And you put on a dress that makes you feel like you’re trying way too hard.

Which, of course, you are.

Emmaline looked in the mirror.

She looked weird.

There was a knock on the door. “You ready?” Jack called.

Em sighed, grabbed her purse and opened the door. “Hey. You look— Have you been crying?” he asked.

“No. I had something in my eye. I did. Don’t look at me that way.”

“We can skip this,” Jack said. “Go get a nice juicy cheeseburger.”

“Get thee behind me, Satan,” she said. “We can’t skip this. As for cheeseburgers, we can go to an In-N-Out on the way to the airport in just twenty-two and a half short hours.”

Jack smiled.

“You look very handsome, by the way,” she said, then felt her cheeks flush. But he did. He had on a gray suit and a white shirt, and that smile could launch a thousand ships.

“And you look beautiful,” he said. She managed not to snort. He offered her arm, and she took it, abruptly and overwhelmingly glad that Faith had asked him to be her date.

They were almost the last ones to the wedding, which was held on the lawn that stretched to the cliff edge. Rows of white chairs festooned with pink roses and yards of white fabric faced the ocean, where a justice of the peace waited in a snazzy red dress. A string quartet was assembled near the front. Her parents gave her a wave, and Angela made the shape of a heart with her hands.

If it felt as if everyone was looking at her, they probably weren’t.

Besides, they all thought she was engaged to the man next to her.

The string quartet started playing something slow and lovely. Bach, maybe, and the first of the six bridesmaids came down the aisle. All were clad in pale pink sheath dresses and holding white calla lily bouquets. Colleen went past, the prettiest of them all, and rolled her eyes at Em and Jack, then resumed smiling demurely. She was too nice to behave badly, after all. And maybe she had fond memories of Naomi, no matter how loyal she’d been to Em.

Then came the adorable flower girls, four of them, dressed in white tulle with pink sashes, scattering rose petals.

And then there was the bride herself, unescorted, though her dad was here somewhere. Based on what Em knew of Naomi, she’d want to make sure every eye was on her and her alone. Naomi stood there a moment for dramatic effect, waiting for the bridesmaids to fall into place (or start doing burpees, maybe). They did, and the musicians stopped for a moment.

If you didn’t look into her glittering red, Smaug-like eyes, Naomi made a beautiful bride.

There was that body, perfectly showcased in a low-cut, low-backed wedding gown that swirled around her, clinging in all the right spots (everywhere, in other words), elegant and really hot at the same time. Naomi’s skin was lightly tanned, her hair pulled up in a stark bun, and her jewelry was a single fat pearl on a thin gold chain, tiny pearls in her ears.

Very classy.

Then the music started, and Emmaline made a startled noise, then tried not to let her eye twitch. Found herself wishing a severe case of anal fissures on Kevin, because please.

The song was “Largo,” from the winter section of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.

Emmaline knew this because Kevin had chosen that very piece for Em to walk down the aisle to. He’d said it was the most beautiful music he’d ever heard, and he wanted to hear it play as the most beautiful woman became his wife.

Would it be wrong to dry heave right now?

Naomi started down the aisle, slowly, smoothly. Frickin’ beaming at her guests, seeming to make eye contact with every single person there. Except Emmaline, of course. Her eyes slid right over Em, seeing and not seeing.

Why the hell had Em been invited? Why the hell had she come?

Emmaline looked at the groom, who was staring in a tearful, happy daze at Naomi. New Kevin looked different from her Kevin, and that helped.

But his eyes were the same. And while of course Em had known for quite some time that Kevin wouldn’t be looking at her with wonder and love and joy as she walked down the aisle, she’d managed not to picture those big dark eyes looking at someone else, either.

Funny how that worked. Denial, she believed it was called. Mom and Dad would be happy to spend several hours analyzing this for her later, should she mention it.

This felt more like a funeral than a wedding. Maybe that was why she was here—to understand that Old Kevin, her Kevin, was truly dead now, New Kevin flexing on top of his grave.

Her shoes hurt. Yes. Think about that. Maybe she’d have a blister. She almost hoped so.

Naomi handed her bouquet to her maid of honor and reached for Kevin, and the guests sat down. There was a buzzing sound in Emmaline’s ears.

Then Jack leaned over and whispered, very, very softly, “I hate weddings.”

He kissed her temple, looking, she imagined, exactly like a fiancé who couldn’t wait to be at his own nuptials.

Without turning her head, she cut her eyes to him. “Knock it off,” she whispered as one of the bridesminions fluffed Naomi’s dress. “You’re giving my parents false hope.”

“You started it.”

“And stop whispering into my hair. You might chip a tooth, I’ve got so much crap sprayed in there.”

“I know,” he whispered, sending a shiver down her side. “You smell like ethanol. I can feel my brain cells dying. You wearing those chicken cutlets today? Because the girls are looking fantastic.”

“Shut up, Jack.” Her face was hot.

“Is that any way to talk to the man you supposedly love?” Another kiss to her temple, a wink at her mother.

“You’d make a wonderful prostitute,” she whispered. His eyes were a distracting, magnificent blue.

“I get that a lot.” His mouth pulled up on one side, and the knot in Em’s stomach loosened a little bit.

“Good afternoon,” said the justice of the peace, and six minutes later, Kevin and Naomi were husband and wife.

* * *

AT THE VERY FARTHEST table from the bride and groom, the mysterious Russians were cheerfully passing around a bottle of homemade vodka. And Em had thought she was being punished by being seated here! The contraband booze tasted like death, but Em added a healthy glug to her unsweetened, locally grown, fair trade, organic, farm-to-table cranberry juice (which also tasted like death), improving both beverages probably because her taste buds were committing suicide. Still, it was a very jolly table, more so with every passing minute.

“Your hair ees very beautiful,” said Uncle Vlad, the boob-starer from yesterday. He reached out to touch it, winced and withdrew his hand.

“It’s breakable,” Em said. “But thank you.”

Uncle Vlad put his arm around her neck and hugged her, then refilled her glass, God bless him.

Jack apparently had learned Russian in the navy and was chatting away, and it was good, it was fine, because for one, it was a stressful day. And for two, this flirty light stuff he was doing with her...it wasn’t her thing. He kept putting his arm around her and murmuring compliments. It was making her very itchy and scratchy. And tingly.

“How you doing?” he murmured. See? The tingle turned into a nearly painful buzz.

“I’m good! Really good! Yes. Da.” The one Russian word she knew. Well, that and vodka. Yes, vodka! What more did she really need?