Turn 6 of 15

You arrive to the wedding. Usually you are an introvert, but for some reason you are like a social butterfly now who loves flirting.

The venue is a restored barn surrounded by gardens, white chairs arranged in rows on the lawn, and you feel something shift in your chest as Jack pulls into the gravel lot. The old you would have groaned at the thought of making small talk with strangers for four hours. The old you would have found the nearest corner and nursed a single drink until it was socially acceptable to leave. But as Jack parks and cuts the engine, you catch your reflection in the visor mirror and feel a buzz of anticipation that has nothing to do with dread.

Jack comes around to your side and opens the door, and you step out onto the gravel with a confidence that startles you. Your heels find stable footing like they're on autopilot, and you straighten up, smooth the green dress over your hips, and toss your hair back. A couple walking toward the entrance glances over at you, and you meet their eyes and smile. The woman smiles back. The man looks a beat too long. And instead of shrinking, instead of looking away, you feel a warm flicker of satisfaction.

"Ready?" Jack asks, and you turn to him, and something in his expression, the nervousness he's trying to hide, makes you want to put him at ease. You reach out and take his hand. His fingers close around yours, warm and rough, and the contact sends a current up your arm that you don't pull away from. You lace your fingers together and squeeze, and he looks down at your joined hands, then up at you, and you watch the tension drain from his shoulders.

"Ready," you say, and your voice is steady and bright.

You walk toward the barn entrance, and the flirting starts almost without your permission. A guest holding the door open, a silver-haired man in a navy suit, grins at you and says something about the weather holding. You laugh, touch his arm lightly, and say, "Fingers crossed, right? I'd hate to ruin these shoes." He chuckles like you've made his whole afternoon. Jack's hand tightens slightly around yours, and you feel a spark of something, possessiveness maybe, and it's coming from him.

Inside, the barn is draped in fairy lights and white fabric. Guests are mingling, champagne flutes already circulating. A woman in a pink fascinator approaches and introduces herself as Diane, Chase's aunt, and within two minutes you're chatting with her about the flower arrangements, laughing at her jokes, asking questions that make her light up. Jack stands beside you, his hand on the small of your back, and you can feel the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of the dress. Every few minutes someone recognizes Jack, and you watch the flicker of surprise cross their faces when they see the woman on his arm. You lean into him each time, and the gesture feels natural, easy, like your body has memorized a choreography your brain never learned. The necklace hums contentedly against your skin.

Then the bride appears. Lauren is standing near the far wall, champagne in hand, surrounded by bridesmaids in dusty rose. She's beautiful in a way that makes your jaw tighten, blonde and polished in a simple white sheath. She hasn't seen Jack yet. But she's about to, because the crowd is thinning, and his face has gone rigid, and his hand on your back has gone still.