2. The Welcome Dinner #2
Margot raised her glass. "To Sophie and Jamie. May your love be as stubborn and surprising as the woman who decided, at eleven years old, that a girl who corrected teachers about history was worth knowing."
The room raised their glasses. Sophie was openly crying now. Jamie pressed a kiss to her temple.
Becca applauded with everyone else, but her mind was elsewhere. That speech had been polished, expertly delivered. But underneath the polish, she'd heard it. Longing.
I have spent twenty-five years being seen by this woman.
That was what Margot craved. Being seen. And somehow, impossibly, she'd written a toast that revealed it while pretending to talk about someone else.
Then it was Becca's turn.
She stood up too fast, nearly knocked over her wine glass, and fumbled for the words she hadn't prepared.
"Okay, wow," she started, "following that is terrifying. Margot, that was…" She shook her head. "I don't have seventeen tabs of anything, I'm just going to say what's in my heart and hope it doesn't come out as complete nonsense."
Laughter, warmer than before.
"I met Sophie on the first day of college.
I was crying in our dorm room because I'd burned my welcome cookies.
I was trying to make them for our whole floor, and instead I set off the smoke alarm at two in the morning.
Sophie came in, looked at the disaster, and said, 'They're just cookies.
Let's order pizza and cry about it tomorrow. '"
More laughter. Sophie was laughing too, tears still streaming.
"That's who Sophie is. She doesn't try to fix you. She doesn't give you a plan or a pep talk or a list of ways to do better. She just sits with you in the middle of the mess and makes it feel less lonely."
Becca's voice cracked slightly. She pushed through.
"I've watched Sophie fall in love with Jamie over the past three years, and it's been like watching a flower bloom: slow and inevitable and beautiful.
She texts me at two in the morning to say 'Jamie remembered my coffee order' or 'Jamie held my hand during the scary part of the movie.
' Little things that don't sound like much, except they're everything. They're the whole point."
She looked at Sophie, at Jamie's arm around her shoulders.
"I believe in love," Becca said. "Not because it's easy or because it always works out, but because sometimes, when you're really lucky, you find someone who makes the mess feel worth it. Sophie, you found your person. And I am so, so happy for you."
She raised her glass. Her hand was shaking. "To Sophie and Jamie. May you always remember the coffee order."
The room toasted. Sophie was sobbing now, full-on ugly crying, and Jamie was wiping her eyes, and someone at the back of the room shouted, "That was beautiful!" and everyone laughed.
Becca sat down, heart pounding.
Across the table, Margot was looking at her.
Not the careful, composed look from before. Open, almost startled, like Becca had caught her off guard.
Then the moment passed, and Margot's expression smoothed over, and the evening continued.
Later, after the dessert course, after the mingling, after Sophie pulled them both aside to say thank you for the toasts, the venue wheeled out a cake.
Three tiers. White fondant. Pink sugar roses that were definitely from a catalog.
Becca took a long sip of wine and kept her face very, very neutral.
It was fine. Perfectly fine! A welcome dinner cake.
Not the main event. The main event was currently in pieces in the venue's pastry kitchen: five tiers of vanilla bean waiting for assembly, plus the sugar peonies wrapped up in the cottage fridge like the world's most delicate hostages.
Sunday, when she put it all together and the afternoon light hit those petals just right, that was when Sophie would cry.
This cake was the opening act. The garage band before the headliner. The... okay, she needed to stop internally trash-talking the venue's pastry staff. They were doing their best.
Margot appeared at her elbow.
"That's not yours." Not a question.
"Nope." Becca popped the 'p.' "Mine's still in progress. Sunday's the big reveal."
Margot studied the three-tier display for a moment. "Is yours... better?"
Becca almost choked on her wine. "Oh my god, Margot. You can't just ask that."
"Why not? It seems like a reasonable question."
"Because—" Becca laughed, couldn't help it.
"Okay, yes. Mine's better. Five tiers, hand-piped lace, sugar peonies I spent eight hours on because fresh flowers and buttercream don't play nice together.
" She gestured at the venue cake with her wine glass.
"This is sweet. It's a solid effort. But Sophie's worth three weeks of work, not three hours. "
"I see."
They watched the other guests circle the cake, taking photos, making appreciative noises. Sophie was beaming at Jamie, happy tears already threatening, and she hadn't even seen the real thing yet.
Just wait, Becca thought. Just wait.
"How did you get into this?" Margot asked. "Baking. Cakes."
"My mom's mother. She taught me when I was five.
We'd spend weekends making cakes together.
Nothing fancy, just box mix and canned frosting, but she'd let me decorate them however I wanted.
I made some truly hideous creations." Becca smiled at the memory.
"When she died, I was twelve. I didn't touch a mixing bowl for two years. "
"What changed?"
"I missed her. And I realized that baking was how I felt close to her. So I started again, and I got better, and eventually I got good enough that people started paying me to do it."
Margot was quiet. Then: "That's a beautiful origin story."
"It's just the truth."
"Truths can be beautiful."
Becca studied her. In the soft light of the venue, with her guard lowered by wine and the emotional weight of the evening, Margot looked approachable. Almost soft.
"Your toast was beautiful too," Becca said. "What you said about being seen."
The drawbridge slammed shut. Becca could almost hear the sound: Margot's expression closing, her posture stiffening.
"We should get back to the cottage," Margot said. "It's been a long day."
They walked back through the vineyard, the evening warm around them. Small solar lights lined the path, casting yellow pools that they stepped through and out of.
Becca was tipsy, not drunk, but loosened. The kind of warm that made her brave.
"Can I ask you something?"
"That depends on what it is."
"Do you actually like weddings? Or is this a duty thing? Like, obligation fulfilled, checkbox ticked?"
Margot didn't answer right away. Their footsteps crunched on the gravel path.
"I don't know," she finally said. "I used to like them. When I was younger. I liked the idea of them: two people choosing each other, making it public, building a life."
"And now?"
"Now I'm not sure I believe it works that way. The choosing. The building. I've seen too many mergers fall apart to believe in permanence."
"You're comparing marriages to corporate mergers?"
"The principle is the same. Two entities joining their assets, hoping the combined value exceeds the individual. Most of the time, it doesn't."
Becca stopped walking. They were halfway between the venue and the cottage, surrounded by grapevines on both sides.
"That's the saddest thing I've ever heard."
Margot turned to face her. "It's realistic."
"Realistic isn't the same as true. People aren't corporations, Margot. Love isn't a merger. You can't optimize your way to happiness."
"Can't you?"
"No." Becca's voice came out fiercer than she intended. "You can't. Believe me, I've tried. I've analyzed every relationship I've ever been in, trying to figure out where I went wrong, what I could do differently, how to be less…" She stopped herself.
"Less what?"
Becca hadn't meant to say this much. The wine had made her too honest.
"Less myself," she admitted. "Every time. Someone tells me I'm too much, so I try to be less. I try to need less, feel less, give less. And it never works, because you can't be less than who you are. You can just pretend to be, until you can't anymore."
Margot had that startled expression again. Like Becca kept saying things she hadn't anticipated.
"For what it's worth," Margot said slowly, "I don't think you should try to be less. From what I've seen, the… muchness is part of the appeal."
Becca laughed, a slightly wet sound. "Did you just compliment me?"
"I stated an observation."
"Same thing."
They started walking again. The cottage came into view, sage green door glowing faintly in the darkness.
Inside, the silence felt different. Charged. The cottage felt smaller, the bedroom arch looming.
Becca kicked off her heels and started taking down her hair, pins scattering on the bathroom counter. When she came out, Margot was standing by the window, still in her dress, arms crossed over her chest.
"About what I said." Margot's voice was quiet. "The merger thing. I didn't mean to…"
"It's fine."
"It's not. It was cynical, and you didn't deserve that. You gave a beautiful toast tonight. You meant every word. I shouldn't have tried to diminish that."
Becca crossed the room. She wasn't sure why. Some instinct, some pull, some need to close the distance between them. Margot didn't move, didn't retreat. Just stood there by the window, moonlight catching the sharp planes of her face.