"VIKA, I DON'T THINK I can do this."

The carefully curated playlist featuring Destiny's Child and Outkast is barely drowning out Cecilia's barking on the phone about something with flowers, and Nat narrowly breaks over them. I heave a sigh, arm already aching from holding a lock of dark hair around the curling iron for over five seconds. "Listen, Nat, I can curl my hair just as good as any beauty school reject and I can do it for less than two hundred dollars. I get it's your wedding, but this is about the principle-"

"That's not-"

"Okay, it doesn't matter if she graduated, I'm using hyperbole. It's for effect. I'm a writer, you can't take away my poetic licence from me. I-"

"Vika, I can't do this."

I snort. "Dude, we tried on the dress yesterday, we already know it fits. I highly doubt 2AM McDonalds works that fast."

Without a snappy retort back, I pause. Shifting to gain a better look at her, I catch Nat's sharp green eyes softening in a way that takes me by surprise. She's chewing on the inside of her cheek and that spiral of panic she's rapidly and haphazardly tumbling into is written all over her face, exposed by the crease in her brow and the deep breath she takes. I blink to make sure my eyes aren't playing tricks on me.

A quick survey of the room and all the other bridesmaids are running around like worker bees with blinders on, too concerned with getting their false lashes and liquid lipstick just right to hear what Nat's saying. They're completely oblivious as she throws me another pleading look a la puppy dog left to starve in the rain.

"I'm going for a smoke," I announce to no one in particular, placing down the curling iron with my hair still half done. "Nat, come keep me company."

Natalya's already bunching up the edges of her dress between her fingers and making her way towards the balcony before I can even finish my sentence. Cecilia seems more concerned with me, though, from the way she freezes in place and wrinkles her nose.

"You're going to smell if you smoke," she says, somehow upping the nasal quality in her voice to new heights.

I wave her off, rolling my eyes. "I'll buy a breath mint, Cici."

The pet name isn't coming from a particularly affectionate place, but she sends a glimpse of camaraderie from across the room that I can only awkwardly return with a sheepish grin before disappearing out the balcony.

Nat's leaning against the railing, picturesque with the mid-July sunlight reflecting off her blonde hair pulled into a loose updo. Despite the mermaid-style ivory dress she's swathed in, her eyes staring off into the distance aren't screaming wedding bells.

"If you're here to announce your true love for me, you're late. I've already taken a vow of celibacy in honour of Remington," I say, grinning, as I slide up next to her.

Her brows knit. "Isn't that your fish?"

"He is my child, Nat. How dare you? Remington is not just a fish."

She opens her mouth as if to make a snappy reply, but instead of words only a troubled sigh falls through. There's an unmistakable sag to her shoulders, and although wedding dresses are basically anvils wrapped up in rhinestones, it's clear it runs deeper than that.

"Hey, seriously, what's up?" I ask, softer than before, gently nudging her with my shoulder.

There's a beat of quiet, the sounds of the city barely touching us from up here. She sniffs, picking at her cuticles, refusing to look me in the eye.

"Am I making the right decision?"

There's a second of processing. "What do you mean? Are you making the right decision in marrying Mark?" I blink, barely believing the words coming out of my mouth.

"I'm only twenty-five," she says, in a voice that sounds more like my own than Nat's. "Carrie didn't get married until she was 40. Am I honestly ready to make this life-altering decision at twenty-five?"

"Carrie?" I pause, narrowing my eyes in suspicion. "As in- Carrie Bradshaw? What did I say about making life decisions based on Sex and the City? No! Bad! No bueno! I didn't watch enough of that show to make a strong enough case why this is a bad idea, but I'm the queen of bad ideas I know a bad idea when I see one!"

Her nose wrinkles. "Isn't that what you've been saying this entire time, though? That I'm too young for this, that I'm jumping headfirst into this without really thinking it through?"

There's a moment where the entire Dr. Phil spiel evaporates from my tongue, when I meet her eyes to find them shining, just a soft suggestion of the conflict lingering behind. It's cold and unforgiving on the back of my neck, a replay of all the doubt I've sown over the past year, flippant comments here, rolling my eyes there, all meandering to come to the single point on this balcony.

I draw a deep breath.

"Listen, if we've learned anything the past couple of months, it's that I literally don't know anything, and every statement I've ever made is anywhere between ten to a hundred percent false," I say with a wide gesture of my arm as if all my poor decisions were laid out in front of us, although I don't think a single skyline could carry them all. "I've been talking out of my ass so much it's almost presidential."

She snorts, but it's half-hearted and there's still the ever-present threat of tears in her eyes. "Okay, but-"

"But what? Are you saying that I was also right when I said that green wasn't your colour?"

She scoffs. "That's different, I'm obviously a spring."

"And not even two weeks ago, when I was banging my head against my keyboard saying I was never going to be a real author, who convinced me to get off my ass and finish editing my book, and send out not one, but multiple query letters to agents?"

She hesitates, bites her lips and then, softly, "I did."

"And who said I couldn't take care of a fish?"

She cocks a brow. "You did?"

"And guess what? He's still swimming! Remington's doing great! I mean, I think. I can't really tell, because he's a fish, but damn fucking straight he's still alive," I beam and grab her hand, warm and freshly manicured, but still trembling.

"I don't get what your point is?" she says, but lets her hand slip into mine naturally. "This about Mark and I. And a wedding. That's happening in an hour. And changing my life forever."

I shoot her a knowing look, brows raised, mouth pursed. "My point still stands. I'm an idiot, and I don't know anything other than I love you, and that I would snatch you up and run off into the sunset in a heartbeat if you said the word."

She swallows. "And?"

"And you haven't said that. Look, I think Mark is great, and it's not only a money thing, I swear." She fixes me with a dry look. "It's not! I'm quite possibly one of the most selfish people in existence, and I would love to have you single and ready to mingle, believe me, but you love Mark, don't you?"

Nat draws a deep breath, shaky and sure. "I do, Vi, of course I do. I've loved him more than I've loved anyone, but, I mean..."

"But what?" I push.

"But what if it doesn't work out? What if he decides he wants something else later? What if I'm not what he wants anymore, or the other way around?"

She's chewing on her bottom lip, a habit that's all too familiar after years and years of learning her patterns like my own. I can tell it's the only thing that's holding back the tears pooling in her eyes, just moments from breaking over the precipice, and she squeezes my hand like a buoy in an unforgiving ocean. My throat tightens when I meet her eyes.

"Then he'd be a bigger idiot than me, but I don't think he is, Nat."

There's another moment of silence, and then Nat's blowing out a controlled breath, waving with her free hand at her eyes and aggressively staring up into the sky. "This is going to ruin my makeup, stop being such a goddamn Hallmark card, who are you and what have you done with my best friend?"

I snort, grinning, and give her hand a tight squeeze before letting go. "I'm a fish mother now, I'm a brand new person."

She laughs too, sharp and loud, still frantically trying to neutralize the tears.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" I ask her with a pointed look, drinking in her rouged cheeks and wine red lips, reading every micro-expression on her face. "I just want whatever makes you happy."

She nods again, and a watery smile flashes across her face. "Oh god, more than anything. Honestly, I can't picture my life without him. I'm just scared, but I want this. I think it's going to be the most nerve-wracking but the most worth risk of my life."

I can't help but feel a twinge of jealousy at the flash flood of affection in her eyes, so transparent I can see straight into her heart. But it's small, and it's easily overpowered by the heartwarming contentment knowing that she deserves it and so much more. A small smile slips onto my face.

"Then stop crying! You paid way too much money to be ruining your eyeliner!" I bump her with my arm. "It's one thing to be rich, it's another to be wasteful. I will not be a maid of honour to an ugly bride."

"Bitch, I look beautiful in whatever my makeup looks like," she says, wiping her nose with her knuckle and clicking her tongue. "And if you want, you don't, well, you don't have to be my maid of honour. Cecilia can take that."

My head shoots back, eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Excuse you, over my dead body. I have not been your friend for over 15 years to not be your maid of honour. I've put time into this, I've put in effort, how dare you?"

She rolls her eyes, waving me off. "I don't mean it like that, obviously. If you want to, the title's all yours. I just mean if you didn't want to, you know, walk down the aisle with Noel or whatever. I mean, I could convince Mark to switch but-"

I raise a hand to interrupt, brow arched. "Weren't you the one that said I had to pay for my own mistakes? I had to deal with the cleanup?"

"That may have been some unnecessary old couple meddling on Mark and I's part. You guys aren't teenagers, and I don't think anyone expected it to turn out how it did." She shrugs sheepishly.

I crinkle my nose, turning back to the city. "I could literally have my legs chewed off by a rabid pack of chihuahuas, and I would still drag my body down that aisle. Noel's nobody to stop me."

It's weird to say his name out loud again, after running it over and over in my head for so long but never giving it any true breath. It rolls off the tongue in an achingly familiar way, but lingers in the air with a heartbreaking note that's still hard to swallow. His face flashes, dark eyes set behind those thick rimmed frames, and I ignore the tightness of my chest.

She pauses for a moment, searching my face with earnest, but doesn't push it further, thankfully. Instead, her arms wrap around me and then she's burying her face in my shoulder, squeezing me so tightly I'm rocked off-balance. I take a moment to return the hug, but it's warm, and it's soft and it's just right. The touch starvation doesn't settle in until I'm swallowed up by her presence, and I have to take a moment to fight back my own tears, because I've already done my makeup too.

When I break away, I've composed myself enough to shoot her a genuine enough grin. "Now, in consideration with what I said before, I'm not totally convinced that the moon landing isn't fake-"

"I do not have time to tell you how wrong you so very, very much are, I'm getting married! Shut up and help me fix my false lashes."

The other bridesmaids barely notice as we enter back inside, other than Cecilia, who's already throwing a can of Febreeze at me with more force than I personally think is necessary. Between the mimosas and the liquid lipstick touch ups, it barely feels like five minutes before we're all shuffling about in the back of the church, smoothing down our hair and bubbling over with nervous energy.

When Nat pulls my hand in hers, there's a grounded sensation that overwhelms me for the second time that day, and she shoots me a small smile that's an instant Xanax to my nerves. It's only a few seconds later when she squeezes my hand and looks passed me, I realize the full extent to her move.

The groom's men are all dressed to the nines in their sleek, charcoal grey suits, baby pink ties and Italian leather shoes. Mark's fresh-faced brother is all smiles as usual, and he's immediately drowning Nat in compliments from the moment he sees her, the Vanderbilt family charm. Alexei, Mark's old roommate, gives me a small smile and nod of acknowledgement, which I return the best I can with my heart beating a tattoo against my chest.

Trailing just behind the group is the one person I'd been both dreading and anticipating for days, tousled dark hair slicked back and beard trimmed to expose the sharpness of his jaw I know all too well. His hands are tucked into his pockets, his face downcast. As if feeling my intense gaze drilling holes into him, he looks up.

With my nerves all bundled in my throat, I squeeze Nat's hand back as a reminder to breathe again.

Every single emotion I'd been shoving deep down to regain some semblance of my regular life immediately betrays me, and I have to draw a breath to settle my tripping pulse. As the planner begins to order us all in line, Nat's hand slips from mine, and I'm alone.

It's his cologne that meets me before he ever does, tortuously reliable notes of fresh mint and sharp citrus. My eyes have fallen down to my feet, and soon another pair are crowding into my line of view, black and accentuated with traditional broguing.

When I force my gaze up to meet his, his dark eyes threaten to disarm me completely.

"How're you?" Noel asks, small, unsure. He toys with his tie, even though it's already laid perfectly against his chest.

Nat's protective presence is still at my back, but I square my shoulders and set my eyes forward. "I'm splendid, thanks." My tone's sharp, unforgiving, an arctic breeze passing through every syllable.

He nods, swallowing in a way I can trace with his Adam's apple against his throat. There's another beat of quiet.

"You look very nice."

"I know."

His gaze runs over my profile, down the dip of my nose and over my heated cheeks, combing through for something more substantial, but I'm not so generous. As the doors open and a wave of moment turns to attention, everyone's excited eyes just waiting for a glimpse of the blushing bride, I silently lock my arms with his.

Noel doesn't say anything, and despite the crestfallen turn of his mouth I catch in my peripherals, I don't say anything either. The thick quiet that's deafening between us is settled throughout the nuptials and wedding photos, a constant orbiting around each other but never quite breaking each other's atmosphere. I'm both ignoring his and Nat's longing stares, and distract myself with the ever-present flute of champagne in my hand.

Unfortunately, there's barely a buzz by the time I'm tucked in the back corner of the room, the reception already unravelling to new heights in front of and without me. I'm sucking on the end of a steak skewer, chin tucked in my palm and elbow resting on the table as I listen to Nat's grandpa's never-ending voice, unsure whether this is all the same home country story or multiple that I hadn't caught the beginning and ends of.

It's with an undeniable flicker of jealousy as I see Cecilia throwing her head back and laughing as she tries to do a shimmy on the dance floor. I can shimmy so much better than her.

"And, you won't believe, bear, huge bear, size of full tree bear appear right in front of me! I, twelve years old, you won't believe, I stare into the eye of bear and say, I say-"

The old, heavily accented man's elaborate hand gestures are interrupted as a hand taps gently on his shoulder. His forehead wrinkles deepen with a frown as he turns, and my entire body seizes up.

Noel pauses, and my pulse forgets a beat. His eyes are dark brown and earnest, searching for something in mine as he takes a deep breath.

"My apologies for the interruption. Can we talk?"