Chapter 1

The first picture in our wedding video was one I’d taken of Emmett and his ex-wife.

Margo had asked me to take it at Teagan’s thirteenth birthday party. Teagan was grinning between her parents, chocolate frosting smeared across her chin.

Four years later, the three of them filled the projector screen at our rehearsal dinner.

I sat at the head table and waited for a picture of Emmett and me.

The acoustic music played through the small speakers. The slideshow moved through beach trips, middle school graduations, and Christmas mornings at his mother’s house.

I’d sent Emmett a folder with thirty photos of us last week. I kept waiting for one of them to appear.

The music faded out. The screen went black.

Someone behind me said how sweet it was that they'd kept Teagan's childhood in. I looked at the empty screen and waited for the room to notice whose wedding this was supposed to be.

Nobody did.

I had appeared twice. Both times, my back was to the camera.

The overhead lights in the private dining room snapped back on.

Emmett’s mother clapped, dabbing at the corner of her eye with a cloth napkin. Emmett joined her, smiling around the room.

I pushed my chair back and stood up. I didn't look at Emmett or his family.

I walked straight to the table by the wall where the young woman was shutting down the projector.

"Excuse me," I said.

She looked up, holding a black cable in her hands.

"Please don’t play that video tomorrow. We won't be using it at the reception."

"Leave it," a voice said behind me.

Emmett stepped up to the table. He offered the woman a calm, practiced smile.

"Teagan worked hard on it, Brenna," he said, keeping his voice quiet so our guests wouldn't hear.

Across the room, Teagan was sitting on a barstool near the bar. When Emmett said her name, she looked over, her hands resting motionless in her lap.

I turned my back on the guests and faced Emmett.

"Did she pick the final photos?" I asked.

Emmett looked directly at me.

"I did," he said. "I wanted her to feel included. I wanted her to see that getting married doesn't erase the family she grew up with."

I remembered holding the camera four years ago at that birthday party. I remembered framing the three of them so the kitchen clutter disappeared, because Emmett had asked me to make it look nice for his daughter.

"I know," I said. "Then why did you erase me?"

Emmett let out a low sigh. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, glancing toward the head table where his mother was watching us.

"I didn't erase you, Brenna. You're right here. It's a three-minute video. She's seventeen, and her life is changing tomorrow. Can you just let her have this without turning it into a fight?"

"I sent you thirty photos of us, Emmett."

"And they're great photos," he said, stepping closer. His voice dropped to that smooth, patient tone he always used when he wanted to end a conversation. "You're stressed. It’s the night before the wedding. Let's go back to our seats."

He looked at the woman behind the table.

"Leave the file ready," he told her. "We can talk tomorrow. Brenna’s had a long day."

The woman hesitated, her eyes darting between us.

Before Emmett could say anything else, I pulled my phone from my purse and dialed Darla, our wedding planner. She answered on the second ring, the background loud with the sound of chairs scraping across the venue floor.

"Hey, Brenna! Everything okay?"

"Darla, I'm at the dinner," I said, keeping my eyes on Emmett. "The opening video isn't approved. Please tell whoever is handling the playback tomorrow that it doesn't play unless both of us sign off on it in the morning."

Darla paused for half a second. "Got it. I'll make sure they know. Nothing plays without your okay."

"Thank you."

I hung up and looked at the woman with the projector.

She gave me a quick nod, closed her laptop, and set it inside a canvas bag.

Emmett's face tightened. The patient, reasonable expression dropped away.

He reached for my arm, but I stepped back before he could touch me.

"Did you really have to call Darla right in front of her?" he muttered.

I remembered the Saturday I helped Emmett put shelves in the garage so Teagan's soccer bag would stop blocking the back door. I remembered keeping stew warm one Tuesday while he drove across town to fix Margo's dryer.

"I’m going to the car," I said.

I picked up my purse from the table. I didn't say goodbye to his mother, and I didn't wait for him to follow.

I pushed through the heavy double doors into the hallway. The air out here was cool, carrying the quiet hum of the restaurant kitchen further down the hall.

The door clicked open again behind me.

I turned around, thinking it was Emmett coming to finish the argument.

It was Teagan.

She stepped into the hallway, holding her phone against her chest with both hands. She stopped two feet away from me and looked down at the carpet.

"Brenna," she said.

"You okay, Teagan?"

She didn't look up right away. She unlocked her phone, tapped the screen once, and held it out toward me.

A video file was paused on a picture of the two of us sitting on the back porch last summer, laughing over burnt marshmallows.

"I saw what played in there," she said, her voice quiet and flat. "That wasn't the file I gave my dad. The version I made had you in it."