“How doIlook?”
Gemma, Chrissy, Shelby, and I sigh in unison. For once, we’re all on exactly thesamepage.
“Beautiful,” Gemma whispers on behalf of the group. “You look absolutelybeautiful.”
And it’s true.Shedoes.
Phoebe West — very soon to be Phoebe Knox — is standing in front of a full-length mirror in her perfect Vera Wang wedding dress and lace-trimmed veil, her dark hair swept into an elegant up-do of coils and curls, counting down the minutes until her wedding. According to the clock on the wall, less than ten of themremain.
The smile that spreads across Phoebe’s lips is brighter than the sun as she turns to examine us, clad in floor-length dark blue bridesmaidgowns.
“You guys are beautiful, too.” She pauses. “I really picked some winning dresses. Flattering on all of you. And I think the navy was a good choice. Classic. Much better than the mauve I was leaning toward at first. Though, with the right bouquets it could’ve beenpretty…”
I roll my eyes. “Little late to change itnow,Phee.”
“True.” Phoebe turns back to the mirror for one final scan of her dress. “Though I, for one, am just happy you’re alive and able to wear any dress at all, considering what happened lastnight.”
“Phoebe, how many times do you want me to apologize for keeping the Duncan stuff from you? This is the third time this houralone.”
“At least one more.” She winksatme.
“Fine.I’m sorry I didn’t tell you loan sharks were after me in an attempt to spare you from non-wedding-related drama. Honestly, I wasn’t trying to keep you in the dark. I just didn’t want to put a damper on thefestivities.”
“You know whatreallywould’ve put a damper on my wedding?” Her eyes narrow. “You being murdered the night before it because you’re too stubborn to let your friendshelpyou.”
“Have to agree,” Gemmamurmurs.
“Hear, hear,” Chrissyagrees.
“I don’t know,” Shelby says, tilting her head at me. “Might’ve made for a more exciting anniversarystory…”
I flipheroff.
We’re cloistered away in one of the smaller exhibit rooms, which the aquarium staff graciously transformed into a miniature bridal suite, complete with comfy white love seats, vases of fresh flowers, and several buckets of champagne. I arrived three hours ago to help Phoebe get ready and change into my own dress, still puffy eyed from my fight with Luca and the silent, stilted car ride thatfollowed.
She was so busy scolding me for not keeping her apprised of the Duncan drama —God, Lila, I had to hear about this from Nate!— that she dismissed my atypical taciturnity as leftover shock from theattack.
Not clear signs of a slow-breakingheart.
My eyes press closed as I think back to this morning. When I emerged from the bathroom, Luca was setting up a small penned off area for Fenway in the kitchen — the floor lined with pee pads, a collection of toys for him to chew in our absence, fresh bowls of food and water. I wanted to thank him. I wanted to ask where the hell he found baby gates on such short notice. Hell, I wanted to scream how sorry I was and throw my armsaroundhim.
But the words got stuck in mythroat.
We exchanged not a single syllable from the time we left his place until we reached the aquarium. Thankfully, the drive was short: a five-minute trip down Atlantic Ave. Any longer, I might’ve caved beneath the crushing silence and done something stupid, like beg his forgiveness for being such a colossal, commitment-phobicbitch.
His words still echo inmyhead.
Delilah, you won’t admit to loving the twins or your dog, let alone a man. You have bigger commitment issues than anyone I’veevermet.
My handsclench.
You can’t keep using your grief over her life being cut short as an excuse to stop livingyours.
The sound of a cork popping pulls me out of my dark thoughts. Chrissy is pouring a bottle of Dom into flutes. She passes them around for one final toast, then hands a seltzer toGemma.
Our glasses are poised mid-air when a knock sounds onthedoor.
“Who is it?” Phoebe calls,eyeswide.