Why is he here? Is he with someone? Why wasn’t he on the guest list? How come no one —
“Delilah?” she asks, concern edging into her voice.
I quickly rewind the last ten seconds.
“I don’t know,” I finally answer. “He said he was invited last minute, so maybe someone else’s date canceled.”
She’s still looking at me, and her look is a question but I ignore it.
“Is something up?” Winona asks after a moment.
“What? No,” I say, stepping carefully on the cobblestones. “Why would something be up? Nothing’s up.”
“I did just find you with your ex doing up your buttons.”
I don’t point out that she abandoned me in the first place.
“He’s not my ex, we just dated in high school,” I say.
“You’re sure nothing happened?” she asks. Graciously, she ignores all the problems with my last statement.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “I just didn’t know he was coming. I was surprised is all, really.”
I might be lying. Did something happen? Was it something when he brushed stray hairs off the back of my neck, or when he reminded me that he’s seen me naked, or when he didn’t let me pick a fight?
Was it something when he wouldn’t tell me who he’s here with?
I flex my hands under my cape and ignore the feeling that my organs are trading places with each other.
“Okay,” Winona says, shrugging. “I was just making sure. You seemed a little off and I wanted to check in. I know today might be a little fraught for you.”
She reaches under my cape and takes my arm in her hand, hugging us together as we walk.
Technically, Winona is my younger sister, but practically speaking, our roles have always been reversed. When I came to live with them after my mom died I was fifteen and she was twelve, a decade into being the eldest. I was in no shape to do anything but let her baby me. I’m obviously still older, but even now she’s the one with a stable, happy marriage, two kids, a five-year plan, and an effectively managed household.
My household is managed fine, thanks, but it also consists of me, a few house plants, and a Roomba.
“I’m just hungry,” I tell her.
Winona sighs.
“Amen,” she mutters. “A fruit platter? Seriously? And one tray of champagne?”
“I’m telling Vera you complained,” I tease.
“Don’t you dare,” my sister says.Miraculously, when I get back to the family photo area, there’s a new tray of champagne sitting there, as if there really is a God and he just watched me interact with Seth Loveless. I down a glass before family photos, and then another after, just for good measure.
After photos it’s time for our entrance. While we were all outside, smiling and leaping and freezing and falling out of bras, the guests got herded back into the ballroom, which is now a banquet hall.
Which we have to enter. In pairs. To music. As our names are announced. I don’t really understand why this is necessary or desirable, but one night last week I went down an internet rabbit hole and spent an hour watching videos of wedding parties forced to enter the reception while doing a synchronized dance.
It could be way worse, is my point.
When I walk in on Chad’s arm, the lights are dimmed except for a spotlight on me as a man on a stage says Mister Chad Middlebrook and Miss Delilah Radcliffe! very loudly, so I couldn’t see Seth even if I were trying to, which I am not. I also don’t manage to spot him once we’re in our places on the dance floor, again, not that I’m looking for him or that I’m particularly interested in who he’s with.
That’s me: uninterested in Seth, his movements, or his companion.
“And now,” the announcer on stage booms. “Can everyone please welcome to the reception! For the very first time! Mr. and Mrs. Thad and Ava Middlebrook!”
The doors open again, and they walk in, hand in hand. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ava smile bigger or look happier, and still, still the voice in the back of my head whispers that I should worry.
They wave. They grin. Halfway to the dance floor, Thad picks her up, whirls her around, sets her down, kisses her.
The crowd goes wild. I still don’t see Seth, who I’m not looking for. Thad and Ava promenade to the dance floor, where she whirls into his arms to the opening strains of a slow country song I don’t know, and they dance. She looks happy, and he looks like he’s concentrating very hard.
At the end, during the final, drawn-out bars of the song, Thad suddenly leans her backward, spilling her into a low dip and holding her there as everyone cheers.
I close my eyes, even though I’m applauding, and I try not to remember a different wedding where I very, very distinctly said please don’t dip me during our first dance.