I was stuffing welcome bags for out-of-town guests when my phone buzzed.
A social media notification.
Normally, I would have ignored it.
There were 48 hours’ worth of things still crammed into the one day before my wedding. Ribbon curled across my kitchen table. Tiny bottles of sunscreen rolled near stacks of itinerary cards.
My fingers smelled like paper, lavender lotion, and the cheap chocolate truffles I had insisted on adding because Ryan said, “Nobody cares about welcome bags that much, Sarah.”
I cared.
Maybe too much.
I had spent months making sure everything felt warm, personal, and perfect. Guests were flying into California from different states. My aunt had already called twice asking where the hotel shuttle would park.
Ryan’s cousin had texted me about gluten-free snacks. My mother had cried that morning because she found my childhood hair clip in an old jewelry box and decided it was a sign.
Tomorrow, I was supposed to marry Ryan.
Tomorrow, I was supposed to stand in front of everyone we loved and promise my life to the man who had helped me believe that steady love existed.
So when my phone lit up, I almost turned it over without looking.
But the name made me freeze.
Claire.
My best friend from college.
For a second, I just stared at the screen.
Claire and I had not spoken much in recent years after moving to different states, but we still followed each other online. She lived in Florida now. I lived in California.
There had been a time when distance would not have mattered. We used to call each other over every tiny crisis, from failed exams to bad dates to whether bangs were a cry for help.