BACK IN HER room, Phoebe looks at her green dress. Six days ago, she was ready to die in it. In some versions of this story, she would already be buried in it. But in this version, Lila had it laundered by the hotel staff. It shimmers on its hanger. It’s green—just like the bridesmaids dresses. And it is remarkable to put it on for a different reason. Remarkable to have a beautiful side bang. Remarkable to see her husband here. There he is, in the shower. He is showering so they can go to a wedding together. It is all so familiar, the sounds of him humming “Yellow Submarine” without realizing it. His legs, which are still strong and muscular. She imagines they’ll be the last thing to go on her husband; when he’s older and losing parts of himself, his legs will be like the marble columns of Greece. So thick and strong, they’ll last centuries.

But will she be there to see it? She doesn’t know. Will she be there to hold his hand as he dies? They always imagined him dying first, something to do with him being a man, but also both his grandparents dying of lung cancer. They always imagined themselves as people who would never retire but would spend long summers on decadent cruises, going down the Nile while writing their books. Their children would be happy at college. And they have thought about this so many times, it’s like it has already happened. She can see them, reading in the mornings, taking walks at four in the afternoon just before the sun sets in winter. Asking each other periodically, Do you think the kids are happy?

But she doesn’t really want this now, after everything that’s happened between them. She has spent too much time killing him off in her head. Killing herself off in her head. And now they are back, but they are different, because nobody comes back from the dead the same. You emerge always with a little bit of the underworld on you, the lesion, the scar, having seen unspeakable things.

“It occurs to me that I don’t have anything nice enough to wear to a wedding,” Matt says. “Should I stop to buy something?”

“I don’t think there’s time for that,” she says. She wants to suggest he not come. But that seems cruel. He has come all this way. “Just sit in the back.”

“These towels are amazing,” he says, and rubs his face down.

She looks at herself in the mirror one last time, and it makes her want to cry. She feels such a relief—like when she returned home after a brutal day at work and turned on the lights—to be home again, to see the place she knows light up.

Her husband comes to put his hands around her. He kisses the back of her neck.

“You look beautiful,” he says.

He seems to mean it. He has been trying to express himself more. He has started going to therapy. He has learned he was never really good at saying what he thought. He is learning now how to do this more. Learning how to actually talk. She turns around and looks at his belt. There it is, halfway through its life, smooth in parts, wrinkled in others. She feels the leather, expecting it to feel different, but it doesn’t.

“Let’s go,” Phoebe says.

Downstairs in the lobby, Matt kisses her goodbye and takes the shuttle with the other people to the Breakers like he’s been part of the wedding this whole time.

PHOEBE WAITS WITH the bride in the lobby for the new vintage car.

“The car is ready,” a man in burgundy says.

As Lila walks out, Phoebe holds her train, all the way out the entryway, past the giant candles. But when they see the new car, Lila stops.

“I’m sorry, what is that?” Lila asks.

“Your car,” the man says.

“I’m not getting in that car,” Lila says.

The new car is an ordinary black town car. Like the kind Phoebe took from the airport.

“What’s wrong with it?” Phoebe asks.

“It’s like an Uber Black,” Lila says. “Did Gary not ask for a vintage car?”

And suddenly it feels like they will never get to this wedding, like they’re trying to get to Bowen’s Wharf in traffic all over again.

“I asked for it,” Phoebe says.

“Is there a problem?” Pauline asks, coming out the door.

“This is an Uber Black.”

“I assure you this is not an Uber Black,” Pauline says. “It’s a 2022 brand-new Mercedes with a state-of-the-art sound system.”

“But it’s not vintage.”

“I’m so sorry,” Pauline says. “We had no more vintage cars available with such late notice.”

They wait to see how Lila will react. For a second, she doesn’t. But then without a word, Lila turns around. Walks back up the stairs, while Phoebe and Pauline follow, trying to protect the train.

“Lila,” Phoebe says. “What are you doing?”

“I knew it,” Lila says. She stops on the top of the stoop. She starts to rub her temples. “I knew something was going to ruin the wedding.”

“I hardly think this will ruin your wedding,” Phoebe says.

“Nobody can make me get in that car.”

“Technically, that’s correct.”

“We need a new car.”

“Absolutely,” Pauline says without hesitating.

“No,” Phoebe says.

“No?” Lila says.

“You don’t need a third car,” Phoebe says. “What you need is to be on time to your wedding. We’re already late.”

“So what? They can’t start without me,” Lila says. “I’m the bride.”

“Exactly. You’re the bride. It doesn’t matter what car you drive to your wedding. It really doesn’t. No one gives a shit. Everyone is already inside. They won’t even see it.”

“It matters to me.”

“But why?”

“It just does!”

“God, you’re being so ridiculous,” Phoebe says.

“Don’t call me ridiculous! I’m so tired of people calling me ridiculous!”

“Well, stop being ridiculous!” Phoebe says. “It’s just a stupid fucking car! It’s just a hunk of metal! It doesn’t matter what it looks like!”

“Then you get in it!”

“Fine! I will,” Phoebe says. She walks back down the stairs and sits in the car. It is, Phoebe thinks, a perfectly fine car. “Hey look, real leather interior. Smells like being inside a leather bag.”

“That actually does not sound very appealing to me,” Lila says.