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But Julissa knew I wouldn't forget. Which meant whatever she needed to tell me was bothering her enough to send unnecessary reminders. Maybe something was wrong with the venue.

Neither Julissa nor the groom Rob had seen Lockhart Ranch in person. They lived back east and had booked it based on my recommendation, photographs, and a virtual tour.

I'd assured them it was spectacular. Because it was. But there was always the possibility that what I considered rustic luxury, Julissa considered an overpriced barn with livestock.

As I drove down Valentine Blvd, the downtown district of Valentine Bay unfolded around me like a Hallmark movie with an unlimited production budget. Pastel Victorians lined the streets, their porches overflowing with flowers. Couples wandered hand in hand past boutiques and bakeries. A golden retriever sat outside Cupid's Cup wearing a red bandana.

It was aggressively adorable.

Closer to the waterfront, the buildings gave way to a boardwalk crowded with souvenir shops, seafood restaurants, and candy stores selling enough saltwater taffy to fund a small nation.

Beyond them, the pier stretched into the bay.

Its central pavilion looked like a three-tier wedding cake, complete with white gingerbread trim, pale-blue accents, and a lighthouse.

Cute.

Ridiculous.

A little too much frosting.

Which pretty much summed up Valentine Bay.

I didn't trust towns where strangers smiled at each other.

I'd grown up in Queens. I liked anonymity. People minding their own business. Being able to buy coffee without the barista asking how my mother was doing or whether I'd finally found a nice man.

The last time I'd visited Valentine Bay, the woman at Cupid's Cup had remembered my order from six months earlier.

Six. Months.

In New York, that kind of memory would've qualified as stalking.

Here, apparently, it was customer service.

People waved and smiled at strangers. It was a little too Stepford Wives for me. My city-loving, privacy-valuing soul had been traumatized by the kumbaya of it all.

I passed the town square, where a banner announced the upcoming Fall in Love Festival. Of course it did. Even the municipal calendar was emotionally manipulative.

Four days, I told myself.

That was all I had to survive.

Four days of wedding festivities, family togetherness, and pretending I wasn't bothered that my younger cousin was marrying the love of her life while my own romantic history resembled a cautionary documentary.

I adored Julissa. She deserved every ounce of happiness coming her way. But planning her wedding had been a special kind of emotional torture. Every flower arrangement, seating chart, and first-dance discussion reminded me of the life I'd thought I was building.

The one that had ended with Serene's underwear on my bedroom floor.

The worst part wasn’t the time it had taken, or the work, or the energy, it was that it activated every insecurity I’d been trying to keep locked in a sub-basement of my brain. Dealing with a nasty breakup and planning this special day for my cousin had definitely hit my triggers with bullseye efficiency.

I’d been triaging my personal life for the past year after my breakup, and planning a wedding was like exposure therapy. I'd thrown myself into planning. Because that's what I did. I fixed things. Made plans. Controlled outcomes. And when life handed me something I couldn't control, I worked harder.

Healthy coping mechanism?

Probably not.

Effective?