I find my phone eventually, tucked under a pile of discarded drink stirrers and half-empty glasses. My fingers curl around it, but my eyes flick back to the bride-to-be balloon swaying gently from the ceiling. It’s tacky, inflated with helium, and the gold foil letters glint under the dim lights. Harper picked it out herself—insisted on having it. Just like she insisted on everything being perfect tonight.
I try to wipe Derek's text from my mind, but it’s tattooed into my memory.
Harper sits in the center of the room, wearing the white satin sash that reads Future Mrs. Brooks, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the attention. The cake in front of her is bold—shaped like a cocky joke more than anything obscene, with a fondant d**k front and center. Julia, her best friend from college
