Tessa shimmered in champagne silk, a gown that was less a dress and more a strategy. It clung in all the right places, draped in ways that made camera lenses fall in love. She moved from cluster to cluster—hand on an elbow, fingers brushing a shoulder, tilt of the head, laughter like bells. She knew the names of everyone and their dogs and their second houses. She was radiant, practiced, precise.
Of course she was. She’d been practicing for this her entire life.
I shifted my weight, trying to look less like a piece of furniture. The floral arrangements beside me were doing a better job of blending in.
“Lena.”
My mother’s voice slid into my ear before she appeared. I smelled her perfume first: powdery, sweet, and sharpened by her third glass of champagne.
She materialized at my elbow, cheeks rosy, hair sprayed into a soft helmet. Her dress was pastel and tasteful, the exact shade that said, I am the mother of the bride’s sister but still relevant. Her eyes flicked to my untouched drink, then to my posture.
