“So, how’s the yoga business going, Georgia?” My voice sounded different—too loud, the words curling off my tongue too fast. Everything was getting blurry around the edges of my world, feeling less real. Less consequential. Somehow, when I looked down at my flute, I realized one of the waiters had filled it again.

“So, the yoga…?” I slurred between gulps of the champagne. I put a finger up, mimicking Bri from earlier, and one of the waiters rushed over to fill my glass.

Georgia finished chewing. “Yoga is going well. I love it, truly. But you know how it is with your own business… It takes a while to get things off the ground.”

“Not really,” I shrugged. My art was never my business. Sure, I’d made a few hundred bucks off my paintings here and there, volunteered to do lessons for kids’ parties, school events, or the like. But being an artist, for me, had never been very profitable. Most of my income came from my side jobs: cleaning houses and businesses and, keeping accounts for my local church.

“I’ve been meaning to stop by the studio. Do you have some sort of sign-up for it? A monthly pass?” I belched, my stomach roiling with bubbles. In other words, is my soon-to-be husband one of your monthly regulars? Sneaking around, spending time one-on-one at your fancy pants stupid studio?

“No, not yet. I don’t have enough clients for that,” Georgia said, quietly.

Liar! I was tempted to call her out on it, right then and there. And why not? What did I have to lose, really?

But as I polished off my third glass of champagne, head buzzing from the alcohol, I reminded myself that I had a lot to lose: the man of my dreams, the dreamboat wedding, the chance for real happiness…

Georgia was quiet now, eyes focused on her plate, pushing around her beans and rice with the tines of her fork.

From the corner of my eye, I could feel Tinsley watching me. That mother hen concern of hers—even though we were the same age, she had always been the quiet one. The reasonable and responsible one. The smart one.

I shot her a tight smile. “This food is divine,” I said, lifting my glass with a careless splash, and looking down the table at Mara, too. Mara was stuck sitting across from Bri and Elizabeth, who appeared to be in their own little cocoon, talking amongst themselves. Probably planning their next mean stunt for Christmas, I thought, angrily.

But no, that wasn’t right. Elizabeth looks annoyed with Bri, I realized, squinting through my droopy eyes and double vision. I’d seen Elizabeth agitated before, getting that judgy look in her eyes many times since making her acquaintance. But I’d never seen that look directed at her own daughter.