Page 4 of Breaking Point

“What?”

“What makes you happy? Is it love? Money? A family?”

She laughs at the question, accepting the tissue I hand her and gently dabbing her eyes. “I don’t know… Stability? A glass of wine at the end of the day?” She breaks into a fit of laughs. She repeats, “I don’t know! Lots of things.”

“Lots of things,” I continue, adjusting the fallen lock of hair back behind her ear. “What about walking down the aisle makes you feel like they won’t happen?”

She huffs quietly. “I don’t really know. Derek… Derek does make me happy. He’s perfect for me, I just… feel like if I make the wrong decision now, the rest of my life is over. You know?”

“That’s a lot of pressure to put on one day.” I smile when she laughs again. “I think… that today is just another day.Another… expensive, beautiful, hectic day… but the rest of your life is a long time coming. And it’s not dependent just on today.”

She nods, a slow smile spreading across her face before her eyes flick to me. “You’re kind of good at this.”

I smile again as heels click down the hall. Emily's mother rounds the corner, freezing when she sees us huddled on the floor. “What are you doing?? It’s starting!” she hisses, and while Emily stands, we share a knowing look.

“I’m coming! Just forgot my bouquet,” she lies easily, and at the look of determination in her eye, I reach for the flowers. She accepts them, quickly smoothing the creamy, white fabric of her dress and dabbing the last of the tears from her lashes. Her next smile is pretty and small. “I’m ready.”

‘Thank you’ she mouths, and when I wink in return, she stands tall. Shoulders back, chin high, expensive diamond earrings dangling over her shoulders, she walks forward and accepts her mother’s awaiting arm.

Just the sight makes my heart stall, and the grief sweeps over me again like the breeze still fluttering in through the window.

Normally, I’d allow myself to pause. To feel it. To tamp it back down and put on a brave face.

I think about Emily swallowing her tears… and I find myself swiping on a fresh coat of lipstick from the tube in the pocket in my dress. I check the crimson shade in the mirror, swiping at a small smear near the corner.

When I smile this time, I can almost feel the sadness fading away.

I’ve got a job to do after all.

But I should know better by now.

Chapter Three

Olivia

It’ll take a miracle- or a couple mugs of caffeine- to get me home. Wedding clean-up is, without a doubt, my least favorite part of planning. Not just because I’m in charge of it. Or because everyone is usually too drunk or tired to help. Orchestrating the day that two people get a glimpse of their life together has always excited me. It’s one of the reasons I started my business in the first place.

My parents were married when I was seven. Their marriage was less than conventional, but I still remember my mother’s frilly dress and the smile on her face as she walked down the aisle to my father. No wedding I plan will ever live that day down. Maybe that’s childhood innocence. Naivety. The faint outline of a memory that’s made brighter by the sunshine of childhood. I now realize just how much work goes into planning someone’s big day. Clean-up and all.

My apartment across the quarry is on the older side of Sutton, and though I can probably afford some high-rise on the affluent side of town now, I can’t help the swell of pride that fills my chest when I see the historic brick walls of my complex. It’s a shabby, run-down mess of towers that circle Marketside. Butwhat those people living in the pretty high-rises don’t know is that the market is the true heart of the city.

Even at two in the morning, the market is alive with vendors calling out their wares. People sell rich fabrics on the corner while carts rattle with trinkets and religious chimes.

My apartment is in the third of the three towers. I make it a ritual to stop at one of the pastry carts nearby, waving my hello to the older man who owns it.

“How are you?” I ask.

He gives me a wordless nod, and when I proffer a couple of bills, he already has two steak and aioli croissants bundled up in a box for me.

“Thank you.” I flash a smile, and when I drop a couple of dollars in his tip jar, I swear the corner of his wrinkled face pinches in a smile.

Though the garlicky scent of the croissants makes my stomach howl, I don’t allow myself a bite until my apartment is in view and I hear a familiar voice: “Ms. Livia? That you?”

I feel my tiredness fade a bit further away.

“You know it is, Ricky.”

From the alley, a man crawls out from his tent, and I smile when I see Ricky Abbot stand up to greet me.

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