I touched my collarbone, running a finger along the edge of my collar in the dark.

Ethan had drawn his lines clearly on the phone, ordering me to stop asking about his wedding.

I still had an invitation to the bridal fitting the next morning.

I was going.

At eleven the following morning, the air in the boutique smelled of vanilla and steamed silk.

The shop stood on a busy downtown Nashville corner, its big glass windows showing mannequins dressed in white satin.

I waited near the heavy velvet curtains with a protective garment bag draped over my arm.