As if being single at a wedding wasn't pathetic enough, I had also been put on the one job that the maid of honor did not want to do. Veil duty.

So here I stood in my violet chiffon gown, holding a gauzy veil that kept flying into my face and getting tangled in the curled pieces of flyaway hair that the stylist had left out of my updo.

"Marie, are you putting this back on or can I go store it in the room?" I tried my best to end the sentence on a sweet note.

The bride happened to be one of my closest friends from high school, so only for her was I suffering this miserable June heat and no plus one.

"Well, I could put it on for one more picture. But I don't know that we can get it back in my hair the right way. Oh, I don't know, what do you think, husband?"

She leaned over to kiss Henry, her high school sweetheart turned husband.

That was all fine and dandy and I'd throw rice over their heads later, but I wanted a damn answer. And a bottle of vodka ... when we were released from duty to crash the cocktail hour?

"I'm going to go put it away, and if you need it later, I'll grab it." They weren't even listening, too busy making out next to a plant on the venue's lawn while the photographer snapped away.

Traipsing back across the crunchy, summer grass in my stilettos, I tried to look on the bright side; be happy for my friends, thank God that I was marginally closer to a drink and the steak dinner I'd been promised.

I hadn't always been this cynical about love, but if you'd been through the ringer I had, you'd be patting me on the back for not getting on my soapbox and interrupting the wedding when the priest had asked for objectors earlier.

"Are they almost done with photos? We need to get her flat shoes on and parade them around cocktail hour." Marie's sister, Stephanie, asked when I walked into the upscale hotel that the wedding was being hosted at.

"Not sure, you should go check." Considering you're the maid of honor, and I'm not your bitch. I added that part in my head.

Marching inside, my heels clacking on the white tile of the venue, I couldn’t wait to get these death shoes off. The entire place was done up in shades of purple and white, Marie’s signature colors of the day. It looked like a Pinterest page had exploded in here, and it made me cringe. I was nothing if not simple, my own room at home bare in terms of decoration except for the few pictures of friends and the peach and white bedspread I’d fallen in love with at Anthropology last summer.

Yes, I still lived with my parents at twenty-seven. You would too if you had school loans up to your ears and another year of medical school to go. One more year, and I’d be a fully licensed dermatologist. My dream as a child had been to be Meredith Grey, a surgeon with kickass hair and a hot doctor boyfriend who could screw me in on call rooms. Instead, I was a whiz with acne, cysts and laser hair removal. And as much as other medical professions liked to mock us, I really do love what I do.

Cocktail hour starts and ends, I stuff myself full of way too many pulled pork sliders, and we’re finally seated in the ballroom, listening to speeches. The best man, currently giving his drunken, awkward speech, is a guy I went to high school with, as are most of the people attending Marie’s wedding. It’s both a downside and an upside; I have to see and converse with people I actively avoid friending on Facebook, but another half of the room is actually decent and I enjoy having a drink with them.

At least Henry didn’t ask him to be the best man. From my knowledge, they hadn’t spoken in years. I’d refrained from asking Marie if he’d been invited, but he would never come even if he was. Weddings in Jersey do not scream red carpet or celebrity status.

Four Jack and Cokes later and I’m feeling pretty good … and even better about my single status. It means I can Irish goodbye right after the cake is cut and go home to my pint of red velvet ice cream and reruns of Friends.

Familiar chords start, the slow melody of everything I'd held in my heart once playing out over the dance floor. Christ, did they really need to play this song?

The rain came down,

And so did you.

Meeting between the gray and blue,

I found you there,

Mine to keep.

I got up from the table and made a break for the ballroom doors, unable to sit in the onslaught of lyrics now being sung by the man in the song.

Outside in the hallway, I could still hear it, but only faintly. Looking down, I realized I'd done myself a favor and brought my drink out with me.

Finishing the last dregs of it, I sighed and leaned against the wall. "God, I hate that fucking song."

"Tell me about it."

A shadowy figure leaned against the wall farther down, and I startled a bit not realizing I wasn't alone.

And then he stepped out of the shadows. That voice ... I could pick it out anywhere.

"Hey, Kara."

Blue eyes, the color of a hurricane-influenced ocean, sandy blond hair down to his shoulders, that tall, lean body with hands always shoved in his pockets.

I haven't seen his face in person in seven years. What the hell he's doing back in New Jersey, I have no clue. My intuition had failed me, and the lovebirds inside were going to get an earful about not looping me in on the fact than an invite went out with Dean Jacobs’ name on it.

But how dare he say my name. How dare he show up here, his usual sly, cocky charm following him in whichever direction he breathed.

Before I know what's happening, I move toward him, setting my empty drink down on a nearby table.

And as soon as I'm within reaching distance, I smack him square across the face.