One step at a time. Slowly. One foot in front of the other. It doesn't matter how hard it gets to breathe. I have to keep walking.

I try not to strangle my flowers as I draw closer. Three bridesmaids stand to the left of the altar, four groomsmen to the right. And...him. For half a second my steps falter, but my dignity keeps me going. The pews are packed full of strangers, and I won't make a fool of myself.

I climb the steps up to the altar and take my place beside the bridesmaid closest to the center, and then I wait. I watch the door, holding my bouquet almost as tightly as my breath. She'll appear any minute on her father's arm, one slow step after another, to pledge her life away.

A few creaking pews break the silence as attendees start to crane their necks in search of the bride. I see him shift, all tall, dark, handsome and stupidly perfect as he bites his lip. He turns his eyes to me, worry etched into the lines at their corners, and I see just how much this ceremony means to him.

"Where is she?" he whispers.

I give him a tight smile. "She's coming, Connor." My voice is stiff. "I've done my job."

With a small breath, he turns away again, eyes locked on the door at the end of the aisle. No "thank you" for talking his fiancée through wedding-day jitters, or for painstakingly lacing up the dress that he'll unlace tonight. Not even for the damn decorations. Does he have any idea how many flowers and pristine white streamers I hung from the walls for his wedding?!

No. Of course he doesn't. He is, as usual, paying me as little attention as the ground underneath his shoes. Always underfoot, always an afterthought, always taken for granted.

He likes to pretend we didn't meet in college at the worst St. Patrick's Day party of my life, when we were both drunk. He likes to conveniently forget the fact that whenever he and Nessa grin sheepishly when asked what they were up to last night, I can vividly imagine every part of it, because I remember that night and I know he does, too.

I wonder if he regrets it as much as I do.

How was I supposed to know my intoxicated misjudgment would lead us here? How was I supposed to know that some equally drunk clown from the third floor of my dorm hall would run by at two in the morning and steal the sock he'd placed on the door? How was I supposed to know that Nessa would come back from her parents' house at eleven o'clock the next morning, right as he was reaching for his pants?

And how was I supposed to know what these two are? Because they're like those frighteningly strong magnets—the ones that even a bodybuilder can't stop from slapping together, and the noise they make when they meet makes you glad your finger wasn't accidentally caught between them.

Which is why I never doubt that the door will open and she'll walk through, graceful as always. But my certainty does little to stem the doom swelling in my gut when the moment finally arrives. She makes her way down the aisle, toward him. Always toward him.

And I've never been fast enough to pull all of myself out of the way in time before they collide.

She hands me her bouquet, and I try not to throttle this one, too. She gives me the most radiant smile—green eyes shining like neon lights, fiery orange hair cascading perfectly down the side of her head before falling down her back. It's not like I haven't just seen her in the prep room, but somehow, in the lights, she looks even more perfect.

I look from Nessa to Connor and back again. The perfect couple. I smile back, and half of it is genuine, because they deserve to be happy. But as I step back into place, I can't help asking myself as they join hands: Don't I deserve to be happy, too?

The minister starts the ceremony, and I hear their vows as though through six feet of soil. Like every word is more dirt hitting the coffin, cutting off my oxygen. Nessa is facing away from me, but I can see the way Connor looks at her and I imagine she's got the same silly grin, like their world has narrowed down to a tiny bubble containing only the two of them.

"Do you, Connor Edward Mariani, take Vanessa Elizabeth Williams to be your partner in life, in sickness and in health, in good times and bad, until death do you part?"

Are those tears in his eyes as he grins a lopsided grin? His words are a murmur, but they carry, and I know everyone in attendance can hear.

"I do."

She slips the ring on his finger, and I imagine its weight on my heart.

"Do you, Vanessa Elizabeth Williams, take Connor Edward Mariani to be your partner in life, in sickness and in health, in good times and bad, until death do you part?"

"Hell yeah."

Connor lets out a choked-up laugh. Typical Nessa.

"I do, sir," she amends under the priest's stern gaze.

He watches as Connor slides the second ring onto her finger and then continues, a little disgruntled but professional all the same. "You may now kiss the bride."

Connor's fingers cradle her neck gently, drawing her closer until their lips meet. I have to look away.

I chance a glance up after adequate time has passed. Nope, still kissing.

The best man, Connor's brother Cameron, whoops loudly, and they finally pull apart. I'm almost grateful for Cam, but then I have to link arms with him as we follow the bride and groom back down the aisle. As evidenced by his outburst, he's not shy, and neither is the wink he gives me as he holds out his arm. I sigh, making sure he sees the disappointed heave of my shoulders, and slip my own arm through his.

Why couldn't Connor have a sister? And why couldn't she have been the maid of honor? Not that being a bridesmaid would have been painless. But there's something intimate in holding this coveted position, and intimate is the opposite of what I want to be today.

Be happy. I force a smile on my face. Nessa is my friend. This is her day. I'm being selfish.

I line up outside the church to wait for the countless unfamiliar guests to exit. I shake hands, I give hugs to people I've never met before. Not one of them knows my name, and it hurts just a little bit to think how different it could have been if I was standing at the head of the line. They would know my name then.

I sigh with relief when someone's grandmother, the caboose of the interminable queue, hobbles away with surprising vigor. As the wedding party gathers to take photos, I hope my smile isn't too strained. The last thing I need is my anguish imprinted forever in the photo albums of how many strangers.

So when the photographer asks for silly poses, I throw myself into it. Cam gets bunny ears. I grab a different groomsman around the shoulders and stick my tongue out. I'm happy. I'm unaffected. But I don't miss the fact that I never touch the bride and groom.

It's not until we collapse into a rented limo for the drive across town to the reception that I realize how hot it is. A light sheen of sweat coats all of our skin. I can smell it in the suddenly close quarters of the spacious back seat, and I wonder how the oppressiveness of outside managed to follow us in. But looking from face to face, it becomes obvious no one else feels it.

I want to escape. The happy couple's joy is like an expanding bubble, only one that doesn't pop. It just keeps expanding, pressing the air out of my lungs like an out-of-control airbag. And maybe that's fair. I'm the one who steered this careening car out of control in the first place, after all.

I thought I could handle being back here, in the town where it all started. As we pass through the campus, I try not to look out the windows at the students walking along the sidewalks. I try to pretend I was never them.

The bar where I met Connor flashes past in a blink, but I don't miss it, nor the fact that the limo pulls into the parking lot next door.

It's okay. I'm prepared for this. I've known for months now. I firmly ignore the building as we walk into the reception hall.

I thank the heavens for the air conditioning inside. Cam tries to steer me and my dress right over the rushing air of one of the floor vents, but I punch him. Hard. If my own melancholy hadn't pulled us to the back of the line, it might have earned me a reprimand, but as it stands there are no witnesses.

"You deserved that," I hiss when he pouts at me.

He doesn't answer. He seems like a smart guy, I'll give him that.

"Alana and Cam, where the hell are you?" Nessa's voice floats back as we come to a halt. "Come here, you enter right after us!"

And just like that, we're at it again, parading in their shadow like show ponies for an audience of strangers.