At a wedding, from the ceremony to cocktails to speeches and dinner, you’re ensnared for at least four hours, so my only method for surviving, especially this particular one, was to not draw any attention to myself. I hoped to be seated at a high-numbered table, the closer to the bar and the farther away from the dance floor the better. I intended not to slide, shuffle, or otherwise engage in choreographed dancing. I would eat whatever the waiter put in front of me without fuss, even when they inevitably forgot I ordered the vegetarian plate. No hard liquor, thank you.

With this plan in place, it was distressing when Wallis, having found Atlas and me after the ceremony, stood up on my recently vacated chair and waved across the room to Blake Darley, who was on the bride’s side of the aisle, waiting his turn to exit his row.

“Wallis.” I tugged at the hem of her dress. It was the color of lemons, and with her pink hair and natural tan, she looked like a piece of candy. “You’ll see him at cocktail hour.”

But he was already maneuvering his way through the crush to get to our row. They kissed, she stepped down from the chair, they kissed again, his hand alarmingly close to her butt.

Atlas cleared his throat, and Wallis linked her arm through Blake’s and turned to us, beaming. “You remember Daisy,” she said.

“Of course.” Blake kissed me quickly on the cheek. “Who showed great bravery during the battle of La Vic.”

“Hardly.” Now seeing him in daylight, I noticed Blake had the appearance of someone you should know, a movie star or a news anchor. There was an effortlessness about him that made me want to check that my bra straps weren’t showing. “Have you met my friend Atlas Braidy-Lowes? He’s a journalist. Most recently published in GQ and The New Yorker and—what else? Atlas, remind us.”

“That’s the gist of it.” Atlas was the only person less comfortable with flattery than I. “Nice to meet you.”

“You’re also a bow tie man,” Blake observed, returning Atlas’s handshake. He then pointed to his own bow tie, which, if I wasn’t mistaken, looked to be monogrammed with his initials.

Atlas and I exchanged a small smile as we moved slowly down the aisle, trusting the herd to take us in the direction of much-needed cocktails and dinner, to be held on the top floor of the hotel.

“How unique to hear First Corinthians at a wedding,” Blake said with mock seriousness. “I thought it was an inspired choice.”

“And should we hyperventilate over these flowers?” Wallis added, skimming her palm over a bouquet attached by a white ribbon to an aisle chair. “Can you believe it? Red roses? In February?”