Chapter 31
Twenty-four hours after my mortifying display with Caleb, and twelve hours after I finally stopped wanting to die from my hangover, I'm drowning in bridal warfare.
"Where are the backup bobby pins?" Sarah's voice carries the precise pitch of a bride who's ninety minutes away from walking down the aisle and has just discovered her updo is held together by hopes and prayers.
"Found them!" I call back, diving into the bridal emergency stash Kristal assembled after yesterday's rehearsal meltdown.
Hair elastics sorted by color, makeup touch-up stations, and enough industrial adhesive to rebuild the estate's foundation.
"Plus, I grabbed that weaponized hairspray Magnolia had shipped from some fancy Charleston salon. "
Virginia shoots me a look through her reflection in the vanity mirror, her arched eyebrows climbing toward her hairline. "You've been here for six days and suddenly you're the wedding coordinator's second-in-command? That's commitment, to a role you didn't audition for."
"Survival instinct," I shrug, passing Sarah the pins while compulsively checking my phone.
No emergency duck updates from Amelia, which means my feathered children are behaving and I can channel my anxiety into more immediate disasters.
"Better to be useful than trapped listening to Carter's investment portfolio stories. "
Forty minutes later, I'm kneeling on the floor in my azure bridesmaid dress—which fits perfectly after Magnolia's personal seamstress performed miracles—trying to demolish a chocolate croissant without baptizing the silk with butter stains, all while simultaneously pinning Dixie's loose hem.
"How are you doing that without stabbing yourself?" Sarah asks from her perch on the antique vanity chair, watching me with genuine fascination as I maneuver pins between my teeth.
"Grams taught me that multitasking is just witchcraft for busy people," I mumble around a flake of pastry. "Something about chaos being the natural state of existence, so we might as well get comfortable with it."
"Aren't you just precious," Delilah purrs, angling her phone to capture her reflection while her red curls cascade in calculated perfection. "Though this backstage drama is absolute gold for my followers. Hashtag wedding chaos, hashtag bridesmaid duties."
Beyond the windows, Thistlewood's manicured grounds have been transformed into a vision of matrimonial perfection—rows of ivory chairs facing the dogwood-draped archway, fairy lights threaded through century-old oaks, the Blue Ridge Mountains rising like nature's own cathedral in the distance.
Late May in West Virginia is showing off.
Warm enough for bare arms, cool enough that nobody's melting into their formal wear.
It's breathtaking. The kind of wedding setting that makes you believe in fairy tales and happily-ever-afters, and the wild possibility that love actually conquers all. Which probably explains the strange tightness in my chest whenever I look at it too long.
"There," I announce, knotting off Dixie's hem. "Crisis averted."
"You're a lifesaver," Sarah says, and the genuine warmth in her voice makes me flush. "Seriously, stepping in as a bridesmaid this week, I know it wasn't exactly what you signed up for."
"It's no problem at all. I'm glad I did."
I'm a sucker for weddings, always have been.
Not just the pretty parts, but the whole messy, beautiful spectacle of it.
The way love makes people brave enough to promise impossible things in front of witnesses.
How even the most jaded guests get misty-eyed when the couple exchange rings.
The faith required to believe that this feeling, this person, this moment, can last forever.
"Mabel!" Kristal's voice pierces through the floorboards from downstairs. "Those flower petals are for scattering, not snacking!"
"Sarah's cousin is going to be floating on a botanical high by ceremony time," Virginia mutters, carefully blending her contour along her sharp cheekbones.
I glance at myself in the mirror as I stand, smoothing down the bridesmaid dress.
The silk catches the morning light, somehow making my blue hair look deliberate rather than rebellious.
Even Magnolia's subtle grimace during yesterday's final fitting couldn't diminish how right it rests against my skin.
For a tiny reckless moment, I let myself imagine being the one in white instead of blue.
Having someone wait for me at an altar, looking like I'm the solution to every puzzle they've ever tried to solve.
A partner who'd understand that my vintage teacup collection, and habit of reading multiple books at once, weren't quirks to be tolerated, but pieces of me to be treasured.
For just a second, my brain conjures Caleb in a tux, standing under that flower archway, grinning at me with those devastating dimples as I walk toward him. The vision hits with such startling clarity that my lungs seize.
I mentally douse myself with ice water.
After the rejection, and the exquisite awkwardness we've been swimming through since, these fantasies aren't just stupid—they're masochistic.
He fled my advances like I'd proposed we murder someone together instead of .
. . well, what I'd actually put on the table.
The man who runs from commitment with Olympic-level skill isn't exactly promising "till death do us part" material.
Which explains why I've thrown myself into wedding-helper mode with borderline manic enthusiasm. Every bobby pin secured, every hem fixed, and every bridal emergency handled means more minutes not dwelling on whatever is happening. Or, more accurately, not happening, between me and Caleb.
"Earth to Ivy," Virginia's crisp voice slices through my spiral. "You're staring at nothing, with an expression that's equal parts tragic and constipated."
"Just contemplating my theoretical future wedding," I deflect, which isn't technically lying. "Someday. Maybe. If I ever find someone who can handle . . ." I gesture vaguely at my entire existence.
"You will," Sarah says, with the unshakeable confidence of someone who stumbled into love while jogging through Boston Common. "The right man's going to take one look at you and realize he's completely screwed."
If only it were that simple.
"Alright, ladies!" Kristal's voice cuts through the moment. "Hair and makeup final checks! We're T-minus thirty minutes to showtime!"
The girls scatter around the room, taking last minute selfies while Sarah nervously glances out the window.
"Ivy!" Kristal appears at my elbow, her perfectly highlighted hair not daring to move despite her obvious stress. "The men are collectively useless. Can you make sure they haven't messed up their boutonnieres, and that Matt hasn't hyperventilated into unconsciousness?"
"On it," I say, grateful for the distraction.
The groom's quarters reek of expensive cologne and raw anxiety.
Matt's pacing circuits have worn an imaginary path in the carpet, his expertly styled hair already showing the telltale signs of nervous fingers.
Preston's lecturing Dean about proper pocket square technique, while Jefferson and Carter have vanished—probably interrogating the catering staff about whiskey selections.
And then there's Caleb.
He's posed against the window frame, morning light silhouetting him so perfectly it's almost unfair.
The tux transforms him from my familiar disaster, into something that sends my pulse into a stutter.
That stubborn cowlick at his crown is fighting valiantly against whatever product they slathered through his hair, and he looks devastating.
Mouth-dryingly, thought-scatteringly handsome.
Enough to send my heart thudding painfully against my ribs.
"How are we doing in here?" I ask, forcing brightness into my voice.
"Caleb's boutonniere is off-center," Matt interrupts his circuit to inform me, wild-eyed with pre-ceremony panic. "And I've forgotten whether I lead with left or right foot during the processional and—"
"Matthew," I cut through his spiral, gripping his shoulders. "You survived that idiotic water tower stunt senior year and somehow convinced Sarah to fall in love with you. Walking down an aisle is amateur hour compared to that."
His laugh carries relief. "Shit, I'd forgotten you witnessed that disaster. You and Caleb were what, sophomores? You drove getaway while we ran from security."
"My finest criminal achievement," I agree. "Now focus on Sarah. Everything else is just background noise."
"Right. Sarah. I can do that." He takes a deep breath. "Thanks, Ivy-league. Always knew you were the smart one in Caleb's life."
I flush at the childhood nickname he hasn't used in years, then turn toward Caleb, and his supposedly askew boutonniere, which looks perfectly fine to me, but provides the excuse I need to approach him.
"Your brother's being dramatic," I murmur, reaching for the perfectly positioned flower on his lapel.
"Shocking development," he replies, but his voice has dropped to a rough register that does problematic things to my nervous system.
My fingers brush his chest as I pretend to adjust the boutonniere, and I swear I hear his breath catch. We're close enough for me to see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, and to breathe in the cologne that's been haunting me all week.
"There," I murmur, smoothing his lapel. "Perfect."
"Thanks," he says quietly. "You look . . ."
I glance up and find him studying me with an expression that defies categorization. Not quite longing, not quite regret, but something murky and unreadable.
"Beautiful," he finishes quietly. "You look incredible, Ivy."
My heart executes a gymnastic routine I'm not equipped to handle, and I drop my gaze before he can read the pathetic hopefulness I'm sure is written all over my face. "You clean up surprisingly well yourself, Miller."
"Don't sound so shocked," he teases, but something in his voice is off-balance.