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Hugo

“ Y ou’re getting what ?” Tristan sputtered, almost spitting out the coffee he was drinking.

“Jesus. Don’t choke,” Hugo laughed. “I said I’m getting married tomorrow, and I’m hoping you’ll be one of my witnesses.”

“What the hell, Hugo. Is this some kind of joke?” Tristan put the coffee cup down on the counter, as if he couldn’t trust himself to hold it any longer.

“No joke. I’m getting married.”

“To who? You’re not even dating … Hold on. The therapist. You’re marrying the therapist? Why did I only hear about her last week?”

“It’s a long story. But she’s not my therapist anymore, okay?”

“I bloody well hope she isn’t.”

Lorenz came into the small kitchen area and grabbed a red apple from the bowl on the counter, polishing it against his shirt before taking a bite. “What’s got your panties in a wad, Tristan?”

“It’s not my panties that should concern you. Hugo says he’s getting married tomorrow.” Tristan stressed the word like it was painful for him.

The apple rolled from Lorenz’s hand to the floor. “What did you say?”

“My point exactly,” Tristan said. “This is crazy, Hugo.”

“And yet, it’s not up for discussion.”

“He’s serious,” Lorenz said, looking distraught. “You’re in love?”

“It’s not about love, guys. She needs help, and I can’t imagine anything worse than not being able to help her. We’re getting married as soon as I can find an opening.”

That statement sobered Tristan and Lorenz right up. “Okay.”

“Okay. Well, count on us. Whatever you need, man.”

“What does Hugo need?” Alex asked, making his way into the now packed kitchen.

Hugo took a deep breath. “Alex. Just the man I wanted to see. I’m going to need Yvette’s help.”

Jo

“I have the perfect thing in my mind,” the shop attendant gushed in rapid French. Jo struggled to keep up. Slow down, I’m blind and foreign , she wanted to scream. Fabric rustled, then the sound of metal on metal. A hanger . “ Regardez les belles violettes. ”

“No,” Jo said quickly, her voice quiet yet firm. “No flowers. Something simple. Plain.” She didn’t need to be able to see to feel Isolde’s eyes on her, and she couldn’t help feeling like a fraud.

This isn’t a real wedding .

“Plain, simple,” Isolde explained in rapid French. “But white. Definitely white.”

The shop attendant paused. “White, Madame ?”

Jo thought for an instant. Hugo had never seen her in white. After going blind, she’d slowly changed her wardrobe. Black made it easy to get dressed in the morning without having to feel blind. Black was … the opposite of white. She wondered what Hugo would think of her in a white dress. Would he think it too much for their not-for-real wedding?

Jo heard more rustling of fabric, then again, the telltale sound of hangers being shifted.

“Do you like the look of this one, Madame ?”

Jo turned to Isolde, frustrated. Can she not see my cane? Normally, she wasn’t this easy to irritate. She understood the world was made for sighted people, and didn’t expect people to stop using verbs like seeing and looking just because she could no longer see. But today, something felt different. She was feeling vulnerable and out of her depth … blind, in a way she didn’t like.

Isolde was quick to speak. “It’s beautiful, Jo. Just a shade creamier than white. Plain, but elegant, with a fitted bodice and a soft bateau neckline. No flowers, no lace, no frills. Comes just below the knee. And the fabric has a beautiful weight to it. Here. Feel it,” she said, bringing the fabric closer until Jo’s fingers brushed against it. It felt cool, smooth under her touch. Jo’s throat tightened.

“It’s not too flashy?”

“It’s just right,” Isolde murmured. “Please try it on.”

“Yes,” the shop attendant said excitedly, eager to get on with the next phase.

“Let me help you,” Isolde said, her tone rising at the end in a statement that was part question.

“Thank you.” She raised her arms, allowing Isolde to help her into the dress, then waited as Isolde tightened what seemed like fifty little buttons. “Are you sure about this, Isolde? I’ll never be able to get this on myself.”

“Don’t worry about the buttons. This is your wedding dress, Jo. You only need to do it up once, and I’ll be there to help you.”

Jo’s throat tightened. Isolde was treating this like a real wedding. She didn’t know the truth. She knew how and when she and Hugo had met, so she might suspect something. But she didn’t know , and she was choosing to treat this like a real wedding. As a friend would . “Thank you.”

“For what? We’re friends, aren’t we?”

Jo’s throat closed. She was glad when the shop attendant interrupted, opening the curtain to check on them.

“Ah. Parfait .”

The way the dress draped on her body certainly felt perfect. Tight, but not confining. Heavy, but not overwhelming. “What do you think?” she asked Isolde.

“It’s just right. It’s you .”

Something about Isolde’s words made her think of Becca. Because, while Jo had never spent much time thinking about what her wedding would be like, Becca had had hers all planned out from the time she turned eight. The original puffy Cinderella-style dress had evolved over the years, the music had changed, but the idea had remained—that one day the entire family would join Becca in the grandest celebration of her life. Instead, they’d joined to mourn her. Some of the very songs she’d chosen for her wedding had been played at her funeral. And Jo hadn’t even been there to say goodbye.

Jo sighed. She knew she was lucky to have been part of Becca’s life. She had memories of Becca to last her a lifetime. But they could have— would have —made so many more memories together, and Bartholomew Horns had robbed them of that chance.

Her heart hardened, the edges growing colder, sharper, as she thought of Horns. Jo knew better than to tell her patients that time cured all pain. She knew first hand that time didn’t always heal—that a wound could remain there, hidden, and all it took was a single instant, for it to open up and start bleeding again. That some days, the memory could be a whisper, faint and distant, and other days it could be a roar, echoing so loudly one would wonder how the rest of the world didn’t hear it.

And Jo had moved on. Most of the time, when she thought of her sister, she made sure to think of her sister’s life—all twenty-five years of it—rather than her death. But grief wasn’t linear, and there were times when it didn’t work.

“Are you okay, Jo?” Isolde’s voice, full of worry, brought her back to the present. She realized she was still wearing the gown.

Jo nodded quickly. “I’m fine. Just … thinking.”

“Listen, Jo. I know you and Hugo must have your reasons for marrying this quickly. But if you need … I hope you both know you can tell us anything.”

“Everything’s fine, Isolde, but thank you.” She turned to the shop attendant. “We’ll take this dress.”

For a long instant, Jo thought Isolde was going to say something else. Then her voice lightened. “I’ll text Drake to let him know we’re ready to go to the restaurant.”

The restaurant. Jo had almost forgotten about it. Or, she hadn’t wanted to think about it. Because the thought of spending the evening with Hugo’s friends made everything seem so real. We’re doing this. We’re really doing this.