I reach for a dress that’s a vivid blue.

“Ohhh, what’s that?” Cricket grabs the tag. “Sky. I love that. And it would look stunning on you and only marginally okay on Karma.”

There’s a high-necked halter option that looks like it would strangle me . . . and then a one-shoulder design that is actually quite pretty.

I hold it up in front of me. “What about this one?”

Cricket claps her hands. “Yes! Try it on!”

The saleswoman, who has been attempting to hover unobtrusively nearby, rushes over at Cricket’s exclamation. “This one is a little big for you, but it would only take a week or so to order.”

“Good, because we’re only three weeks out from the wedding.”

When Cricket mentions the date as I step into the fitting room, it hits me that I’ve been a terribly shitty cousin because I never asked for her actual wedding date.

Turns out, it’s scheduled for the same weekend I married Ricky—when Lincoln’s legendary objection happened. I desperately hope that’s not a bad omen.

And what’s even worse . . . tomorrow is the ten-year anniversary of something I’ve worked really hard to forget.

Forty-Four

Whitney

The past

The house was empty when I walked inside, and for once I was thankful that my dad was likely out drinking, and my mom . . . Well, according to Karma, she was probably out with a man who wasn’t my dad.

I shook off the thought. Karma couldn’t be right. It had to just be bullshit gossip. I’d borrowed Mom’s car a few times that I met Lincoln, so maybe the local gossips had seen me and thought I was her?

But I’d never been to the Wham Bam Motel.

After my second shower of the evening, I pulled on my comfiest sweats and a ratty old T-shirt and flopped onto my bed with a bag of frozen peas wrapped around my wrist.

Even though I was clean and dry, I felt as bruised and battered as Bouncer, our cat. He walked along the edge of the bed, his tail batting me in the face. He was missing an ear from a fight with another cat in the neighborhood, but he kept coming home, even when I thought he was going to run off for good.

Like I want to do.

Everything that had happened with Lincoln tonight and all his accusations about Ricky came rushing back.

I did send the letter. I couldn’t deny that, but Lincoln wouldn’t even give me the chance to explain that it wasn’t a love note in disguise. It was my way of telling Ricky he was still a shitty songwriter and the only reason he was able to get his big break was because of me. Ricky clearly hadn’t seen it that way. He’d probably been drunk while he read it, with some bimbo on his lap.

Whatever else he told Lincoln, I had no idea, but it didn’t matter.

Lincoln thought I was a cheating whore. Like mother, like daughter.