Chapter 2 A Toast to Poor Decisions #2
“It was my relationship.”
“Cassie.”
Aunt Linda stepped between us with the grace of a bouncer in gold hoops. “Marianne, go drink something with bubbles before I say what we are both thinking and only one of us will enjoy.”
My mother drew herself up. “I am going to check on Tessa.”
“Excellent choice.”
She swept away.
Dad rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Linda.”
“What?”
“I was handling it.”
“No, you were preparing to handle it. Different sport.”
I looked toward Tessa. She had not noticed. Or she had noticed and chosen not to notice, which was Tessa’s more developed skill.
Grant had noticed. He was watching me over the rim of his glass.
I refused to look away first.
A server appeared at my elbow with champagne. “May I?”
“Yes, please.”
The glass was thin enough to scream old money and cold enough to fog under my fingers.
I took a sip.
Aunt Linda leaned close. “Do not let him corner you.”
“I won’t.”
“Cassie.”
“I said I won’t.”
We both knew that was only partly up to me.
Dinner began with a welcome from the resort event manager, a polished man named Lucien who thanked everyone for joining them at Halcyon Ridge and assured us the weekend had been designed for privacy, comfort, and celebration.
He mentioned the eastern side of the property in the same tone people used for spa hours and checkout policy.
Reserved for a private family gathering.
Clearly marked. Staff available if anyone needed directions.
The first course arrived. Tessa spent most of it glowing. Grant spent most of it performing. My mother spent most of it watching me as if I might leap across the table and stab the groom with a shellfish fork.
To be fair, the fork had a nice weight.
Dad sat on my left. Aunt Linda sat on my right, despite the place cards. She had switched them before anyone could stop her and told Grant’s divorced uncle she was allergic to men with boat shoes.
Tessa’s maid of honor, a woman named Brielle with hair extensions and sincere eyes, gave the first toast. It was fine. Sweet. Too long. She cried three times and said Tessa and Grant had “found each other when they least expected it.”
Aunt Linda muttered, “In your apartment.”
I coughed into my napkin as Dad stared down at his plate with the intensity of a man praying for strength.
Then Grant’s best man stood. His name was Kyle or Cole or Chad. Something with a trust fund and a jaw. He told a story about Grant in college that made Grant sound spontaneous and loyal, though the details involved lying to security and abandoning someone at a lake house.
Men always told those stories as if they proved character instead of a pattern.
Then Grant stood and Tessa looked up at him with damp eyes. He took her hand. The terrace softened around them. People leaned in. The photographer lifted her camera as Grant smiled down at my sister.
“I used to think love was supposed to be easy,” he said.
I took a larger sip of champagne.
Aunt Linda whispered, “Here we go.”
“I thought if something was right, it would never challenge you,” Grant continued. “Then I met Tessa.”
Dad’s hand settled over mine under the table.
A quiet anchor.
Grant’s voice warmed. “She showed me that love is brave. It asks you to risk comfort. It asks you to risk judgment. It asks you to become honest about what you want, even when the truth hurts people.”
My fork stopped halfway to my plate. There were few things more offensive than a cheater discovering moral language.
Tessa was crying now. My mother was crying too. Several guests made soft sounds of approval, because people loved betrayal once it had been arranged with flowers.
Grant looked down the table at me, only for a second.
“And I am grateful,” he said, “for everyone who made space for our happiness.”
My father’s hand tightened around mine.
Aunt Linda said, very clearly, “Oh, fuck off.”
The table went silent near us. Across from me, one of Grant’s cousins blinked into his wine. My mother’s head snapped around.
I looked straight ahead.
Dad said, “Linda.”
Aunt Linda lifted her glass. “To honesty. Since apparently it’s here now.”
A few people laughed because they thought she was eccentric. Grant smiled because he knew a public fight would flatter him.
Tessa looked at me. There it was again. That silent plea. Please don’t. Please let me have this. Please absorb one more sharp thing so I can feel soft.
I raised my glass.
“To Tessa,” I said.
Her face crumpled with relief.
Only Tessa, not Grant. Enough people repeated it that the omission passed without becoming a scene.
Grant noticed.
Good.
By dessert, I had survived two speeches, one slideshow, and a conversation with Grant’s aunt about how “unusual” it was for me to be in the wedding party. I told her families came in all shapes, which made Aunt Linda choke on her wine.
Henry had been moved beside Tessa’s chair, where he sat beneath the table and judged everyone’s shoes.
I liked him more by the minute.
When I stood to go to the restroom, Aunt Linda touched my wrist.
“Want company?”
“I am peeing, not meeting him in a second location.”
“I don’t trust the architecture.”
“I’ll be fine.”
Dad looked up. “Text if you need me.”
That almost made me smile.
The restroom was inside, down a short corridor off the terrace. Marble sink, individual cloth towels, lighting engineered to make rich women forgive their necks. I locked myself in a stall and sat for a minute longer than necessary because no one could ask me to be gracious through a bathroom door.
When I came out, Grant was waiting near the sinks.
Of course he was.
He leaned against the counter with one ankle crossed over the other, jacket open, whiskey in hand. The picture of casual. The door to the terrace stood open behind him, music and voices drifting in.
My whole body went cold with irritation.
“This is the women’s restroom,” I said.
“I was worried about you.”
“No, you weren’t.”
His smile curved. “Still know me.”
“Unfortunately.”
I moved to the sink and washed my hands.
He watched me in the mirror. Grant had always liked mirrors. Reflections gave him twice as many chances to admire the effect he had.
“You’re making tonight harder than it needs to be,” he said.
I reached for a towel. “Funny. That is almost exactly what you said when I found your shirt in Tessa’s laundry.”
His jaw ticked. There he was again. The real one.
“You always did love a performance,” he said.
I turned from the mirror. “You followed me to a bathroom at your rehearsal dinner. Should we discuss performance?”
He stepped closer. Not enough to trap me, Grant was too careful for that. Just enough that my body had to decide whether to retreat.
I didn’t.
His gaze lowered to my mouth.
“You know, the worst part is, you look better angry,” he said quietly. “Tessa cries. You burn. I missed that.”
My skin crawled. “Your fiancée is on the terrace.”
“She’s busy being adored.”
“That must be hard for you.”
His smile thinned. “Don’t pretend you didn’t like being watched.”
I set the towel down with care.
There were several things I wanted to do.
I wanted to slap him. I wanted to walk out there and repeat every word into a microphone. I wanted to ask Tessa if this was the version of love she had risked our family for.
But I could already see the scene. Grant startled and wounded. Tessa sobbing. My mother furious. Guests whispering that I had finally cracked. Poor Cassie. So bitter. So unable to move on.
Grant had built the moment that way because he was good at architecture.
I smiled and his eyes narrowed.
“Grant,” I said, “one day you are going to confuse a woman’s silence with permission in front of the wrong audience.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No.” I stepped around him. “It’s the nicest thing I hope happens to you.”
I walked out before he could answer.
On the terrace, the music had shifted. Guests milled around the tables now, drinking and laughing beneath the lights. Tessa stood near the railing with my mother, showing off her ring to someone who had already seen it.
I made it three steps before Henry shot out from under a table, the pink leash whipping behind him.
“Henry!” Tessa cried.
Every head turned.
Henry bolted across the terrace with the determination of a creature fleeing certain death. He darted between a server’s legs, sailed over the edge of Tessa’s train where it pooled near a chair, and hit the lawn at full speed.
“Oh my God,” Brielle shrieked. “The ring bearer!”
“He’s not carrying the rings tonight,” Aunt Linda said. “Let him save himself.”
Tessa lunged after him in heels.
Grant caught her arm. “Tess, don’t run. You’ll fall.”
Useful, I thought. For once.
Henry cut left toward the garden path. A server moved to intercept him, calm and quick, but Henry was small, furious, and apparently powered by betrayal. He slipped under the man’s reach and kept going.
Tessa’s face went white. “Cassie, please!”
I was already moving.
That was the worst part. I didn’t even think about it.
The dog was terrified. My sister was crying. Everyone else was either drunk, in heels, or Grant.
So I went after him.
“Henry!” I called, gathering the skirt of my manipulative blush dress in one hand. “Come here, you tiny idiot!”
He glanced back and for a second, I thought he might stop. Then something cracked in the trees beyond the lawn.
A branch, probably, a normal sound. A resort full of landscaping made normal sounds.
Henry vanished down the path and I kicked off my heels. Behind me, Dad shouted my name.
I ignored him and ran.