I shift in my seat, readjusting my seat belt. It’s strange how wearing someone else’s clothing can make you feel like another person. Or maybe it’s because I’m driving to work as a single woman for the first time in over six years that has my own skin feeling too tight.

Once at work, I pull into my usual parking spot, my belly feeling tight. Nerves are coursing through me along with the waffles and fruit Felicity watched me eat every bite of. I step inside the doors of Glitter and Gold, and a sense of calmness and familiarity carries me to my desk. I had never thought while growing up that being an event planner would be my profession. I never knew exactly what I wanted to be, what I wanted to do. It wasn’t until Felicity was planning her wedding and I began assisting her, making the arrangements and planning the venue, that I met Catherine Ellison, owner and CEO of Glitter and Gold. She attended Felicity’s wedding, albeit without an invitation, and offered me a job the following day. I accepted and began as her personal assistant. My duties consisted of random requests that have become more bizarre over time, even with several promotions and pay raises that have led me to being one of the most sought-after wedding planners in Chicago nearly a decade later. However, Catherine still often treats me like her assistant, sending me tasks and deadlines on weekends and evenings that have me working more often than not. It’s the knowledge of so few things changing here that allows me to forget about Gabe for a moment as I get seated at my desk and open my email.

Four emails from Catherine instruct me to check my voice mail, each with more exasperation. I know they aren’t urgent, if they were, she would have called my cell phone. With a heavy sigh, I check the messages, knowing she’s passing an issue to me that I don’t have the energy for today.

There’s a litany of messages, all complaints and frustrations from a bride regarding a coworker, Serena. Issues ranging from not returning phone calls to concerns about invitations, food, and flowers for her upcoming wedding. The bride is demanding Catherine’s attention or a full refund. I run a hand down my face before standing and heading to Serena’s office. While Catherine can be difficult and time-consuming, Serena is my migraine. She was hired by Catherine after moving to the area from LA with a battalion of stories about Hollywood and events she participated in hosting. Catherine’s love for glamour and money blinded her to the clear exaggerations, and now I spend too much of my time cleaning up her messes.

Serena’s sitting at her desk, her long fingernails painted a bright red, her platinum-blond hair teased and hair-sprayed into perfection. She smiles. “I love your shirt. The color is great on you.”

Though she’s a headache, and completely underqualified, she’s too kind and naive to dislike.

“Thanks.” Her compliment should be benign, but today it feels more profound. I swallow the instant lump in my throat and thread my fingers in front of me. “Sorry to bombard you this morning, but I want to touch base with you in regard to the Gilbert wedding.”

“The Gilbert wedding?”

I blink a dozen times, waiting for recollection to catch up with her.

It doesn’t.

“The bride’s name is Anna, and the wedding is June second. I received a couple of messages Catherine has forwarded me. The bride seems a little concerned because she hasn’t heard from us in a few weeks…”

Serena’s eyebrows soar high with surprise. “Gilbert?”

I nod.

Serena remains still, her eyes rolled back as she works to recall the bride in question.

“Do you think you might have an open file for them? I checked the database and didn’t see anything.”

Serena rummages through files piled high around her desk. I’m pretty certain it’s her three-inch nails that keep her from inputting records, though I wouldn’t be surprised to learn she doesn’t know how to.

“Gilbert?” she says again.

I nod and step beside her to help her look through the files.

“The name doesn’t sound familiar…” Her voice turns exhausted, likely recognizing she wasn’t ready to plan events alone, let alone weddings where brides can oftentimes be demanding and sometimes unrealistic.

“Here it is.” I ease a folder free from a stack and hand it to her. It already feels like I’m overstepping. I loathe the times Catherine asks me to get involved with the way another employee is handling their accounts.

“Crap,” she sighs the word and then reaches up as though to run a hand through her teased hair before she stops. “I somehow forgot all about this lady. I was supposed to be reserving the venue, and she wants Concorde Banquets.”

I work to keep my features impassive, but can tell I’ve failed as she drops her head back with a far more dramatic sigh.

“The event coordinator at Concorde owes me a favor,” I tell her. “Let me see if I can grease some wheels. Can I borrow the file so I have the dates for the wedding and rehearsal?”

She nods with tight, jerking movements that seem to shake loose a sense of guilt that builds in my stomach. “You’re a lifesaver! Thank you!” She clutches one of my hands between both of hers and squeezes. “I owe you. I owe you so much! Thank you!”

Her hands fall from mine, and she reaches for the file and extends it to me. I smile in return, and though I think we both know it’s far from genuine, I’m relieved to have an excuse to force some sort of emotion.

I head back to my office and find five new text messages. My traitorous mind instantly wonders if they’re from Gabe. I’m reading extravagant apologies and promises from him before I even reach for my phone, certain I will find both and more because if I’m feeling this awkward and out of sorts, surely he has to as well.

My hands tremble like an addict’s as I reach for my phone. I hate feeling so unglued, so naive, and so unbalanced due to the past twelve hours.

My heart screams in my head, and my chest grows tight as I read down the list.

Felicity sent three messages.

And Sue sent the other two.

Sue.

Sue Jennings.

Gabe’s mom.

I scroll down to Sue’s messages first, knowing I won’t be able to think straight without knowing what she’s said.

My birthday? Offense mounts surprise, tangling together in a web of resentment and anger that dulls the disappointment from again not hearing from Gabe.

I scroll to Felicity’s messages.

The first is a selfie of her in front of a U-Haul.

Felicity and I have been best friends since we were five and fought over which of the fruit-scented markers smelled best in kindergarten. Our friendship grew and flourished, and we fought over slightly more mature subjects like sour cream and onion versus barbecue potato chips, Gilmore Girls or Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and who was hotter—Nick Carter or Justin Timberlake. Our friendship has prevailed through breakups, her parents getting divorced, and our sophomore year of high school, when I was invited to senior prom by her crush—which I didn’t attend, but she was still angry at me for—and her moving away to college for two years. Our many years of friendship have formed a bond that often leads me to believe she can sense my emotions even when we’re not near one another.

My desire to say yes is so strong I type and erase the response three times before I erase it a final time.

I send her a heart emoji and then have to use both hands to grip my phone as I scroll to Gabe’s thread of messages. I skim through several, covering the past few days. Messages talking about dinners and weekend plans, how work was going. I scroll farther, looking for evidence of things going awry between us, an underlying tension or resentment, hints of animosity about how much I work and how little I partake in many of the customary domestic chores. I go back three months before stopping, my eyes laden with tears and my heart sitting heavily within my chest. Again, I look like a junkie, working to grip my phone between my unsteady hands as I text him.

My desk phone rings, breaking my focus on waiting for a reply from Gabe. I take a deep breath and purposefully lay my cell phone facedown before reaching for my desk phone.

“Glitter and Gold, this is Brooke.”

“Brooke. Thank God you’re there.” Catherine’s distinct deep and raspy voice greets me.

“What’s going on?”

“I’ve had a horrible morning. Just awful. I was in a car accident!” She sucks in an audible breath, and I begin to ask if she’s all right but pause when she continues. “A car accident!” she screeches when I don’t respond.

“Oh my gosh! Are you okay? Where are you? What can I do?”

“They could have killed me!” she cries. “There were two of them in the car, and somehow neither one saw me and plowed right into the side of my car!”

“Are you hurt?”

“Of course I’m hurt! I was in a car accident! Aren’t you listening to me?”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, counting to five. “Where are you?”

“Home, but I need you to come and get me. I need to see the doctor, and my car is a mess.”

If this was the first or even the tenth time she was asking me to drive her somewhere, I might be surprised, but it’s not. I grab my purse and shove my cell phone inside before locking my computer.

“Have you called and made an appointment, or do you want to go to an urgent care?”

“Urgent care?” Her voice turns petulant. “Have you ever been to an urgent care? They’re filled with a bunch of frauds who can’t get hired on at a hospital or private practice. People who go to those places are begging to catch a viral disease.”

Eventually, I’ll learn to stop asking questions. “I’m on my way.”

“I need you to stop for some coffee on your way,” she says.

“What would you like? A latte or a drip coffee?”

“Drip, no sugar.” Her antidote for her reliance on gin. “A large one.”

“Got it.”

I hang up and quickly forward my calls from my desk to my cell phone, then stand to leave. I have a thousand things I need to be doing—that I should be doing—but for the first time, I’m a bit appreciative of my needy and neurotic boss.

Catherine lives in a gated community, and though I’ve never been over for a dinner party or for any other social calling, the guards know me by name. I’m waved in without bothering to reach for my ID. Her neighborhood reminds me of something seen off a sitcom—the yards all manicured to perfection, filled with exotic plants and meticulously placed stones that lead to wide porches that surround the impressive homes.

I pull up in front of Catherine’s, parking on the street rather than going down the alley to her garage. She’ll likely scoff, but today I don’t have the capacity to care. I head up the stone path to her front door and ring the doorbell, knowing better than to knock—a mistake I only made once. The door swings open almost instantly, revealing Catherine in a red dress and excessive amounts of gold jewelry. More than once I’ve been concerned about being with Catherine when we’ve been out late after meeting with clients or looking at a venue and walking through a dark parking lot—her attire always screams money.

“Brooke! Thank goodness you’re finally here. Was traffic bad?” Her French-manicured nails wrap around the coffee I offer, her glassy eyes tinged red from drinking.

“No. It’s pretty slow, actually. How are you feeling?”

“Then what took you so long?” She doesn’t look to me for a response because her question is rhetorical.

“Which doctor do you want to see? And do you need to bring anything?”

“We’re not going to the doctor’s. All they’ll tell me is to rest and relax, and I don’t have time for that.” She straightens her flawless dress. “Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

I shake my head. “Like what?”

“You keep looking over me like there’s something wrong with the way I’m dressed!” Her voice rises with insult.

“I’m just… Are you okay?”

Because I came to take you to the doctor or hospital for being in a wreck, and you look fine…

“Just losing patience with how late I’m going to be.” Her last words come out in a singsong tone as she shifts her attention to the contents of her designer purse.

“You have everything sorted? Your car and … everything?”

“I didn’t give birth. I was in a car accident.”

“But you need to get your car into a repair shop or something, right?” I wonder if she recognizes the hint of plea to my voice. Knowing Catherine, she will assume I’ll become her personal chauffeur, a role I couldn’t stomach.

“Oh, I can’t drive it. It’s in terrible condition. The entire passenger side is dented. Someone will think I bought a used car or worse, something from the impound lot. I already called my son, and he’s going to come by and get it after dark and drop it off to be repaired.”

So many thoughts and unanswered questions dance along my tongue, wanting to be voiced.

“Why are you staring at me like that again?” Catherine swipes at her dress again, then starts walking toward my car, leaving me to follow.