I sleep until ten-thirty the following morning. Such a feat hasn’t occurred since my preteen years when my minor rebellion was squashed by early commitments on both weekend days.

Feeling guilty—and annoyed that I’m conditioned to feel so—I scramble out of bed and pull on my robe. I find Lillian in the kitchen beating egg whites in a bowl. Beside the bowl is a luscious platter of assorted fruits.

I sink onto a stool opposite where she’s working. A steaming mug of coffee appears on the counter and I grunt in appreciation.

“Eggs?” she asks, but it comes out, “Ehhs?”

I shake my head.

We’re both so linguistically challenged in the morning that last Christmas, our friend Jeremy gave us a framed quote by Oscar Wilde that says, ‘Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast.’ It’s hanging on the wall beside the coffee maker.

By the time my coffee and a heaping portion of fruit are gone, the fog in my brain has moved from the mountains but lingers stubbornly on the coast. Lillian’s acclimation to consciousness is even slower. It takes her two cups of coffee, eggs, and toast before she attempts conversation. After a few fits and starts, we begin to plot survival strategy for this evening.

When the filthy rich do weddings, they care less about the couple and more about the event itself. Again, a generalization, but this isn’t my first rodeo. Sure, sure, everyone’s happy for the bride and groom, but the actual ceremony is just a flowery time sucker.

A wedding is a party. It’s about location, guest list, and food. Entertainment. Fashion.

Poorly timed inebriation is to blame for our RSVPs. Both the bride and groom are members of our high-school class and given the wealth of their families, we’d surmised a good portion of our former classmates would be attending. Add to the mix a skipped ten-year reunion and we’d succumbed to misguided nostalgia. By the time the liquor wore off, the RSVPs were mailed.

Tonight, Chelsea King (hotel heiress) is marrying Jason Queen (hotshot corporate attorney). Yes, their last names are actually King and Queen. Even more fitting when one considers who wears the bigger crown. Chelsea, of course.

Lillian’s and my disjointed conversation eventually steers toward wardrobe. “It’s outdoors, so you can wear a wrap,” she says.

I shake my head. “I don’t want to risk it. What if I get warm?”

“God forbid anyone sees the body art, Thebes.”

I ignore the sarcasm. “I’ll wear the black dress,” I say firmly. “It’s an evening wedding. Black is acceptable.”

“And fitting,” mutters Lillian. “Maybe I’ll wear black too. Would a veil be too much?”

Lillian dated Jason during our junior year. She’d been in love. He’d been sowing his wild oats. It was more than a decade ago, but women are women. Our emotional memories run long and deep. She doesn’t give a shit about Jason marrying Chelsea, but it annoys her just the same.

“If you wear a veil, I’ll wear the strapless dress,” I say, baiting her.

She considers it long enough to make me nervous. “Nah,” she says. “Wear the black one. It’s edgy and severe. Perfect for seeing your mother.”

I wince. “Don’t remind me. If we’re seated with her, I’ll stab my eyes out with a fork.”

“I’ll help.”

I haven’t seen my mother since Christmas. She calls. I don’t answer. Maybe it’s childish, but I don’t care. Her last words to me are still loud enough that I can’t listen to any new ones.

Lillian drains her coffee. “Is Matthew coming?”

Matthew Price was my brother’s best friend in high school. They’ve remained close despite Oliver’s move to San Francisco after college. Matthew also happens to be my boss, the architect whose visions I make real. He’s brilliant, funny, and charming. And happily married, which is more of a relief than a disappointment.

“Probably,” I tell her. “Along with the mayor, the governor, and Cher.”

I’m kidding, but only about the last. The Kings are notorious social elitists and have invited close to six-hundred people to the wedding. Or so says Lillian, who’s friends with someone who’s friends with Chelsea, who bragged about the headcount.

“Can we get drunk?” she asks conspiratorially.

I cock an eyebrow. “In front of my mother and Cher?”

She sighs, twirling a strand of sable hair around her finger. “I hope Matthew comes. Didn’t you tell me his wife is out of town? Maybe he’ll bring Adam.”

Her reasoning has a motive, as usual. Adam is Matthew’s brother, also an architect at the firm. He’s a year younger than us and is the current object of Lillian’s lust.

Without speaking, I retrieve my phone from my bedroom. It takes me ten seconds to text Matthew. As his phone is an extension of his hand, the reply comes immediately.

I head back to Lillian and reclaim my stool. I inspect my fingernails, look for split ends, and idly sip coffee. After a minute or so, she cracks.

“I hate you. Is Adam coming or not?”

“Yes.”

She squeals and punches the air, which earns her another raised eyebrow. “What?” she asks, blinking hugely.

“Does this mean you’ll be wearing the red dress?”

She grins. “Hell yes.”

I glance at the digital readout on the microwave. “What time are we leaving?”

“One thirty.”

“In two hours?” I groan. “I bet Chelsea loves that our entire day is ruined.”

Lillian takes her dishes to the sink. “If it had been up to her, the whole weekend would be a goner.”

* * *

Although I haven’t taken a cent of my family’s money in six years, Lillian has no such qualms. She’s hired a limo to take us to the wedding, which is in Santa Barbara. Of course. Because why on earth would you have a wedding in the city you actually live in?

It takes almost four hours to get from downtown San Diego to the venue. We spend the drive sipping champagne and speculating about former classmates.

Lillian makes use of her iPad and social networking savvy, bringing me up to speed on who’s married, has kids, is divorced. And most importantly, who hasn’t aged well.

I’m not interested but I pretend to be, making appropriate noises at appropriate times. I’m thinking about my mother, who will doubtlessly be in attendance. And my father, who will not, because after twenty-seven years of marriage he finally realized who he was married to.

He lives in Boston now and is dating a librarian who isn’t impressed with his money. He’s happy, which I like. He’s on the other side of the country, which I don’t like. Although we’ve never been very close, he’s still my father.

Since the divorce eight years ago, my mother has entertained a steady stream of suitors. I wonder what acronym her date tonight will have attached to his name. CEO, COO, CTO, CMO… She does love her Chief-whatevers.

“Are you even listening?” asks Lillian.

I descend from my daydreams. “Nope.”

“At least you’re honest,” she mutters, then visibly brightens. “I really do love that dress, Thebes. The vintage cut is a perfect blend of sass and crass. And those pearls are ridiculous.”

“They’re ridiculously fake, as you well know. I’m hoping to give my mother a heart attack.”

Lillian laughs. “With six hundred people coming, maybe we won’t see her.”

“And maybe she’ll have a heart attack over fake pearls.”

* * *

The venue is a five-star oceanfront resort. We arrive a full forty-five minutes ahead of schedule, but limos are already lined up before the shining gold and glass doors.

“A red carpet,” says Lillian in a tired tone.

I peer through the tinted window and snort. “And fake paparazzi.” I sink back into my seat, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Just… wow. Can we go home now?”

“Finish your champagne,” she says in a low hiss. “You’re not going to believe who’s here.”

I drop my hand and squint out the window. “Who? Cher?”

She grabs my fingers and squeezes hard, her eyes steady on mine but slightly wide.

“I just saw Damien walk inside.”

I drag oxygen into my lungs and expel carbon dioxide. Such an important function to maintain life—and suddenly a monumental challenge.

Damien Young.

He’d been a broke musician, once upon a time. Nowadays he’s a superstar.

My reality spins, turns sideways, and ejects from one ear. I’m floating, connected to my body only by a strange tingling in my feet. Numbness, however, is the best social armor. I embrace it like an old friend.

“Perfect,” I say, and swallow the last of my champagne.

Lillian swivels toward me, fire in her eyes. “Screw this wedding. Let’s go home. Or better yet, let’s head to L.A. and rent a penthouse for the night.”

“No.” I set the plastic flute down and unclasp the button holding the tailored shawl around my shoulders. I’ve never worn the dress without it.

The fabric sails across the limo, and I relax back. Cool leather presses against the top third of my spine. The deep V is mirrored to a lesser degree over my chest, the two joined by off-the-shoulder straps.

“Oh,” exhales Lillian. “Fuck yes.”

Numbness is armor. I smile coolly.

Thankfully, when it’s our turn to exit, the crowd has thinned. We don’t stop for pictures but head straight through the doors, where I take in the lobby with a critical eye. Black-veined marble floors, gaudy chandeliers, heavy brocaded furniture in alcoves. It’s nothing that excites my internal design geek. Luxury is so easily overdone.

There are hired attendants to guide the guests. We’re approached almost immediately by a smiling young man who would clearly rather be surfing. His suit is rented—we can tell—but he wears it like he doesn’t care. How refreshing.

“Invitations, ladies?” he asks.

We hand them over but he doesn’t bother looking at them. His eyes are on Lillian, which isn’t unexpected. She’s petite, sweetly curved, and looks like a pinup model in her crimson halter dress and stilettos. Her blunt bangs enhance her luminous dark eyes, and her olive skin gleams in the mellow lighting.

“Bride or groom?” he finally asks.

Lillian glances at me. I shrug. She smiles at the man. “Wherever. Somewhere in the back.”

“Excellent,” he says, and offers each of us an arm. We accept, and he escorts us across the lobby.

As we walk, the word tattoo ripples gently behind us. There are the usual undertones of distaste but also sparks of interest, both intellectual and carnal. Not everyone is stuck in a different century.

Our progress slows as we approach more glass doors. I glimpse an overkill of hanging lights and the darkening sky, then chill ocean air skates along my exposed arms and back. It works like a balm, soothing and rebuilding my shell of indifference.

I find the closest chair in the last row on the groom’s side. Seated to my right is a mature couple. Old Money, if I’m not mistaken. They take in my appearance and return to their conversation. With my fake pearls and vivid tattoo, I might as well not exist.

Lillian finally escapes the advances of our escort and sits beside me. The minutes drag by, each of us glancing repeatedly at our watches. We don’t read the programs found on our seats. Such knowledge will only make the ceremony feel longer.

“Why do weddings never start on time?” mutters Lillian.

I am watching a heavily made-up woman in her fifties flirt with a young, blushing man. He’s not blushing for the reasons she thinks he is, though.

I tell Lillian, “To account for late arrivals.”

“Last time I’m early for a wedding.” She fidgets, swinging her hips side to side on the seat. “By the way, your boobs look amazing.”

I glance down and am dismayed by the amount of cleavage displayed. “The shawl usually covers that.” I consider taking my hair down but dismiss the notion. “Screw it.”

“That’s the spirit.” She leans into my shoulder, lowering her voice. “Have you seen Damien?”

“Not looking,” I say, but I have been, and am presently.

I don’t see him in our general vicinity, but there are many famous faces. Actors and actresses, Fortune 500 tycoons, and various professional athletes. Even though I recognize many, I can’t recall most names. Lillian is the one who reads magazines and watches entertainment television.

“Two o’clock,” she whispers.

I look and there he is, revealed as several guests take their seats. Damien Young. My starving, soulful musician turned double platinum recording artist.

He’s standing halfway down a row, near the front of the groom’s side. Sandy blonde hair is swept back from his face, offering his handsome features for recognition. He looks tanned, healthy, and happy. And, of course, rich. Which is what he’s always wanted.

A stunning blonde woman is tucked into his side.

“What a pompous dick,” hisses Lillian, and not softly. There’s a general tensing of bodies around us, which doesn’t affect her. “Look at that bimbo. There isn’t an inch of her not paid for.”

I say nothing, mindful of maintaining my armor. I still miss Damien sometimes, but it’s a phantom pain. He was my first love, my first lover. He took everything I offered and destroyed whatever I had left.

The person I miss is not really him. I don’t need years of therapy to hook that fish. What I miss is the fantasy of him, of us together. The fantasy of a perfect, simple love.

I haven’t seen Damien since the day he walked out on me, ending our four-year relationship with the parting words, “I’ll see you around, okay?”

Two years and three months ago.

I don’t realize that Damien has stilled with shock—that he’s seen me—until Lillian’s elbow finds my ribs. I blink, focusing, and though we’re separated by two hundred people, I feel the impact of his eyes on mine.

I stare calmly back, not smiling. His mouth is parted slightly, eyes wide and baffled. I feel a frenzied shifting deep beneath my calm exterior. Stupid leftover, broken pieces of my heart.

The music changes to something more forceful. Those guests still standing take their seats. Damien stays upright, staring at me like he’s afraid to look away. The blonde tugs on his arm, frowning. She follows his gaze to me.

If looks could kill…

Damien finally blinks. He shrugs off his date’s touch and turns fast, sitting with lack of his customary grace.

“Huh,” says Lillian.

I’m mentally checked out, thinking about missing pieces and heart attacks as the music signals the wedding party. Procession, procession. Tuxedoed groomsmen escort gowned bridesmaids down the central aisle.

“Jesus, how many bridesmaids are there?”

Someone in the row ahead of us shushes Lillian. But she makes a valid point. There are sixteen of them.

I watch the men and women peel out to either side of the officiant and a nervously pale Jason Queen. Thirty-two is an absurd amount for a bridal party, but I admit it makes a pretty picture. The women are near-clones—beautiful and slender. The men are more varied in appearance, though all are handsome in their tuxedos.

My gaze travels down the row and lands on the best man. He looks familiar, though only his profile is visible. Dark, unkempt hair and a strong jaw. I wonder if we went to high school together.

The wedding march begins before I can ask Lillian if we know him. Everyone stands to watch Chelsea’s entrance. Except for me. I can’t take my eyes off the best man, who has turned to face the crowd.

It’s Alexander Hughes.