I hate that I tripped over my words. “I love him. The wedding is in October.”

I brace myself for the reactions, and sure enough, they respond the way everyone does: “This October?” they screech.

“Why so soon?” Mom asks.

I take a deep breath and tell them the sweetest possible version of our proposal story, leaving out the fact that I threw up. I describe how beautiful the venue is, and how it’s miraculously free. They don’t sound thrilled, but at least they’ve stopped interrupting me with horrified comments.

“Wow,” Mom muses. “Free. You really do have a knack for business, don’t you?”

“I know it’s been a hectic few months, and I know this all seems incredibly fast, but I really am so happy with Blake,” I offer.

“If you’re on board, we’re on board,” Dad says.

“Really?” I ask.

“Honey, I always thought you’d elope to Fiji, or never bother getting married at all,” Mom says. “If this is what you want, we’re just happy you’re happy.”

I think back to Sophie’s wedding—how traditional it was, with the band playing old-fashioned classics and the caterer serving seared salmon. At the time, I assumed it was because Mom and Dad preferred not to stray from the norm. But now that they’re so supportive of my own plans, I wonder if I had it all wrong. Maybe they just want us to be us, quirks and all. With my family’s support, convincing Blake to jump into a wedding just thirty-four days away doesn’t seem quite so preposterous anymore. I had once worried that hiding this wedding scheme from Blake created distance between us, so that he couldn’t ever fully see the real me. But maybe he understands exactly who I am: spontaneous, impulsive, not content to settle for tradition. And it gives me comfort that I’m doing the right thing.

• Chapter 20 •

On Saturday afternoon, Sophie is bent over her kitchen counter, grimacing. Liv stands behind her with a look of pure concentration as she wields a syringe filled with a cocktail of hormones designed to prep Sophie for the next round of egg retrieval. My job is to lean over the kitchen island, grip Sophie’s hands, and keep her distracted. I ask her to describe the glamping resort upstate that she’s visiting next weekend for her friend’s thirty-fifth birthday celebration.

“They have these A-frame wooden structures, kind of like a permanent tent or, like, an angular yurt? It’s decorated all Scandi style, and there’s apparently this gorgeous farm-to-table restaurant on the premises,” Sophie explains.

“Sounds super chic,” I say.