In the expansive backyard, a clear tent is set up, lit only by floating candles in the centerpiece and the moon. Cheryl’s idea, of course. I join Graham at the head of the table and watch as everyone finds their spots—finally able to sit now that Sarah and Rufus have graced us with their presence. Cheryl was less than pleased with the tardiness of the honored guests her husband reluctantly allowed.

She sidled up to me a half hour ago, one dirty martini in: “Being late means you don’t respect someone’s time, and I don’t make it a habit of associating with people who don’t respect my time,” she remarked, as if I’d never heard that before. I had thought she’d be pleased with the feature, throw her hands up and kiss the air around my cheeks in celebration, but she was surprisingly as uninterested as Graham when I presented the plan to her. Are you sure this is a good idea? she’d asked, sitting at the kitchen counter, nursing a cup of coffee that might have had a shot of something more fun in it. Seems like needless attention.

That’s the point, Cheryl.

Sarah and Rufus introduce themselves around the room as Lena approaches me offering a glass of wine. “We don’t want an article about a bride on a wedding diet,” she reminds me, as if the article would have anything to do with my meal selection for the weekend.

“Feeling good about tomorrow?” Lena asks.

“I feel fine,” I say, perhaps unconvincingly. “Ready.”

I don’t know if I’m one hundred percent there, but I have no choice. I’ve made it this far; just one more day and then I can put all of this performative bullshit behind me and get back to real life. I’ve missed real life. Though I’m not even sure I know what that is anymore.

Just as I say it, Jess appears next to Lena, snaking her arm around her waist.

“I feel good,” I repeat. “I’m a little stressed about the slideshow, but I’m sure—”

“A slideshow?” Lena steps closer to me. “That’s a little tacky.”

I could see Jess nail Lena hard with an elbow to the rib cage. “It’s a great idea,” she compensates, trying to mute Lena’s fuck, babe as she rubs her side.

Lena takes a deep breath, hardening herself to say the word slideshow again. “Sorry,” she says. “That’s not what I meant. I just—”

“It’s fine.” I laugh. “It’s another family tradition. They’ve been putting on slideshows at Walker weddings for decades.”

“What do you need?” Lena asks. “We’ll help.”

I look between them, Jess as eager to ease the bride’s worries as Lena. Helpful isn’t exactly Lena’s natural disposition. Especially when helpful is not for her own gain.