Phillip stood beside her, an arm clutched around her waist. When her glass of champagne was close to empty, he gave her his own, not wanting her to leave his side to look for another. On the surface, Phillip was attentive of Celine in a way Mira hadn’t seen anyone ever be, and she wondered if underneath all this pretense, he did love her and if it was the kind of love they’d dreamed of as kids—honey-drenched, sweet enough to make a body ache. Love full of heartbeat flutter and bewildering desire. Strip away the wedding with its pomp and circumstance and weren’t they two people making the same whispered promises to the other? No one saw what went on between them when they were alone, so who could say if it wasn’t love? Certainly Mira couldn’t. She didn’t know about love. Longing, she knew. She’d grown up with its taste in her throat, but love? The kind lasting and true? She hadn’t known in any kind of real way.

Before long, it was time for the dinner and everyone gathered to their tables. Celine leaned toward Mira and in hushed words asked her to stop by her room after the rehearsal. Away from the crowds, with them together again, Celine might tell her the truth. The comfort of a future explanation made Mira nod, agreeing, and Celine squeezed her hand before being ushered away to join the rest of the wedding party.

Mira was put at a table with two couples; she’d known both of the women from high school. When Mira explained she’d gone to Jefferson High too, they stared back, dumbfounded.

“I left Kipsen after graduation,” she said, relieving them of their discomfort for not knowing who she was.

The evening so far was going how she’d expected it would—poorly—and she had barely made it an hour. She’d been right about the guests. Around her a sea of white faces cavorted with like-minded acquaintances. None of them noticed her, but they wouldn’t have. In high school she’d been a poor black girl they’d tried their best to ignore. Just because she sat among them at Celine’s wedding didn’t make things different.