CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Sleep was fitful, if not entirely useless.
When I got home, my mother was already in bed, having kept Captain’s open late to make up for Serena’s bachelorette the other day.
I scavenged our storage closet for my luggage, throwing a pile of clothes inside in a fit of rage.
Then I stared at the mess and emptied them.
I folded each article with an amount of practiced accuracy that only came from years spent traveling for business.
In the end, I sat on the edge of my bed glaring at the bursting packing cubes, eventually deciding to shove everything into the bottom of my closet.
My entire evening routine consumed a whole hour.
After laying beneath the covers, then on top of them, then half in and half out, I gave up the endeavor and began laying out everything I’d need for the wedding day.
The champagne, silk pajama set Serena insisted she buy us, my furry boots, a coat, and a pack of makeup wipes in case someone tried to transform me into a pageant queen.
Each time I thought about him, and his pleading, crinkled eyes, I discovered another task to distract myself.
I was stealthily wiping the kitchen counters when sleep finally began to droop my eyelids.
And when my alarm went off at six o’clock sharp, my muscles ached angrily enough to stage a coup.
“You need to learn how to drive,” I muttered to Georgie later as she slid into the passenger seat of the rental. Half-asleep and clad in silk pajamas, I stopped at the Morning Bell before picking her up, hoping some caffeine might fix my dark circles and puffy face. I was dead wrong.
She grabbed her latte from the cup holder with a grateful smile. “You’re chipper this morning.”
I pressed my cheek to the frigid window. “Didn’t sleep,” I explained.
Georgie hummed. “Too many dreams of Teddy?”
I glared at her.
“Sorry, sorry,” she replied, hardly disguising a laugh. “I’m sure you two will work it out.”
Pulling away from her house, I dragged a long sip of my cappuccino before replying. “It’s not really something we’re going to work out, Georgie. We’re fundamentally different. We always have been.”
“I know you think that’s a bad thing,” she said with a sigh. “But Rhett and I are practically polar opposites.”
My mouth barely lifted into a smile. “And it works for you. Speaking of, when’s he getting to the country club?” I mentally crossed my fingers and waited to see if she’d catch my change of subject.
She pursed her lips. “About that. I wasn’t allowed a plus-one.”
“You’re joking,” I replied, fingers gripping the steering wheel tighter. Maybe it was completely irrational, but a large part of me was sure Jesse had a hand in it.
“It’s really okay. Last-minute weddings, and all that.”
I nodded mechanically as the car fell silent.
There’d been no time for a private conversation with Serena at the rehearsal dinner—the first attempt was destroyed by me, and any other moment burned up in the seaside fire caused by a drunk groomsman.
We had one final chance to find a quiet place and warn her.
It only grew more and more dire as Jesse made it clear he didn’t view a single part of Serena’s past as sacred.
All night, I couldn’t figure out a reason why he would be behind the Travel and Taste assignment. The lack of apparent logic made it seem entirely sinister.
Georgie and I shared a look as we pulled up the country club drive.
“How are we going to do this?” she quietly asked.
I inched the car toward the valet stand. “I don’t know. We find a gap in time, I guess? Preferably before she walks down the aisle.”
Georgie’s laugh sounded as unsure as I felt.
Minerva met us out front, a flurry of accuracy dressed in all black as she barked orders through her nearly invisible ear piece.
We followed the pendulum swing of her ponytail through the lobby, half-sleepy and half-buzzing with a wordless swarm of wedding soldiers.
They wove in and out and across the marble floors, shoes hardly making a sound as they wheeled rows of chairs and clear tubs full of place settings.
After a series of winding hallways adorned in seaside-themed art, we arrived at a large door. Minerva paused and knocked, looking like she was delivering a pair of prisoners for sentencing before the Queen.
Serena greeted us on the other side, wrapped in a white silk robe and pajamas that matched our own. Her hair was already swept off her neck and up into a set of massive pink rollers.
“Thank you, Minerva,” she murmured as she shut the door behind me and Georgie. At the click, Serena clapped her hands together, turning to us with a wide smile. “Who’s hungry?”
I opened my mouth, fully prepared to dive into it then and there, and was promptly interrupted by another knock. Even Georgie scowled. Serena apologized and opened the door again, ushering in three women dressed casually and dragging huge, purple roller cases.
They introduced themselves as the makeup artists. I rubbed my temples while they hurried by us, chattering quietly amongst themselves as they descended on the longest vanity I’d ever seen.
“Here, let me take your coats,” Serena said, practically pulling them off our shoulders.
I swatted her hands away and shrugged it off myself. “This is your wedding day, S. You’re not supposed to be lifting a finger.”
Georgie concurred with a nod, draping both our coats over the arm of a leather couch.
Serena blushed. “If you insist. There’s a carafe of coffee in the corner—extra sugar and creamer for you, Georgie—and under those silver lids you’ll find every breakfast food under the sun,” she said with a laugh and motioned to a table by a wide, arched window.
I already knew I’d need that entire carafe, and then some.
An hour later, I stuffed myself full of croque madame and brioche French toast, nursing my third mug of coffee as a spindly, vaguely French-sounding man worked on my hair.
He was blessedly silent compared to Georgie’s stylist, a bubbly Southern girl who appeared to be competing for the title of her best friend.
I sipped the hot, black liquid—a certain someone already used up all the cream and sugar—wincing as the burnt flavor washed over my tongue.
Desperate times.
The bridal suite was thrummed with conversation of six strangers. My chest tightened while I studied Serena through the mirror. Anyone could tell she was happy—smiling, eyes shining, laughing at the tiniest things—by all accounts, she appeared to be a glowing bride.
Too bad I knew just how well she could fake it.
My stylist left as quickly as he came, covering my updo with a liberal dose of hairspray that smelled like jasmine and muttering something in French on the way out. Serena definitely would’ve taken the time to match us by personality—in which case, I wasn’t sure if I should be proud or offended.
I spun in my plush club chair and clinked a single nail against the ceramic of my mug.
Serena’s makeup artist took a break after an exhaustive skin-prepping regimen.
If I moved now, I could pull her into the corner.
Georgie was still preoccupied, but it wasn’t as if she’d be leading the intervention, anyway.
My heart pounded as I stood and—
A knock on the door. I groaned and slapped my forehead, earning me a concerned glance from Georgie’s stylist.
Holding up a hand, I muttered, “I’ll get it,” to Serena. Maybe I could throw a curling iron at them or slam the door in their face and lock it.
The person on the other side was more effective than the disturbing amount of caffeine coursing through my veins.
“What are you doing here?” I snapped.
Teddy leaned against the doorway, an action which sent a waft of cologne straight to my already-muddled senses. He dipped his chin and murmured, “Did you forget I’m the wedding photographer?”
I did, actually. Not that I’d ever admit it.
“No, I mean—” I motioned spasmodically, nearly spilling my half-mug of coffee. “—here. In the bridal suite.”
He held up his camera like I’d spontaneously grown a second head and started speaking a foreign language. “Serena specifically requested getting ready shots.”
I leaned my head against the door jamb, heard the distinct crunch of my smooshing updo, and jumped away. Teddy studied me with something between amusement and longing for a moment we didn’t have.
“We didn’t get to finish our conversation last night,” he said.
“Teddy,” a honeyed voice called from down the hall, followed by the swishing of a flowing black pantsuit.
The woman that appeared at his right shoulder could’ve been mistaken for a model if she didn’t have a camera bag hung across her torso.
“You just ran off without me,” she added, gaze dancing from him to me.
I gathered my wits quickly enough to stick my hand out. “Margot,” I muttered.
“I’m Ivy,” she replied, accepting my handshake with a blinding smile and unfairly soft palms. Blonde hair plaited down her back, unfathomably long legs, and a warm tan that suggested she’d come from somewhere tropical.
This was the woman Teddy brought to Marigold’s funeral. The one I’d assumed was now his ex-girlfriend.
“Nice to meet you,” I finished, squinting at Teddy for the half-second of privacy we had as he walked through the threshold. His expression was, predictably, just as confused as he pretended to be lately.
Serena greeted them with open arms, and the rest of the morning passed in a haze of pearls, makeup, flights of mimosas, and a master class at avoiding eye contact.
Georgie survived an hour before hailing Minerva for snacks.
I survived one mimosa before demanding a fresh carafe of coffee.
I was committing a crime against my liver, but at least I’d survive the day with an ounce of sanity intact.
By the time we reached midday, Minerva had surrendered, delegating the bridal suite to an assistant who appeared to be close to a nervous breakdown herself.
For lunch, we were given arugula salad with wagyu beef, mini chicken Caesar wraps, and chocolate eclairs with “Jesse & Serena” stenciled in gold dust. If my heart wasn’t threatening to beat out of my chest each time I glanced at the clock, I would’ve thoroughly enjoyed the high class culinary experience.
I managed a few bites of salad before the nerves won.
The assistant shooed Teddy away so we could get dressed.
Ivy lingered, snapping a few photos of me and Georgie buttoning the backs of each other’s gowns and slipping our heels on.
When Serena glided in from the connecting suite, everything else dissolved—the Travel and Taste assignment, the wedding prep full of strangers, and even the man she was marrying.
The long sleeves of her princess-cut dress were lace, finished with a high neck, a tight bodice, and a skirt that flowed into an incredible train. Serena transformed into royalty.
And as I forgot all my frustrations, I remembered: not too long ago, we were all girls—navigating divorce and grief and abandonment, staying afloat in waters too dark to see anything around us. We had never been alone, though. Not really.
Why couldn’t we appreciate what he had while we had it?
She looked untouchable now—soft-focus and gilded, the kind of person whose armor relied on a kind word instead of steel. Somewhere between her first heartbreak and this moment, Serena learned how to survive without us. I wasn’t sure whether to be proud or furious.
Georgie sniffled, dabbing the corners of her eyes with a tissue. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone look more beautiful.”
“You look perfect,” I echoed.
Serena gave us a swish, beaming as she did. “It’s a Vera Wang.”
“You could wear a potato sack down the aisle and still look gorgeous,” I retorted.
Ivy laughed and nodded from behind the camera, snapping a few more photos of our reactions.
While the assistant pinned up her train, my stomach began to twist. The ceremony would start in four hours. That left very little time to corner Serena and potentially sneak her out to the getaway vehicle.
“S, we really need to talk,” I began, stepping forward.
Her eyebrows knitted together. “About what?”
“We just want to make sure—”
For the second time that day—or was it the third?—the sound of a knock on the door interrupted me.
Ivy rushed over to open it. Minerva waited on the other side, hissing something into her ear piece and blindly motioning us toward her.
“Jesse and the photographer are all set up for the first look,” she explained.
I glanced back at Georgie. She threw her hands up, wide eyes flitting between all of us in a panic.
“What did you need to talk to me about?” Serena asked.
Minerva tapped her heel against the hardwood. Ivy scrolled through photos on her camera. The assistant trembled like a chihuahua in the presence of her boss.
“Later,” I squeaked. “After photos?”
She squeezed my hand and rushed by in a flurry of lace.
The doorway vacated, and the air seemed to go with her—bright perfume and laughter—all of it vanishing down the hallway to be absorbed in the distant murmur of wedding prep.
Ivy waited by the door with an expectant smile, signaling for us to follow.
I didn’t move, fixated on the empty space Serena left behind, every nerve screaming that I’d missed my moment. Georgie hovered at my shoulder.
“We’ll catch her after,” she whispered, but the words rang hollow—like a promise made too late.
Somewhere beyond the door, I could already hear the click of her heels fading, the machine of the day swallowing her whole.
The more it dragged on, the harder it became to breathe.