Yes, I know Seth Loveless is single.
Seth Loveless is always single, because he’d much rather sleep with every girl in a fifty-mile radius than be tied to just one. Nice of him not to cheat, I guess.
“Is he?” I say, forcing myself to sound more casual than flip flops at a Jimmy Buffet concert.
“That’s perfect,” Vera says.
Does she… know? That Seth is the town bicycle and everyone’s taken a ride?
“No,” I say without thinking.
Vera stands up and walks toward me. Even though I think she got up at five this morning, she’s immaculate in well-fitted khaki pants, a white button-down shirt, and a black cardigan, not to mention that her hair is done and her face is on.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say, like my heart rate didn’t just double. “We dated in high school, you know.”
Ava shoots me a withering no duh look as Vera lifts an elbow-length faux-fur cape from a hanger on a clothes rack, inspects it, then walks toward me.
“You know, I ran into him at the market a few weeks ago and we chatted a bit,” she says, holding it out to me. “He’s a very nice young man. Handsome, too. He asked me to say hello to you for him.”
She doesn’t know. There’s no way that Vera’s aware of Seth’s reputation.
“Thanks,” I say.
Sometimes, despite a lifetime of etiquette training, I still don’t know what response a situation requires of me. For example, going to a wedding with Seth is literally the worst idea either of you have ever had in your lives isn’t on the table.
“If you see him again, tell him I also say hi?” I hazard.
“Do you mind trying this on again? I know you already did, but it’ll give me peace of mind,” she says, holding out the half-cape.
“Have you even seen Seth since you broke up?” Ava asks, still looking at her iPad.
Then her eyebrows go up.
“Oh, wow, Mom. You weren’t kidding. Does he look like this in real life?” she goes on.
Somehow, more blood rushes to my head. My face in the mirrors goes pink. Redhead problem #4501: blushing way too easily.
“He’s very good looking,” Vera says.
“I haven’t really seen him, no,” I lie, swooping the cape around my shoulders and hoping we can stop talking about how hot Seth is. “Just around town and stuff. Here and there. Nothing major.”
I’m over-explaining, but only because I think telling Vera the truth might cause me to spontaneously combust, so I’m lying my face off.
I also blush more. How? How is that even possible?
“You two could catch up,” Vera says, closing the clasp at my neck for me, then smoothing her hands down my arms. “I always thought you were a sweet couple.”
“We were teenagers,” I object.
“So? Plenty of people marry their high school sweethearts,” Vera points out.
“I did,” says the seamstress, gently straightening the cape behind me. “When Mack and I started dating, I was fourteen and he was sixteen.”
“See?” Vera says, stepping back.
“Michael and I were high school sweethearts,” Olivia says from somewhere behind me.
“Delilah, go with Seth!” Ava gushes. “It would be so sweet.”
There’s a feeling in my chest like my heart’s in a tin can and someone just dropped it. Clonkthump. Squish. I take a deep breath.
“I’d rather celebrate your special day with friends and family instead of awkwardly catching up with some guy I haven’t seen in, what, eight years?” I say.
That’s right, I pulled out the big guns: special day.
Ava makes a face and keeps scrolling the iPad.
“Please?” I ask.
“I wish you’d give this some consideration,” Vera says. “I’d hate for you to be the only one there with no date and no one to dance with all night.”
“I’ll dance with Wyatt,” I say, naming my favorite cousin, who is attending this wedding with his sister and therefore cannot be my date. “I’m sure there will be single men there. I’ll dance with one of them. I’ll dance with all of them if you want.”
Vera sighs.
“And you don’t want some random weirdo at your table during dinner, right?” I cajole. “What if it turns out that he’s deep in some pyramid scheme and he spends the entire time trying to sell us essential-oil-infused leggings?”
“All right, all right,” Vera says, holding her hands up. “If you’re really that committed, fine. Shrug your shoulders?”
I shrug my shoulders. Inside, I’m pumping one fist because hallelujah, hallelujah, I get to attend this wedding solo.
It’s a mid-January miracle.
“Now relax,” Vera says. I do, and her eyes flick from elbow to elbow, searching for the barest hint of blue or black or red peeking out from the bottom of the cape.
I stand there, statue-still, heart racing. Not because of the cape. At the last fitting, where it was decreed that bridesmaids would be wearing (faux) fur capes, I was measured and fitted and re-measured and re-fitted, so there’s no doubt in my mind that my half-sleeve tattoos are adequately covered.