I did not know any of this. At 10 AM, in my hotel room, I got into the Monique Lhuillier-matching bridesmaid dress I had bought in February, I did my own makeup, and I drove to the chapel expecting to walk into a room where my best friend would not look at me, wearing a dress I had told her was wrong. I walked into the bridal suite at 11:15. Jillian was standing in the middle of the room, her back to the door, with Marion adjusting something on her shoulder. She turned around. She was wearing Marion's dress. The silk fell from her collarbones to her ankles in a line so pure, so stripped, so obviously right that

every single woman in that bridal suite — Colette, Abby, Rory, and me — made a sound at exactly the same time. Jillian looked at me across the room. Her eyes were red from not sleeping. She said, "If you say one thing about how this was the right call, I will never speak to you again." Then she smiled. It was small. It was dry. And it was, in the way that people who have been best friends for seventeen years can communicate across a room with nothing but a twitch of the mouth, a forgiving smile. I crossed the room. I hugged her. She held me for a long time. She said, into my shoulder, "Thank you. I am never going to admit I said that, so don't tell anyone."