Four
“Fucking hell,” Rowan mutters under her breath. “Who picked the funeral music?”
I don’t even have to look at her to know she’s scowling. Rowan scowls with her whole face. Brows, nose, mouth, all of it.
“It was his mother, wasn’t it?” she adds.
“Rowan!” I hiss.
The string quartet in the corner launches into something slow.
She turns toward me, her red hair swinging over one shoulder. Madison and Rowan both inherited our grandmother’s coloring, with copper and fiery hues. My brother Noah and I have dark hair from our parents.
“I’m just saying,” Rowan continues. “If someone dies in the middle of this dinner, the soundtrack is already sorted.”
“I love a good funeral,” my mother says suddenly, sipping her wine.
All three of us turn to stare at her.
Madison blinks. “Mom? Seriously?”
“What?” she asks, perfectly innocent. “You don’t do funerals right over here. Not properly.”
We exchange the same look we’ve been exchanging since childhood. It’s equal parts affection and alarm.
Mom moved to the States from Ireland in her early twenties, but if you give her a good funeral, she’s back home in a heartbeat. My aunt died three years ago, and we flew over for the service. We came back hoarse and hungover.
Madison leans forward, lowering her voice. “You didn’t pick the music, Piper?”
I shrug, feeling heat creep up my neck. “There was a lot going on.”
Rowan narrows her eyes. “Like what?”
“Stop it,” I warn.
“She’s a world-famous violinist,” Rowan presses, gesturing vaguely at me. “They couldn’t let her pick the music for her own rehearsal dinner?”
“I’m not world-famous,” I mutter.
“Not yet,” Mom chimes in.
Jesus.
Madison reaches over and takes my hand, grounding me as always. She’s the buffer. The peacekeeper. The one who learned early how to smooth sharp edges before they draw blood.
“The music is…” She searches for a word that won’t hurt my feelings.
“Shit,” I say, smiling. “The music is shit. You can say it.”
Rowan grins triumphantly. “Thank you.”
Dinner plates are cleared away, and we’re left at the far table with half-empty glasses and faces sore from smiling. I’ve answered the same question about ten times tonight.
Why did you turn down the solo?
That was such a big opportunity.
Are you sure it wasn’t a mistake?
It’s embarrassing. I can admit that much.
“I’ll get back to my career once all of this settles,” I say again, like it’s a rehearsed line. “Ezra’s work is just very demanding right now.”
It sounds reasonable, doesn’t it? Even if it still makes my stomach dip every time I say it.
I glance across the room and spot Ezra mid-conversation. He holds a glass in his hand, laughing at something someone said. He looks at home here, surrounded by his people. From a distance, I barely recognize him. Then again, I wonder if he feels the same way about me.
We both wear masks out here.
I immediately hate myself for thinking that.
Stop it, Piper.
This is just last-minute nerves.
“Didn’t you say you were wearing the blue dress?” Madison asks.
I open my mouth, ready with a lie, but Noah comes to my rescue.
“Piper, I know you didn’t pick the funeral music.” Noah slides into the empty chair beside me. He looks handsome in his dress shirt, sleeves rolled up.
Dad appears a second later, beer already in hand. “It’s shit,” he declares, sitting beside Mom and kissing her cheek. “Who chose it?”
Rowan throws her hands in the air. “See!”
I laugh despite myself, the sound bubbling out before I can stop it. “No, I didn’t pick it. No, I don’t care. The music is the least important thing about this weekend.”
Mom squeezes my hand. “Exactly, love.”
Rowan opens her mouth again. “Not to you. Music is your life. If they won’t even let you choose something as simple as—”
“Rowan,” Madison snaps, eyes wide in warning.
Noah presses a champagne flute into my hand. “Here. Drink. Relax.” He lifts his own glass. “To the future Mrs. Harrington.”
Everyone cheers.
I wait for the smile to come.
It doesn’t, so I force it the way I learned to. Lips up. Eyes soft. Appear grateful. Appear happy.
Tomorrow, I’m getting married.
And that knot in my stomach?
It’s nothing.