“I’m so sorry to just call you out of the blue,” she begins, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I hear the distinct smile in her voice. “I was wondering if you could meet me at the club?”

My brow furrows at her request, which actually sounds more like a polite demand.

“They’re beginning to set up the ballroom for Saturday and I really want your opinion where to put the cake table. I want to make sure everyone sees your masterpiece, and I want to get the best possible photos when Nash and I cut it.”

On one hand I’m relieved she obviously knows nothing about mine and Nash’s text message conversation. But my relief is short-lived. Nothing has changed. The wedding is still on. They’re not breaking up. It’s not as if I expected to get a call today to tell me the wedding’s been canceled, but I expected something. Nash misses me. Me! Or had I read too much into it? I know it wasn’t my imagination—he really did send it, I saw it in my messages this morning—but maybe he didn’t mean it like I’m thinking he meant it. I can’t help noticing the way in which my shoulders fall at the realization that Nash and Anna are still getting married.

“Sure,” I say, trying to sound cheerful while swallowing the lump at the back of my throat. “I can meet you there in an hour. Is that okay?”

“Oh, thank you, Murph,” Anna gushes through the phone. “This means the world to me.”

“No problem,” I reply through gritted teeth, rolling my eyes as I end the call.

Great. I shake my head, taking a moment to look around at my surrounds. Now I’m being forced to see Anna, and Anna alone, and in the place she and Nash are getting married, no less. I don’t even have Harley as a buffer. I groan in frustration before flopping backward onto my bed. Throwing an arm over my eyes, I really could scream.

An hour later I’m walking through the main entrance of Harrington Country Club, yet again. Only this time, it’s a Tuesday morning, and the elegant dining guests dressed in their finest evening wear have been replaced with wealthy retirees wearing polo shirts and tennis shoes. Housewives dripping in pearls and diamonds are dressed in designer activewear as if they’re going to do anything more than sit out on the patio sipping mimosas before noon. Graceville’s elite, who have enough money not to worry about holding down a day job, carry tennis rackets and golf clubs, and to-go cups.

I have to say I feel more than a little out of place wearing my blue jean dungarees and scuffed old Converse, but I’m only stopping in on my way to the bakery. It’s not as if I’m here to pledge as a member. But as I wander aimlessly through the lobby, with no idea where I’m going, I fear I might be asked to leave.