I bought a dress I couldn’t quite afford.
Deep green, simple, the nicest thing I owned.
I had my hair done.
I drove the two hours to the venue with the radio on, rehearsing kindness, telling myself that today I would assume the best, that I would be generous, that I would give my sister her day.
I meant all of it.
I want that on the record, because of what came after.
I did not drive to that wedding looking for a fight.
I drove there hoping, against the entire weight of my own history, that I wouldn’t need one.
What I hadn’t told anyone — what I had barely admitted to myself — was that in my purse, tucked into an inside pocket beside my lipstick, was a small silver flash drive.
I had told myself I was bringing it as insurance.
A thing I hoped I’d never use.
A door I hoped I wouldn’t have to open.
I should explain how it came to exist.
That story starts six months earlier, with a spreadsheet.
Chapter 3 — The Shared Spreadsheet
The first sign that I was going to be involved in Whitney’s wedding came, predictably, in the form of a request for unpaid labor.
Whitney called me in the spring, warmer than she’d been in months, and asked whether I’d “help out a little” with the planning.
She framed it the way she framed everything she wanted from me — as an opportunity, a compliment, a sign that she trusted me.