Lainey lets out a long sigh, then says, “Fine. Whatever. I’ll do it. But it’s not going to go well. Mark my words.”

“It might not,” I say, knowing that part of what she’s doing is protecting her pride, putting on her armor of indifference. “But if it doesn’t, you’ll be no worse off than you are now.”

She gives me a reluctant nod.

I smile and remind her that we’ll be there with her every step of the way.

Then, before she can change her mind, Tyson tells Lainey that it’s her turn. He smiles, adding, “What tropical beach are you gonna make me go melt on?”

“Well, smart-ass,” she says, her face brightening a bit. “I’m actually not going to pick a beach at all.” She pauses, keeping us in suspense. “As it turns out, you two aren’t the only martyrs around here,” she says.

Tyson smiles and says, “How are we martyrs?”

“Because you picked for Summer. And Hannah picked for me. So I choose Paris. For Hannah.”

“Oh, Lainey,” I say, feeling so touched.

“If you don’t think Paris will make you too sad?” she asks.

I smile, welling up. “I’d love to go to Paris.”

“Good,” Lainey says, smiling back at me. “Fuck Grady. And romance. Your first trip to Paris is going to be with two people who love you unconditionally.”

“Thank you,” I say. “It’s a wonderful idea.”

—

Later that night, I drive Tyson and Lainey to the airport, dropping them off in front of Delta departures. I get out of the car, and we embrace in a group hug. I start to cry, but Lainey reminds me that this isn’t goodbye. We’ll be seeing one another in Texas in less than a week. It was her idea to get that leg over with first, and Tyson and I agreed.

In the meantime, we all had work to do. Lainey was responsible for choosing our hotel in Dallas and confirming her sisters’ addresses; Tyson had a letter of resignation to send in and a big conversation to have with his parents; and I had a wedding to unravel and a boss to disappoint.

—

The following morning, twenty thousand dollars appears in my checking account directly from Grady’s. It feels like a fair assessment of what I’ve contributed to his home, but it’s a surreal and very upsetting feeling to know that our entire relationship has been reduced to a bank transfer. Not to mention one motivated by a tacit threat from my best friend.

What hurts even more, though, is how my mother continues to treat me. Since our face-to-face conversation, she’s only communicated with me via a few brisk, businesslike emails, including one filled with bullet points of all the wedding vendors with whom we’ve signed contracts. She gives me a line-item list of all of our nonrefundable deposits.

I write back that I’m so sorry.

“It is what it is,” she replies. “I just wanted you to know.”

Against Lainey’s advice to tell her to “fuck right off,” I send my mother a long note of apology, saying, “I know how disappointed you are. We both are. I wish this weren’t happening, and I’m so sorry for how much money you and Dad have spent. I will pay you back once I sell my engagement ring. I love you.”

Her response is deafening silence. Although I should be accustomed to my mother’s silent treatments, this one hurts more than usual.

Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do if I weren’t getting the hell out of Dodge. Maybe I’m running away from my problems—I guess that’s exactly what I’m doing—but it’s better than wallowing in misery. Meanwhile, my mind keeps returning to Summer and the hopelessness she must have felt in her final hours. I know that her pain has a lot to do with why Tyson and Lainey are now rescuing me, and although I am grateful, I also feel guilty that we couldn’t support Summer in the same way. I decide I owe it to her to focus on my gratitude and make this time with my friends count. Tyson is right, it’s what she would have wanted for us—and the thought keeps me afloat as I temporarily shut down my life in Atlanta.

The following day, I attack my to-do list. It’s a helpful distraction. I pay my bills, clean out my refrigerator, and cancel appointments. From there, I start packing for our trip. So far, we’ve only bought one-way tickets to Dallas, but we’ve agreed that we won’t return home between the three legs of our journey, so I do my best to keep things simple, packing a few versatile pieces. It’s a far cry from the elegant wardrobe I’d envisioned for my honeymoon, but I tell myself the contents of my suitcase are the least of my worries.

Once all my logistics are tackled, I know it’s time to face the hard part: telling people. I consider sending a mass email, but I hate the idea that it could get screenshotted or forwarded. It’s not that I think my life is so consequential, or that anyone would want to intentionally hurt me, but lesser scandals have become fodder for gossip, and adding a famous actress and an Instagram influencer into the mix would only cause more temptation.

Ultimately, I decide that the only people I owe a conversation are my boss and my bridesmaids.

I start with Jada. As one of the most renowned interior designers in the Southeast, she can be a bit of a diva, but she’s also been very good to me for nearly seven years—longer than I’ve been with Grady. I’ve been good to her, too, and I’m by far her most reliable employee. So when I walk into her office and tell her I need to take a few weeks off, effective immediately, she is more than a little taken aback.

“Hannah, there’s no way. The Petersons’ installation and photo shoot is next week,” she says, as if I could possibly forget about the clients who send me dozens of emails a day.

“I know. And I’m sorry. But I really have to get out of town for a while….” My voice trails off.

She gives me a quizzical look, then says, “Are you okay? Is this health-related?”

“Grady cheated on me,” I blurt out. “The wedding is off.”

“Oh, Hannah,” she says, her face falling. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you,” I say, bursting into tears. “You know I’d never want to leave you in the lurch—”

“I know. I get it,” she says, pulling two tissues out of the fabric-covered box on her desk and handing me one. She dabs her own eyes with the other. “We’ll be fine here. Don’t worry about work at all.”

“Thank you,” I say again. “I really, really appreciate this. You have no idea.”

She stares at me for a few seconds, then says, “Unfortunately, I do.” She smiles, but her eyes look pained. “I was left at the altar.”

“At the actual altar?”

“Pretty much. I was the consummate jilted bride.”

“Jada. I had no idea.”

“Well, it’s not something I make a point of bringing up.” She forces a smile.

I hesitate, then say, “He just…never showed up?”

“Correct,” she says. “I was in the bridal room in the church basement. The organ was playing, and the guests were all seated.” She takes a deep breath. “Then, just as my father came to walk me down the aisle, one of the groomsmen appeared and asked if he could ‘have a word.’ I knew right away that it was bad…. Like—car accident bad. Or cold feet bad. I wasn’t sure which would be worse.” She laughs, as if it’s a joke, but on some level, I can tell she means it. “Anyway. It wasn’t a car accident.”

“Was it…someone else?”

“No. As it turned out, he was gay. Is gay. He’s been happily married to a wonderful man for ten years.”

The soft look on her face surprises me. She’s clearly forgiven him. “Are you still friends?” I ask.

“I wouldn’t say friends, but we speak every blue moon. He’s been very sweet about my career. Always congratulates me when I win an award. That sort of thing. It took some time, but I came to feel a lot of compassion for him. He’s from a very traditional Southern family, and the pain of hiding—and trying to be something he wasn’t—must have been excruciating. But I still felt betrayed and lied to. And of course, on that day, I didn’t know any of this. I was just a humiliated, heartbroken bride.”

“God,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t imagine how horrible that must have been.”

She takes a deep breath that is more like a shudder. “It really was. But you know what?” She pauses and smiles. “I got through it. And you will, too.”

Her words comfort me. Until I remember that Jada is in her mid-forties and still single. I always assumed this was her choice—that she was just one of those women with different priorities. Like Lainey. Now I wonder if it has more to do with trust issues. I almost ask the question, but stop myself, afraid of what her answer might be.