The south wing of the house has been transformed into the cocktail party of Cheryl’s dreams. Lights dangle down the banister and oversized vases house branches of balsam trees so fragrant you could light a match and the air would burn. Bokhara rugs overlap in the dining room, the table gone and replaced with a full bar that matches so well it might have been permanently installed while I was in the shower.

I creep down the staircase, late to my own party, hoping no one notices me until I have a drink in my hand, preferably something with vodka and zero calories, though that doesn’t exist. Everyone seems to be dressed in jewel tones, like that was a secret message written in invisible ink on the back of the invitation. Dark reds, dark greens, and dark blues only, please. They float around the room like leaves falling on the mountain outside, everyone meandering without a true purpose there, unsure exactly where they are going until someone stops them with an awkward icebreaker like We’re wearing the same color, or Bride’s side or groom’s side? as if I have anyone here.

I pluck a blood orange martini off a waiter’s tray as he passes—even the drinks are in the jewel tone family—and down it in two gulps before I can even remember I am wearing white and thus need to stick to clear drinks only.

I lean back against the bar and scan the crowd, smiling at everyone who passes. Most of them I’ve never met before, and I can tell as they scan me and smile that they are only 90 percent sure I am the bride. There is a 10 percent chance I am an out of touch plus-one in a white outfit.

Normally, I think, a gathering two days before the wedding like this would be with family and the bridal party only—a quick thing that let everyone get to know each other so that by the rehearsal dinner and ceremony, everyone was familiar enough to dance and get drunk together. But we don’t have a bridal party. Lena and Reed were technically asked to stand up beside us on our wooden altar but we didn’t make them coordinate tie and dress. They were both hot and would somehow match without any kind of prior discussion the way hot people often do. Neither Graham nor I were interested in a bridal party—we both agreed that it was a little trivial for the wedding of a twenty-nine-year-old and thirty-two-year-old. Big bridal parties with matching blue/gray chiffon dresses are something that you enjoy when you’re twenty-four. There comes an age when you don’t want to put your friends through that because you don’t want them to put you through it in return. There also comes an age when you don’t have many friends willing. Or at all.