“It’s like having nothing to talk about anymore so you talk about stones,” she says. “And I’ve never been good at caring about those things. My mother is right. I’ve never had any imagination. I’m practically dead inside. Sometimes, I feel like I have nothing real to say ever.”

Phoebe shakes her head.

“No,” Phoebe says. “That’s not true. That’s not even what your mother really thinks.”

“No?”

“No,” Phoebe says. “And I don’t believe it, either.”

Phoebe has sat with so many students who confessed similar things. Students who did not describe themselves as “readers,” students who shrugged and were like, “Sorry, stories about women just aren’t my thing,” but then one day, something would click. One day, they were sitting down with her talking about how Rochester was such an asshole.

“It takes time,” Phoebe says. “Gary is twelve years older than you. He’s had a lot more time to … cultivate an interest in stones.”

“But you care about stones.”

“I’m twelve years older than you, too.”

“Then maybe you should be with Gary.”

“Why would you say that?” Phoebe asks, but Lila doesn’t answer. So Phoebe looks at her. Like a soldier, Phoebe remembers her first responsibility to the bride. To always be honest. To say what nobody else at this wedding will say.

“Do you want to marry Gary?” Phoebe asks.

“I don’t want to not marry Gary,” Lila says. “I don’t want to be alone.”

“You can be married and be very alone,” Phoebe says. “More alone than you are when you’re, well, alone. Trust me.”

Lila doesn’t say anything but looks at Phoebe, waiting for her to go on.

“Your husband is not going to take care of you the way you think,” Phoebe says. “Nobody can take care of you the way you need to take care of yourself. It’s your job to take care of yourself like that.”

“Did you read that on a pillow or something?” Lila asks, then grabs a pillow and puts it over her face, like she knows she’s admitted too much, even to Phoebe. Because saying things out loud is the first step to them becoming real.

“It’s a little long for a pillow,” Phoebe says.

“This pillow is so coconutty,” Lila says. “Ugh. I don’t know what I’m even saying. I just don’t know why it’s so hard to be a person sometimes. It shouldn’t be this hard. It makes no sense.”

They wait in silence for a moment. And then, from underneath the pillow, a voice: “What if I don’t want to marry Gary?”

Phoebe is careful to say nothing, because Phoebe is confused. On the eve of her own wedding night, Phoebe had no doubts. She wanted to marry Matt, wholly and purely. This is why it confuses her. She doesn’t know what you’re supposed to feel like. She doesn’t know what ensures a happy marriage. She doesn’t know if Lila’s ambivalence toward Gary means that they are doomed or if ambivalence means there is room to grow, room to become sure over the years.

But this is clear: “I don’t want to marry Gary,” Lila says again.

Phoebe takes the pillow off her face, and this strikes Lila as so suddenly funny, she starts hysterically laughing. When she laughs, Phoebe can see what Lila must have been like as a little girl, when she was still called Delilah, sleeping in her mother’s bed.

“Oh my God,” Lila says. She stands up on the bed. She shouts it. “Phoebe! I don’t want to marry Gary!”

“Okay,” Phoebe says, and pulls her back down. “Just maybe don’t shout it.”

“But I need to tell him. I need everyone to know.”

“In the morning.”

Maybe it’s the thought of morning or catching sight of her veil in the mirror, but she stops smiling.

“Ugh. This is not okay,” Lila says. “He’s going to be so upset. Everyone is. What am I going to do?”

“Nothing now. Tomorrow, we’ll wake up and we’ll tell everyone together.”

“You’ll be with me?”

“Of course,” she says. “But for now just get some sleep.”

“I am really glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”

“And don’t worry,” Lila says. “I don’t snore.”

LILA DOES SNORE.

She snores so loudly, Phoebe can’t sleep in the room. It reminds her too much of sleeping next to her husband, his loud vibrations taking over everything. Phoebe undresses in the dark corner, then wraps herself up in the fluffy robe.

She digs through Lila’s purse until she finds the other room key, lets herself in to the bridal suite, which is not very bridal. It’s called the Colonel. There are bright red floral curtains and red floral prints everywhere. A stuffy white carpet. A shoreline view that is somewhat ruined by a giant flagpole that cuts it in half. And a picture of a dead man on the wall who she assumes is the colonel.

She is surprised by how messy Lila is. She would have thought Lila to be aggressively organized. But her underwear is everywhere. Her life, spread out all over the room.

Phoebe starts to pick up some of Lila’s dresses, so that the morning won’t seem so overwhelming. It will be overwhelming enough, having to cancel this giant wedding. Having to tell everyone the truth. At least she can wake up to a clean floor.

But then she is startled by a knock on the door. She opens it.

“Oh,” Gary says. “You’re not Lila.”

Phoebe tightens the belt of her robe.

“Lila fell asleep in my bed,” Phoebe says. “Don’t ask. We had a long night.”

“We had a long night, too.”

Gary sits down on the floral love seat. Phoebe gets this terrible feeling, the same feeling she got when she looked at her cat in those final weeks before he died. How horrible, Phoebe thinks, to not know the truth about your own life.

“Was it a good one at least?” Phoebe asks.

“A weird one,” Gary says. “Let’s just say that I’m not the twenty-eight-year-old groom Jim remembers me to be. And now I’m just … drunk.”

Phoebe will not tell Gary what Lila confessed, of course. She would never. But not telling him makes her nervous. She doesn’t like this feeling of being dishonest with Gary.

“Why was it so weird?” Phoebe asks.