Chapter Two

Julia

There's a spot on the collar of my button-down. Dark, like a bit of ink, and it's dotted right where the swoop meets my collarbone. A small detail that's not quite right, but the exact kind that I fixate on without any discrimination. I also prepare for such a time as this as if it's an inevitability and not an inconvenience. My therapist—the most recent one—called it a trauma response. When she tried to schedule a follow-up appointment, I left her on read for weeks until finally I replied with my go-to excuse.

Busy.

Always busy. Never available even for myself.

I open my desk drawer and pull out the Tide to go pen standing upright in the tray. Easy access for me, or any one of my brides, in a pinch. I carry a few of these in my Wedding Day belt bag at all times. Along with a travel-sized hair spray, mouthwash, and touch-up mascara to make the bride feel blissfully at ease on her special day.

The pen does its work, and I breathe out a sigh of relief. I swear to God, watching stains disappear is an unmatched catharsis. My previous therapist wanted me to unpack that further. I ghosted him without any remorse.

Don't you want to relinquish control? Well-meaning friends always ask this, always as if they are the first to inquire and this question will be the catalyst to my emotional rebirth. It's sweet, and I usually humor them because, despite all the thorns on my skin, I crave connection and community like the only child and formerly motherless, desperately lonely woman that I am.

But that never changes the truth.

Relinquish is a synonym for lose . I only lose when I let go.

A quick rap of knuckles on my door pulls me back to the moment. Zoe Hayes, my assistant, peeks through the opening. Big brown eyes, tan skin, more hair than she knows what to do with. Mostly she braids it or wears it in a black mass on top of her head.

"Ten-minute warning," Zoe says.

I cap the Tide to go pen and set it back in its place, shutting the drawer.

"Let's go over the high points, just so I'm refreshed," I say. Her smile is a bit dramatic, wide with very straight, white teeth. Dramatic, but lovely. Just like Zoe. She pushes into the room and closes the door behind her. She's clutching an iPad to her chest like it's priceless.

And I suppose it is, in a way. A priceless tool of the Morgan-Hayden wedding. A boho-chic, spiritually infused California dream set against the whimsical desertscape of Joshua Tree. Not only is Millie Morgan, the bride, a high-profile client with her two-million-plus social media following as a lifestyle influencer (yeah, that's a thing), but this wedding is a first for me in more ways than one.

Zoe sits across from me, waking up the iPad, which is linked to my desktop computer through Bluetooth.

I used contacts I'd cultivated on my own over the last few years working at Love, Always Weddings and Events to build out the four-night, three-day wedding experience the bride wanted. I've coordinated not only with the resort, Celestial Sands, a luxe boutique experience in a rustic setting at the edge of Joshua Tree National Park, but also with multiple other venues, glamping sites, and excursion providers, to ensure that the whole wedding party and fifty-plus guests are immersed, leave the place rejuvenated, and give me a fucking five-star review to take into my next gig.

Launching my own wedding and event agency.

A dream I've been building toward for years.

A secret dream, as of now, but not for much longer. This wedding is the last one I'm planning as a Love, Always employee. As soon as I return from the desert, I'm handing in my resignation. The first move in my carefully calculated plan. Essential, since I won't be able to work any weddings for six months per the noncompete in my contract.

Zoe pulls up the bullet point list we created for the final walk- through meeting with the bride and groom before we leave for Joshua Tree on Friday. It's a comprehensive look at all the major moments we have planned for her fairy tale come to life.

I know I seem like a cynic, and I am in almost every area besides this one.

To me, a wedding is more than a party. More than a show of commitment or an excuse to get drunk and dance the night away. Weddings take two individual human beings and set them on a new, integrated path. Weddings turn two people into a family unit.

I lean forward, using my mouse to click through the presentation.

Friday night is the Goddess Awakening, at Desert Skies Glamp-Out. The bride was in charge of booking her own energy healers and psychics for the evening since she "had a direct line through her socials."

The bachelor events are as polar opposite as possible and were one hundred percent the handiwork of me. Somehow I didn't think that frat-boy-turned-financier Sean would be into anything too woo-woo. (His words.)

Saturday is chock-full with a picnic brunch, spa treatments, and, of course, the rehearsal dinner.

Sunday evening is the wedding, at sunset, and the reception under the stars.

I scroll through the aesthetic mock-ups of the decorations, and the itinerary that will be handed out to all the main players and followed to the letter no matter what catastrophes attempt to arise.

"Any word on the bride's bachelorette party entertainment?" I ask Zoe, leaning back in my chair. We're not responsible for the success of that event, but I still want it to be a dream come true. One misstep in a wedding weekend can lead to a stumbling, tripping, snowballing mess that lands us in the hot seat no matter who made the first mistake.

"I'll make sure to ask her at the meeting," Zoe replies, jotting it down in her presentation notes. She looks up; her eyes flick behind me to the clock hanging on my wall, right between the two massive picture windows looking out on Rodeo Drive. Love, Always is situated in a swank locale, caters to a swank LA-based clientele, and was founded by a woman who might (talking about it is forbidden) have been featured on Real Housewives of Beverly Hills as a main character. For a girl who grew up in Pasadena, and not in one of the beautifully restored historic homes the city is known for, working this location has always felt a little like playing a role in a life that isn't quite mine.

I look the part. Polished, well-educated, sharp, clean-cut, designer style—now. But I'm still an awkward emo punk kid who was once all about a '90s flannel, ripped jeans, Doc Martens look in my heart, even if my heart doesn't ever get to run the wardrobe selection.

That flew out the window a couple years ago and hasn't ever come back.

"I'll meet you in the conference room in three," Zoe says, standing.

"Remember, Millie works with that posh sparkling tea brand, so set out a few of those in case she wants to promote."

"Roger that," Zoe says, handing over the iPad. I like to run the meetings, even if normally that would be the assistant's job. She gave up trying to relinquish that task from my steel grip after a few failed attempts and at least one bathroom crying session. I felt like shit, tried to give her the day off, which backfired. Zoe is spurred by ambition, a trait I respect without any irony. She didn't want the day off, she wanted me to let her prove herself.

I look down at the title page featuring the bride and groom. Two white, wealthy hotties on the surface, but in the time I've spent with them I've come to see that they both have hidden depth worthy of respect. I can't always get there with the Love, Always clientele, no matter how much I want to believe that all the weddings I've worked have created families that will sustain the couple's lifetime.

My eyes trail from their perfect faces to the single personal item in my office. A minimalist silver frame featuring a family photo from last Christmas. Dad, tall, dark, and lanky; me, a shorter, curvier version of him, right down to my thick brown hair and bright ocean eyes; and my stepmom, Ana, snuggled near me, wearing her signature bright smile. Before they got married it was just Dad and me, two lonely grumps without anyone to force out joy. But when he and Ana said "I do," she made sure I knew her commitment was to both of us.

They say those who can't do, teach. Change teach to plan and you have me. I've never come close to the altar. None of the women or men I've dated in my twenties have even come within orbit of the mark, or made me feel that feeling. That safe to do anything, be anything feeling I get when I think about family. I had one ex—the last ex—who I almost thought would. But she wasn't ready to come out to her snooty family. I loved her enough to go back in the closet for a while, but eventually that closed door made me feel trapped.

And that feeling, it wore me down.

Wore away the love I felt because I was treated like some sort of dirty little secret, and not the fun kind. Wore away the hope I had that we could one day stand together and make that commitment I desperately wanted. And then when that love had eroded completely, I realized she'd done more than shove me into the closet again. All the heat fizzled into hate; her nitpicking went deep, slicing away anything that made me me ; and escape became my only option. I'd been hurt before by someone who couldn't love me out loud, but now I had been molded and shaped by someone like that as well. I didn't recognize myself.

The only thing to do was leave.

The alarm on my phone chimes, and then the front desk receptionist, Paige, buzzes through the office line to let me know my clients have arrived.

"I'll be right there," I call back, blinking away the cloud of emotion.

Those who can't do, teach.

I may not do , but I can plan .

?Millie's clap is a gentle flip of her wrists to bring her long, trim, perfectly manicured hands together with a soft puff. I always expect to impress, but this is new. My cheeks feel warm from the praise.

"We really just took your beautiful vision and brought it to life," I say, proud that I manage to conceal the faint wobble of emotion in my voice. It's a compliment to myself and my team as much as it is to her, and the tiny crinkle in her lightly freckled, perfectly poreless nose is the only indication she gives me that she noticed.

Millie is a dream client. Smart, focused, passionate. She knows what she wants and stays true to it, even when bright shiny new trends come her way. I hate when clients want to "pivot" because some hotter concept has captured their attention. It helps that she's genuinely into all the mystical elements we've incorporated into the ceremony.

She didn't just pick "spiritual, modern desert oasis" as a theme; she lives and breathes the idea that the Universe is working on your behalf. Millie broke out as a spiritual wellness influencer on Instagram, leveraging brand partnerships, highlighting practical (and luxury) ways to bring the mystical into every day.

Sean—who looks like a Hollywood Chris and acts like a himbo even though he went to Princeton—seems to go along with everything Millie wants, says, and thinks. Which is good, since everything from the location to the wedding officiant is metaphysical magic of the most California variety.

When Zoe asked about Millie's Goddess Awakening party—Millie's name for the bachelorette fete—Sean let out a small guffaw of amusement at the title.

"Sound Healer Suni is locked in—she's worked at the Glamp-Out before, so it was easy," Millie replied, smacking Sean in the stomach. "I've reached out to a fellow influencer who does tarot, so, fingers crossed." She did the motion and Zoe followed suit. "She's a little flaky, known for last-minute confirmation. But one hundred percent worth the risk."

My stomach does a little flip at her nonchalance. I telepathically will Zoe to make a note to check on that first thing in the morning. Tarot, of all the spiritual practices featured in this wedding weekend, is the one I know the most about. I once was peer pressured into visiting a medium at the Haunt O' Ween fair in Old Pasadena—a reading that was hard to forget.

I have tried. Believe me.

"All right then," I say. Millie has finished clapping; now she just beams. "Ready to sign on the dotted line?"

We have all of our clients sign off on the final presentation before the wedding events get underway. Insurance against anyone getting a wild idea at the last minute and wanting a change, and, of course, protection if they "forget" they agreed to anything and try to get their money back.

Millie flicks her eyes to Sean, who doesn't look up from his phone. "Babe," she says, pressing her hand gently over the screen. "Good to go?"

His eyes drift up to Millie, then me and Zoe sitting across from him. He's playing catch-up as he flicks his eyes over the iPad with the checklist ready, and then furrows his brow.

"Let's get it!" It feels like something he just says. Like "Go Lakers" or "Doing great" in response to the question "How are you?" even if his arm is being chewed off by a wild hyena.

"Promise me something, Julia," Millie says, turning her attention away from her fiancé.

I feel a tremor of nerves through my center. As a rule, I don't promise. My assurances come with the asterisk that I will do all within my power, but promises are a contract, and the only contract I adhere to is the one she's about to sign with all the final and approved details.

I pause too long, and Millie's hand shoots forward, gripping mine with a friendly squeeze. "It's a party," Millie says, finishing up her signature on the wedding checklist. "Cut loose a little." She stands, pushing the iPad over to Sean. I must look ill at her suggestion—I certainly feel ill—because she chuckles and makes a tiny aww sound before adding, "All I'm saying is, just, feel free to enjoy yourself, too. The magic in the desert is for everyone."

I want to protest. I should protest. Nothing comes out.

"Right, babe?" she adds, touching the nape of her fiancé's neck.

"Millie knows best," he says, but it's another one of those autoreplies he seems to excel at delivering.

Sean launches up and stretches. The move shows a sliver of tan, sculpted abs and we all take a moment to stare. He looks between us and his face contorts with confusion.

Millie snorts.

"You did that on purpose, dumbass."

Zoe stifles a laugh and I stand, extending my hand for them to shake, but Millie snaps her fingers. The crack hits me with a jolt of surprise.

"Oh! I almost forgot, Bridesmaid Ellen—the one who chose that dusty pink dress, off the shoulder?" I nod, affirmative. "Well, she broke her leg in three places skiing in Switzerland, so she's trapped at a recovery resort near the accident site." Sounds nice. "My sorority sister, Piper, is the same dress size, similar coloring, so she's stepping in to fill her spot."

Piper.

Similar dress size, similar coloring to Ellen, a tall, fit redhead with a peaches-and-cream complexion.

Piper. The name of my ex-girlfriend who fits that exact description.

"She's been so incredible since I announced the engagement, offering to help in any way she can even though she wasn't in the wedding party," Millie continues. "And when Ellen had to bow out, she immediately stepped up."

This sounds like Piper. Not just the appearance, but the behavior. A trademark manipulation tactic was to gently offer up helpful advice, unsolicited gifts, anything she had at her disposal that she thought someone would want. And it wasn't until she had her hooks firmly planted that it became clear just how deep her control had breached.

Pro it up, Julia. You could be psyching yourself out for nothing.

"Oh, um, we need to switch out her info in the dossier folder for check-in." Smooth as butter. Not.

"Of course," Millie says, yanking her phone out to pull up Piper's contact profile. The pic attached is a tiny circle, but it's still clear enough that I can see her face.

"Piper Cunningham," Millie says. "I'll airdrop this to you, Zoe."

Piper Cunningham.

Loving her nearly maimed me. We tore each other apart at the end, said things we didn't mean, and a lot we really fucking did, until finally, I said nothing at all. But I wasn't lying when I told her I'd rather eat glass than ever see her again.

And that sentiment definitely hasn't changed in the year since I lost her number.

None of them notice the jumble of feelings I'm trying to tamp down with a mallet of reason and self-control. Zoe confirms receipt of Piper's contact info, offering to walk the couple out. Millie reaches in for an air-kiss and Sean hoots something about "go time," but I'm not sure I really respond to any of it.

I drop down in my chair and grab one of the cans of sparkling tea and crack the aluminum lip, taking a long sip. I'm going to need something stronger—much stronger. I cannot let this throw me off. I will not let it. I'm a pro; this is manageable.

I will not freak. I cannot back out. There is too much riding on the success of this wedding.

I have to nail this even if it means I have to breathe the same air as my ex.