ALIANA

The boutique smells like silk, champagne, and quiet panic, which feels completely appropriate because Jenna is fitting her wedding dress;she stands on the little pedestal, arms lifted while two women circle her like surgeons. Pins flash. Fabric swishes. Someone whispers softly in the background like this is a holy place.

“I feel like I can’t breathe,” Jenna says.

“That’s marriage,” I reply dryly. “You get used to it.”

She snorts. “Says the woman who married a man who forgot her entire existence then still picked another one who did the same but has amnesia has an excuse this time around.”

“Low blow,” I mutter.

She grins. “Accurate blow.”

The...