Page 160 of Gin and Lava

“Who did you—?” I glare at her. “Tell me you didn’t!”

“I didn’t.”

“I just saw you send that to someone!”

“I think the wedding is about to start.” Esme points toward the aisle.

“I told Mason I’d give him space and leave him alone.”

“And you are,” Esme confirms, despite the smirk on her lip that says differently. “Youdidn’t send him anything.”

“He doesn’t want to hear from me!”

“I distinctly remember the three of us at Ned and Olivia’s wedding wherein Mason—not so subtly—asked to watch you and me make out,” Esme counters.

“Yes, he asked!” I growl. “But you don’t deliver. Plus, that was before.”

“Before what?”

“Before I broke his heart.”

“I thought you didn’t think Mason had a heart.”

“Of course, he has a heart!”

“Oh,” she mocks, fanning herself and playing with me. “Soyou’rethe one without a heart?”

I roll my eyes, and she laughs.

“Isn’t it possible,” Esme says, “that the thing Mason needs to heal his heart is pictures of two girls making out? That seems like it would be number one on Mason’s get-over-the-girl list.”

“Othergirls making out,” I counter. “Not me.”

Not that I like the idea of Mason looking at other girls making out. Or the idea of him actually making out with other girls. But again, that’s me being selfish. I have no right to be upset about what he does.

“Uh-huh,” Esme nods her head mockingly, typing something in her text thread to Mason.

“Seriously, leave him alone!”

“Oh yeah, you don’t care at all,” Esme taunts.

“Of course, I care,” I counter, trying to snag her phone, only she hides it in her jeweled clutch. “I just don’t—”

“Know what love is anymore?” Esme finishes for me with a smirk. That’s not what I was going to say, but—“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” Esme taunts, before pointing toward the resort. “Here comes the bride.”

I’m about to lay into her with a scathing retort, but everyone stands up and the music starts playing. Shauriisabout to walk down the aisle. I give Esme a scathing glare, to which she pinches me and turns me toward the aisle.

“You love weddings,” she reminds me, and as much as I want to fight her about that little Mason stunt, Esme’s right: this is my favorite part. I turn and take in the arched palm trees, the blue sky, the bridesmaids, the adorable flower girl in heels too high for a six-year-old, and then—

Shauri looks radiant.

Her auburn hair is up in an elegant swirl with her veil trailing in the soft breeze behind her. The dress is perfect, full of soft gauze and tulle that illuminates and catches the sunlight. Her father walks next to her in a classic tux, leading his daughter down the aisle by his arm, looking at her with so much pride and love.

And maybe it’s because I haven’t seen my father since before I could crawl, but I burst into tears and start crying. It doesn’t matter if Shauri’s wearing the perfect designer dress. It doesn’t matter if the flowers are gorgeous, or if the sunset is right, or if the photographer is capturing a Pinterest-able moment. It doesn’t matter that we’re in Hawaii. This could be Shauri’s backyard in Washington, or the county clerk’s office, or an ugly parking lot—and I’d still be crying.

What matters is how much love is in Shauri’s father’s face right now. I look at the groom and see Rick watching his bride walking toward him. His face is just as wrecked as my own.Thisis the only part of the love story that matters. It’s the part when two people look at each other and they know they’re each other’s world.

Esme wraps her arms around me from behind and hugs me, handing me a handkerchief. “You’re such a sucker for weddings,” she whispers in my ear.

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