“We’re meeting the caterer in the morning,” I say to Lorraine without thinking. I didn’t say it aggressively or with the tone of an order like Graham and Doug would have—like she should already know our schedule—but I immediately analyze her pause, the way she stands beside Cheryl looking at me. Is it a look or a glare? Is it a glare or a moment of recognition?

I offer a smile, kind and apologetic. I’m just stressed. It’s just so fucking stressful to be a bride.

“I’d love for you to be there, but I understand if you’re too busy,” I say to Cheryl. “You’ve already done so much.”

“In the afternoon, then,” she corrects. She looks at me, placating and pitiful, like I need a massage now more than ever. “Of course I’ll be there.”

Most of this wedding is Graham’s mother’s fever dream—the kind of thing she would have chosen for herself if her mother-in-law weren’t so heavily involved in the same way she is now in mine. She picked a florist—the son of a former conservative congressman friend—and decided on chocolate cosmos in a bed of greenery. She found a caterer—the most sought out for their Southampton parties—and compiled a menu of filets and salmons. She tagged a bakery—the midlife crisis of the police chief’s wife—and chose the vanilla naked cake and apple cider doughnuts. And she had the final say on the venue: a plot of land she and Mr. Walker are gifting us to build our very own mountainous castle.

This is fine with me because I don’t give a shit. About any of it. My only three requests were a ceremony in Vermont in October, a dress of my choosing that I would pay for, and to have the New York Times Vows writer and photographer in attendance. She could have whatever band she wanted and invite whatever attorney general her black heart desired.

“Sorry we’re late,” Reed says, gliding into the room like he’s being pulled on one of those airport moving staircases. Separately, Graham is one of the hottest people I’ve ever laid my eyes on. However, I learned during my first visit here, when you put him in the same room as Reed—if they stand too close or get caught in a picture together—it suddenly looks like each of Graham’s features are just one centimeter off in some way. Separately, Graham’s head is the perfect size. Together, he looks like a bobblehead. Separately, his eyes are the most stunning blue I’ve ever seen. Together, they’re gray like dirty bathwater.

I hated that Veronica had that on me. That in our wedding photos, she’ll be married to the hotter Walker. What gets me through is knowing that Graham will have the hotter wife.