the custody schedules, the upcoming deadline I’m pretending doesn’t exist.
At some point, Elsie says, “I have a draft of the seating chart, but I need to know who you want at your table, Harper. You can have anyone.”
I laugh. “Can I have no one?”
“No,” says Luca. “You have to have at least one mortal enemy so the wedding photographer has something to work with.”
Liv chimes in, “Put Ethan’s new girlfriend at the next table over. That way, if she tries to start something, you can hit her with a croissant.” Elsie snorts in what I believe is outrage.
“He’s not invited and she definitely isn’t.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s not unkind. “Maybe just give me a table with a clear line of sight to the cake. That way, if I have to make an escape, at least I have a snack.”
Elsie looks at me, really looks, and I feel the warmth of her attention like a hand on my shoulder.
“You know you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” she says, voice soft.
“What, the wedding?”
“Being here. Playing dress up. The whole thing.”
I shake my head, and for the first time in weeks, I mean it.
“I want to. Really.”
It’s the truth. There’s something about this group, this table, this stupid robe with my name on it, that makes the whole concept of “happily ever after” seem less like an indictment and more like a dare.
Liv leans over and nudges me with her elbow.
“If you cry at the wedding, I will mock you mercilessly.”
I say, “You’ll cry harder than anyone here, and we all know it.”
She grins, a rare, full-faced smile. “Shut up.”
Luca raises his coffee-mimosa.
“To family you choose, and weddings you actually want to attend.”
We clink glasses. The sound is loud in the quiet café.
For a minute, I allow myself to feel it all.
The joy, the ache, the way beginnings always drag endings behind them like tin cans on a bumper.
I look at Elsie, at the ridiculous abundance of her happiness, and I find that I am not jealous.
Not even a little bit. I am just, glad. Glad that someone gets to have it.
Glad that I still get to be here, even after everything.
After a while, the conversation dissolves into plans: flower colours (Luca has strong opinions), font choices for the invites (Liv threatens violence if Elsie chooses Papyrus), cake tastings (I volunteer as tribute for any leftovers), and a heated debate over whether a “first dance” is romantic or just a public shaming ritual.
Underneath the laughter, I catch myself noting the details: the way Elsie’s face glows when Noah looks at her, the way Liv’s banter is softer than it used to be, the way Luca’s jokes always seem funny even when they shouldn’t.
It occurs to me that this is what survival looks like.
Not the absence of pain, but the presence of people who insist on holding you up, even when you would rather stay on the floor.
I wrap the robe around my shoulders and tie the belt tight. It’s warm. It fits.
The rest of the afternoon slips by in a blur of plans and sugar and the kind of love that doesn’t need to be announced to be real.
When I finally leave, I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection: hair a mess, lipstick half gone, but smiling, genuinely, in a way I didn’t think was possible after this morning’s emails.
I walk out onto the street, the robe still on under my jacket, and I don’t care who sees. There are worse things than being seen for exactly who you are.
Especially if it’s by the people who know you best.
***
Insomnia is the original multitool. You can use it to finish a book, reorder the entire contents of your kitchen cabinets by colour, or, if you’re me tonight, read three weeks’ worth of ignored email from your editor while pretending that “hygiene” is just a suggestion.
Leo has been down for hours. I sit at the kitchen table again, illuminated by the faint blue glare of my laptop and a single lightbulb I keep meaning to replace. The proposal box from Elsie is next to my elbow, robe spilling out like a wine-coloured ghost. I wore it for a while after getting home.
Tonight, I belong to my inbox.
The first message from Rachel is dated two Mondays ago:
Subject: Timeline check-in!
Hi Harper,
Just wanted to see how things are coming with the new draft. No pressure, just let me know if you have an updated timeline! Hope Leo is doing well and that you’re getting some “you time” too.
Best,
Rachel
Two Mondays ago was three days after I told her about Ethan. She said, “Write about it.” I said okay. She said, “I’m serious.” I said I know.
The second email is six days later. Warmer. There’s a joke about her toddler and a cracked iPad screen. No mention of the divorce, which is its own kind of mercy.