I heard her before I saw her. The rustle of tulle, the sharp click of heels moving faster than any bride should on her wedding day.
“You came.”
Clare’s voice cracked on the second word.
“Oh God, you came.”
She hit me like a wave, arms around my neck, face buried in my shoulder, the scent of jasmine perfume and hairspray and something underneath that was just Clare, the little girl who used to climb into my bed during thunderstorms. She was wearing Vera Wang, off the shoulder, cathedral train, hand-sewn beading that caught the light like scattered stars. She was beautiful. She was also shaking.
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