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Left with no connection to the outside world, for the first time since I’d arrived at the bridal suite, I glanced around. It had been transformed into a feminine war zone. Champagne glasses littered every available surface. Garment bags hung from hooks along the walls. Damon’s mom, Selma Lockhart, had brought in a charcuterie board that had been reduced to three grapes, a lonely cracker, and what appeared to be an aggressively sweating piece of brie.

One bridesmaid was having an emotional crisis over a false eyelash.

Another was trying to steam a dress while wearing it.

The groom’s mom was explaining why no woman should ever marry a man who couldn't change a tire.

And my mother was across the room holding court on the couch, discussing Damon Lockhart. Again. And talking about me like I wasn’t in the room.

“I’m just saying,” she announced, “that boy is something special.”

I closed my eyes. Here we go.

“He certainly is,” Aunt Reba agreed. “Did you see the way he looked at Mikayla last night?”

I’d certainly seen it. I'd also felt it. Everywhere. I kept that information to myself since I was not part of this conversation, despite it being about me.

“He couldn't take his eyes off her,” Auntie Laura claimed.

“Mmm.” My mother made a pleased humming sound. “He’s so attentive.”

“Very attentive,” Aunt Reba agreed.

“And handsome,” Auntie Bev added.

“Ridiculously handsome,” Aunt Cherise co-signed.

Aunt Laura leaned forward conspiratorially. “And those buns.”

“Laura!” my mother exclaimed.

“What? I'm married, not blind.”

The women dissolved into laughter. I considered jumping out the window. We were on the second floor, but the bushes underneath looked reasonably forgiving.

“Mikayla!” my mother called.

I kept my eyes closed and pretended not to hear her.

“Mikayla Rayne Parsons.”

My full government name. There was no ignoring my full government name.

I opened my eyes. “Yes?”

“Come here.” My mother patted the empty cushion beside her.

I reluctantly crossed the room and joined her on the couch. Her lips curved in a very particular smile, the one that had preceded every deeply uncomfortable conversation of my adolescence.

“So,” she began.

“No.”

“I haven't asked anything.”

“I’m getting ahead of it.”

She ignored me. “Damon.”