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She looks uncertain for a few seconds, then she nods. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

* * *

The limo drops us off at my place when Bethany refuses to go home until she’s sure I’ll be okay.

She knows better than anyone that I won’t be okay for a long time, so I don’t bother putting up a protest.

I lean disconsolately against the wall while she grabs my mail. She hands it to me as we enter the elevator. After I shut my front door, I toss the mail on my console table. A couple of envelopes slip off and drop to the floor.

I bend to pick them up and see the unmistakable seal marking the back of a heavy, rectangular envelope.

My blood runs hot, then cold, then freezing. I make a sound that probably isn’t human, and Bethany hurries to my side.

“What’s wrong?”

My fingers tremble as I clutch the envelope. “Omigod, it came. It actually came.”

Bethany gasps. “What did you say?”

I repeat it and turn the envelope over, staring at it incredulously. I assumed that all arrangements we made before our relationship’s fiery demise were null and void.

But I hold in my hands physical proof that I was mistaken. I want to lift the pristine white paper to my nose and sniff hard to see if Mason’s scent clings to it. Of course, the likelihood that he doesn’t send out his own invitations is quite high. Plus, this invitation probably came straight from the White House?—

“My God.”

I look up and Bethany’s wiping a tear away from the corner of her eye while grinning like a freaky circus clown.

“What?” I demand.

“What you said kinda freaks me out a little. That was my first thought too, when I saw Zach’s Indigo Lounge envelope.”

I let out a defeated sigh. “Baby girl?—”

“No.” She grabs my hand in hers. “It’s my turn to help you, and we’re doing thingsmyway. Open the envelope.”

My whole body shakes as I slide my finger carefully beneath the gold crest. I lift the flap and cautiously remove the invitation. I see my name next to Mason’s and my heart squeezes hard enough to make me dizzy.

“Shit! Don’t fucking pass out on me,” Bethany cries.

We walk arm in arm to the living room and collapse on the sofa. I lie there, wide open and defenseless against the waves of pain as Bethany talks about designer fittings and makeovers.

“No,” I croak when it all becomes too much.

“What do you mean, no?”

“I’m not going.”

“Yes, you are. It’s the fucking White House. Refusal could be treasonous.”

I manage a weak snort, which fails miserably.

When she launches into another shopping list of things I need to get me ready, I sigh. “Mason said he’d send me a dress. And shoes. Andtrinkets.” I attempt another snort. It works this time, and suddenly I can’t stop. I laugh and cry and snort until I’m a giant wrecking ball of hysteria, rolling around on my living room floor.

But as quickly as the mania begins, it ends, and I curl my knees to my chest and hug my heartache close. I don’t know how long I lie there or when I give in and let sleep claim me.

When I wake, there’s a blanket over me and a pillow beneath my head. Bethany is on the floor next to me, with a steaming bowl in one hand and the remote in the other.

My gaze meets hers, and she gives me a heartbreaking little smile. I nod and shuffle my broken body upright. I take the bowl of chicken soup from her, and she clicks on the first episode ofGame of Thrones.