5. The Day Before
THE DAY BEFORE
Margot woke with Becca's hand still in hers.
She didn't move. Just lay there in the pale morning light, watching Becca sleep, feeling the warmth of their intertwined fingers. She should pull away. Should create distance, rebuild the defenses that had been crumbling steadily since Thursday.
She didn't move.
Becca's face was soft in sleep, all the animation temporarily stilled. Her curls had escaped whatever braid she'd attempted last night and spread across the pillow in dark waves. A small frown creased her forehead, as if even in sleep she was working through something.
You're incandescent, Margot had said last night. She'd meant it. Becca radiated warmth, light, an openness that made Margot ache with wanting.
Wanting what, exactly, she still wasn't sure. But the wanting was there, undeniable. A pressure in her chest that had nothing to do with partnership briefs or merger agreements.
Becca's eyes fluttered open.
"Morning," she murmured, voice rough with sleep.
"Hi."
A beat. They both became aware, at the same moment, that they were still holding hands. Neither pulled away.
"Sleep okay?" Becca asked, her thumb tracing lazy arcs across Margot's knuckles.
"Better than usual."
"Me too." A slow smile spread across Becca's face. "I like waking up next to you."
Margot's heart did something complicated. "That's… direct."
"I'm always direct. You should know that by now."
"I do."
"And? Any thoughts on the matter?"
Margot considered. She could deflect. Make a joke. Change the subject.
Instead, she said: "I like it too."
The smile that broke across Becca's face was worth every moment of vulnerability.
The day was chaos from the start.
Sophie had scheduled a bridal brunch at ten, followed by final venue walkthrough at noon, followed by hair and makeup trials at two, followed by the wedding party dinner at seven.
Margot had color-coded the entire schedule in her binder, with buffer time built in for delays and a contingency plan for at least six different disaster scenarios.
None of that mattered. Weddings, it turned out, were immune to color-coded binders.
The florist called at nine-thirty to report that the peonies had arrived slightly wilted. Margot spent forty-five minutes on the phone negotiating a replacement shipment from a backup supplier she'd identified three weeks ago (tab twelve in her binder: Emergency Vendor Contacts).
The caterer arrived for setup and discovered the appetizer station was missing two chafing dishes. Margot tracked down Patricia, who tracked down the venue's supply closet, which had been accidentally locked by a cleaning crew.
Jamie's best man got food poisoning from the hotel breakfast buffet and spent most of the morning in his room, debating whether to power through or call a backup best man.
Margot consulted the binder (tab eight: Bridal Party Contact Information and Backup Plans) and arranged for a pharmacy delivery of anti-nausea medication.
Through it all, Becca was there.
Not helping, exactly. Becca's organizational style remained cheerfully chaotic.
But she was present. Bringing Margot coffee when she'd been on the phone for too long.
Making Sophie laugh when the peony crisis threatened to spiral into tears.
Handling the things that couldn't be handled with spreadsheets: emotions, anxieties, the human element that Margot had never quite mastered.
They moved through the day in tandem. Not touching, exactly, but aware of each other in a way that felt like contact anyway.
When Margot's shoulders tensed over the chafing dish situation, Becca materialized with a squeeze and a murmured "You've got this.
" When Becca got flustered dealing with a difficult caterer, Margot stepped in with her courtroom voice and resolved it in thirty seconds.
"You two are terrifying as a team," Sophie observed at one point. "Like a well-oiled wedding machine. Maid of Honor and… I don't know, chaos coordinator?"
"I prefer 'emotional logistics expert,'" Becca said.
"That sounds like you made it up."
"I absolutely did. Margot handles the spreadsheets, I handle the feelings. It's a division of labor."
Sophie looked between them with her knowing smile. "Sure. Division of labor. That's all this is."
"Sophie—"
"I'm not saying anything. I'm just observing. Observing is allowed."
She drifted away to deal with a question about centerpiece placement, leaving Margot and Becca standing too close together in the venue's back hallway.
"She's impossible," Margot said.
"She's right, though." Becca's voice was soft. "We do work well side by side."
Margot didn't trust herself to respond.
By mid-afternoon, Margot was running on caffeine and willpower.
The final venue walkthrough had gone smoothly. The hair and makeup trials had resulted in Sophie crying (happy tears) and demanding that everyone keep their trial looks for the real thing. The best man had rallied thanks to modern pharmaceuticals and sheer determination.
But Margot's shoulders had turned to knots, and her jaw ached from clenching, and she'd been in what Becca called "control mode" for six hours straight.
"Break," Becca announced, appearing at her elbow with a glass of water. "Now."
"I can't. The seating chart still needs to be confirmed, and the DJ has questions about the reception playlist, and—"
"The seating chart is confirmed. I saw you confirm it twice. The DJ can wait twenty minutes. You need air."
"I need to make sure everything is—"
"Perfect. I know. But you're not going to achieve perfection if you collapse from exhaustion before the actual wedding." Becca took her arm, that same light touch that kept undoing Margot, and steered her toward the venue's back door. "Walk with me. Just twenty minutes. Please."
Margot could have resisted. Should have, probably. But Becca was looking at her with those warm brown eyes, and Margot's defenses were too worn down to fight.
"Twenty minutes," she conceded.
"That's all I ask."
The vineyard was quiet in the afternoon light.
They walked along a gravel path that wound between the rows, grapevines heavy with fruit on either side. The air smelled like earth and sun and something almost sweet: the promise of wine, of transformation, of ordinary things becoming extraordinary.
Becca walked beside her, close but not touching. They didn't speak at first, just moved through the landscape side by side, letting the silence settle.
"Tell me something," Becca said eventually.
"Something like what?"
"Something I don't know about you. Something real."
Margot considered. Most of the things she could tell were work-related, and Becca had made it clear she wanted something different. Something personal.
"I used to paint," she heard herself say. "In college. I was good. Had a few pieces in the student gallery. I thought about majoring in art."
"What happened?"
"Law school happened. My parents happened. The practical path happened." Margot kept her gaze on the gravel. "I haven't picked up a brush in ten years."
"Do you miss it?"
A vine heavy with unpicked grapes sagged across the path ahead of them. Margot stepped around it. "I don't let myself think about whether I miss it."
"That's not an answer."
"I know."
They walked a few more steps. Becca reached out and took her hand, threading their fingers through hers like she had last night. This time, in daylight, with no pretense of sleep, the gesture felt bolder.
"Your turn," Margot said. "Something I don't know."
"Okay." Becca thought for a moment. "I've never told anyone the real reason I started baking."
"You said it was your grandmother."
"That's the nice version. The real version is that my dad left when I was eleven, right before my grandmother died. Same year. And my mom. She was a mess. Couldn't hold it together. I was this terrified kid with a mother who spent three months in bed and no one else around."
Margot squeezed her hand. "I'm sorry."
"The baking started as survival. I had to feed myself, so I learned to cook. And then I found my grandmother's recipe book, and baking felt like—" Becca's voice caught. "Like she was still there. Teaching me. Even after she was gone."
"That's lovely."
"It's coping. Same thing, sometimes."
They'd reached a viewpoint where the vineyard fell away into rolling hills. The afternoon sun painted everything gold and amber. Margot stopped, letting herself take in the vista.
"It's stunning out here," she said.
"So are you."
Margot turned. Becca was looking at her with that unfiltered intensity, the one that made Margot feel like she was being seen all the way through.
"You keep saying things like that," Margot said.
"You keep looking surprised when I do."
"Because I don't…" She stopped. Tried again. "People don't usually…"
"People don't usually what? Tell you you're stunning? That's absurd. You're objectively gorgeous. Sharp cheekbones, incredible bone structure, legs for days. I've been trying not to stare at you since Thursday."
A laugh escaped Margot, uncontrolled and genuine. It felt strange in her chest, like a muscle she'd forgotten how to use.
Becca went still. "Oh my god."
"What?"
"That. That laugh. You should do that more often."
Margot frowned a little. "I laugh."
"Not like that." Becca's face softened. "You have no idea, do you? What you look like when you're genuinely happy. When the mask comes off."
Margot's throat tightened. "I don't—"
"It's breathtaking. You're breathtaking.
Not just the cheekbones and the legs, but…
" Becca stepped closer, close enough that Margot could feel the warmth radiating off her.
"The way you organize everything because you're scared of chaos.
The way you take care of Sophie without admitting you need taking care of too.
The way you look at me when you think I can't see. "
"How do I look at you?"
"Like you want something you're afraid to ask for."