The suite smells like hairspray, roses, and sugar—Talia’s sticky fingers are all over the macaron tray, and no one has the heart to stop her.
Kat’s belly is propped on a pillow. Hannah’s feet are in a bucket of ice. Sam’s trying to zip Gina into a dress that clearly wasn’t designed for third-trimester curves. Tosha’s laughing so hard she’s crying, and Momma’s just sipping her tea like she’s seen it all before—which she has.
Aunt Lori’s fixing my veil. Her hands are steady. Her eyes are soft.
Gabby’s perched on the arm of the couch, legs crossed, smug and glowing—but not in the hormonal way. She’s the only one in the room not pregnant, and she’s making sure we all remember it.
“I’m just saying,” she starts, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, “Rob’s been texting me good morning
