1️⃣4️⃣

ORM

"I'm going to cry."

"Don't you dare," I growl.

Josie's reflection in the full-length mirror grins at me. "You're the best Maidzilla anyone could ever dream of having, Orm. I didn't even know it was possible to look like this—to feel this beautiful."

Her words make my throat tighten, but I'm holding firm. I narrow my eyes at her sharply. "No. Crying."

Josie blinks rapidly, fanning her face so her mascara doesn't run before she even gets to the altar. The makeup artist used a waterproof formula, of course, but I'm not taking any chances. I'm aiming for perfection, and I'll accept nothing less—not even from Josie's tear ducts.

She looks stunning. Ethereal, even. The cream satin gown hugs her figure perfectly, its sweetheart neckline lined with tiny crystals that catch the sunlight filtering through the window. Her long hair cascades down her back in soft curls, with the delicate tiara Miss Maisie made nestled like a crown among the strands. In just a few minutes, she'll slip on her strappy white heels, and I'll walk her down to the conservatory.

And then my best friend, my cousin, my almost-sister will get married.

It's just the two of us now. The hairstylist and makeup artist have packed up and gone. Mabel, who kept us fueled with food deliveries throughout the morning, has slipped away to join the audience. The other girls popped in earlier for a sneak peek at the bride, squealing with delight, but I'd shooed them off quickly.

My maid-of-honor dress is light blue silk, fitted and elegant, draping along my figure in a way that feels timeless. Around my neck rests my late mother's pearl necklace, and dangling from my ears are my first stepmother's sapphire earrings. My hair is twisted into a sleek chignon at the nape of my neck—not just for aesthetics, but practicality. There's still plenty of running around for me to do today.

Josie sighs contentedly, smoothing her hands down the front of her dress before turning to face me fully. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes glassy with happiness. My throat tightens again, but I swallow the feeling down. If I cry, Josie will cry. And we can't have that—not yet.

"Is it everything you dreamed it would be?" I ask softly.

Her lower lip trembles, and she fans herself again with trembling hands. I clench my fists at my sides, fighting the stinging at the corners of my eyes.

Josie has been dreaming about this day for most of her life. Elijah has been her everything since they were practically kids. It's impossible to stand here and not feel the weight of how special this moment is. To see her in her wedding dress, glowing with happiness, makes it impossible not to believe in soulmates, in fate, in whatever magic ties two people together across time and space.

She takes a slow, deep breath. Her voice is soft when she finally answers me.

"It's better," she whispers. "Thanks to you."

I shake my head, swallowing past the lump in my throat. "I didn't plan the whole thing on my own."

"Don't get bashful on me now, Maidzilla."

"I'm so happy for you, Josie. So happy that I don't even have words for it. Happy doesn't seem like enough."

Josie smiles softly, her eyes shining as she glances back at her reflection in the mirror.

She looks radiant, glowing with a love so deep and true it seems to shimmer off her like sunlight on water. It's the same way Elijah looks at her—like she hung every star in his sky. Even when she thinks about him, I can see it in the way her face softens, her shoulders relax, and her whole aura just settles into this peaceful glow.

A sharp pang cuts through my chest, sudden and uninvited. I gasp softly and turn away, reaching for her bouquet resting delicately on the table.

For the first time in my life, I allow myself to admit it: I want that.

I want what Josie and Elijah have. I want to know what it feels like to love someone so deeply, so entirely, that it alters the fabric of your being. For so long, I've convinced myself that love wasn't for me. That it was messy, fleeting, and dangerous. I told myself it was better to keep people at arm's length, to avoid risking my heart entirely.

But standing here, surrounded by satin and flowers and this overwhelming sense of love in the air, I can't pretend anymore.

I want it. I want it.

I want to wear a white dress. I want to walk down an aisle strewn with petals toward someone who looks at me the way Elijah looks at Josie. I want to build a life with someone who feels like home.

Maybe I've wanted it all along. Maybe every sharp comment and every sarcastic quip over the years was just a flimsy shield against this truth.

"Orm?"

Josie's gentle voice pulls me from my spiraling thoughts.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself before turning back to her with a small smile. "Hm?"

"You're going to have a happily ever after one day, too. I know you will."

I freeze for a second, bouquet in hand, my heart squeezing so tight it almost hurts.

"How can you be sure?" I whisper.

Josie shrugs, her lips tugging into a soft smile. "I just know it. Maybe the crown gave me Miss Maisie's magic powers."

A laugh bursts out of me, sharp and genuine, breaking through the weight in my chest. "Or maybe you're just going loopy with love."

She grins, her nose scrunching up in that way it always does when she's truly happy. "Maybe."

I shake my head, pointing to the elegant white heels sitting at the foot of the chaise lounge. "Alright, Cinderella, time to put on your glass slippers."

Josie laughs but obeys, slipping the shoes onto her feet. When she stands, she looks like something out of a dream—an ethereal, glowing vision of love and joy.

For a brief moment, time feels like it slows down. It's just the two of us in this quiet, sacred space.

I hook my arm through hers, my voice soft but steady as I say, "Come on, Jo. Let's go get you married."

LINGLING

Two hundred people sit in orderly lines on simple white chairs in the conservatory. The scene is flawless. Flowers and leafy vines spill forth from every corner of the room, cocooning the guests in a fragrant, pastel embrace.

I'm seated in the second row on the groom's side, right next to the aisle. Elijah is already waiting on the altar, his suit sharp and tailored, his expression a mix of anticipation and overwhelming love. Harry stands just a few steps to his right, hands clasped in front of him, his usual easy grin tempered by the weight of the moment.

My watch tells me it's 1:58 p.m. Any minute now, the ceremony will begin.

Standing in the very center of the altar is Miss Maisie, the silver-haired enigma who seems to float more than walk. She's wearing layers of silk and chiffon, her wrists jangling softly with silver bangles, her fingers glimmering with intricate rings. Her expression is serene and knowing, her presence commanding without being overbearing. She looks like she belongs here, like she's woven into the very fabric of this place.

The string quartet begins to play. The music is soft and lilting, almost playful in its melody. The white gossamer curtains fluttering at the doors to the conservatory part just enough to allow a little girl with blonde ringlets and a fluffy pink dress to step through.

She hesitates for only a moment before breaking into a beaming smile, her eyes lighting up at the sight of all the faces turned toward her. With her tiny hand, she reaches into her basket and tosses a handful of blue and white petals into the air. The crowd chuckles softly as she skips down the aisle, leaving a delicate, fragrant trail behind her.

"Maudette's little girl," I overhear someone murmur a few rows back. "Josie's youngest niece."

The words make something in my chest tighten. Families like this—big, sprawling, filled with laughter and love—are so foreign to me. Neither of my parents have siblings, so I've never had aunts or uncles, and as an only child, the idea of nieces or nephews is something that doesn't even register in my reality.

It's not something I've ever thought about before, not with any real weight. But now, with the soft strains of the violins and the sweet scent of flowers in the air, surrounded by all these people who so clearly belong to one another, I feel a quiet ache bloom deep in my chest.

I want that.

I want a family—a real one. A big, messy, noisy family with weddings and reunions and inside jokes that span generations. I want to belong somewhere, with people who see me, who know me, who love me.

I don't want to be alone anymore.

The flower girl reaches the end of the aisle, her tiny basket empty, and skips to her seat in the front row. The music swells, and my breath catches in my throat because I know what comes next.

Or rather, who.

The curtains part again, almost as if the breeze itself decided to play a part in the performance, and out steps Orm.

I'm pretty sure my knees would buckle if I wasn't already sitting.

Orm is radiant, her slender frame draped in a soft blue silk gown that pools gracefully around her feet. The delicate straps rest against her bare shoulders, highlighting the elegant curve of her collarbones and the slender line of her neck. Even from this distance, her skin looks impossibly smooth, like porcelain bathed in soft moonlight.

My fists clench against my lap as I force myself to keep my face neutral. To keep my eyes from lingering too long.

"Those Thanomchai genes sure are blessed," whispers a woman in the row behind me. Another woman murmurs an agreement.

Then, before I know it, Orm is walking past me, her presence like a breeze sweeping through the conservatory. Her gaze flickers briefly in my direction, a fleeting connection, before she focuses on Elijah at the altar. I see her grin at him, and it's warm—unfettered and genuine.

Orm takes her place on the opposite side of the altar, perfectly mirroring Harry. She looks composed, elegant, and so far removed from the chaotic energy of last night's water balloon war.

The music shifts, the string quartet softening into a romantic, almost dreamlike melody. It's not the traditional bridal march—it's something unique, tender, and deeply personal.

Just as she had described earlier, the conservatory begins to dim. The panels of glass darken gradually, shading the space from the bright afternoon sun. The guests murmur in awe as thousands of string lights woven through the arches and columns flicker to life, like a blanket of stars descending over us.

I smile slightly to myself, proud of the small role I played in making this moment perfect. My gaze drifts back to Orm—and she's already looking at me.

Her lips curl into the faintest smile, a silent thank you.

The moment is so small, so fleeting, yet it feels like it brands itself into my chest.

As the curtains part again, signaling the arrival of the bride, everyone rises to their feet. I should be turning my attention to Josie, radiant in her white gown and arm-in-arm with her father. I should be paying attention to this beautiful moment—the culmination of a love story years in the making.

But I can't stop looking at Orm.

She turns her gaze away from me, her attention fixed on Josie's slow and graceful approach. Her hands clasp delicately in front of her, bouquet nestled between her fingers. She's glowing—not just from the fairy lights or the dimmed sun filtering through the glass panels—but from something within her.

For a long moment, all I can see is her.

The vows begin. Miss Maisie's voice, low and steady, fills the air. Her words are poignant and poetic, crafted with love and wisdom.

Yet, somehow, they feel distant.

Because I can't stop thinking about Orm. About the way she stood on that stool earlier this morning, bossing everyone around with her determined focus. About the way her hair brushed against my face when she untangled me from the wisteria. About the flicker of something unspoken in her eyes when I brushed that stray petal out of her hair.

Around me, people sniffle and dab at their eyes. Soft gasps and quiet laughter ripple through the crowd as Josie and Elijah exchange heartfelt promises.

But all I can hear is the dull, steady thud of my own heartbeat.

Thump-thump. Orm.

"—and by the power vested in me by the State of California..."

Orm. Orm.

"...I pronounce you husband and wife..."

Orm.

"You may kiss the bride."

Applause thunders all around me, swelling in waves as Josie and Elijah kiss beneath the wisteria arch. I join in, clapping with the same automatic rhythm as everyone else, but my focus is elsewhere. My gaze keeps sliding back to Orm, drawn to her like the moon pulls the tide.

Josie and Elijah turn to face the crowd, their faces glowing with joy and love so raw and beautiful it feels almost sacred to witness. For a moment, I let myself focus on them, on how perfect they look together, how happy they seem. But then my eyes drift—inevitably—back to Orm.

She's crying.

Not dramatically, not in a way anyone else might notice. Her tears are silent, delicate streaks carving paths down her soft cheeks. She dabs at them subtly with her fingertips, and somehow, it feels like watching sunlight drip through morning fog.

The quartet starts up again, a lively melody carrying the bride and groom back down the aisle. Elijah catches my eye as he passes, and I grin instinctively. He winks back at me, his smile wide and unguarded.

But then Orm begins to move.

She and Harry meet at the altar, exchanging warm smiles and linking their arms before following Josie and Elijah down the aisle.

I watch her every step, every sway of her silken dress, every flicker of light catching in her hair as she moves. She's smiling at guests, laughing at something someone whispers to her as she passes, waving at familiar faces in the crowd.

She doesn't look at me.

I don't exist in her world right now.

I don't know why it feels like such a knife to the chest.

This morning felt different. In those brief moments in the conservatory, tangled in wires and wisteria, it felt like something shifted between us—something fragile and delicate but real. But now, standing here in the aftermath of vows and applause, it feels like I've imagined it all.

I'm just someone from her past. An old summer memory she'd probably rather forget.

The last of the bridal party disappears beyond the conservatory doors, leaving the rest of us guests to slowly filter out toward the cocktail hour. Staff members appear from every direction, herding people gently but efficiently.

I step into the aisle, letting the flow of guests carry me along, feeling strangely disconnected from the moment. My feet move, but my mind stays behind, replaying Orm's smile, her laugh, the way her eyes softened when she looked at me earlier.

The Caltech guys are nearby, their familiar voices rising in light banter as they discuss the ceremony. I linger close enough to hear them but not close enough to engage.

I can't focus.

All I can hear is the rush of my own pulse in my ears.

Orm. Orm. Orm.

It won't stop.

Cocktail hour is a blur. I think I sip at a whiskey ginger. I think I take a bite of something rich and savory served on a silver platter by white-coated staff. I think I pretend to pay attention to a nearby conversation, nodding along so that I don't look like a social pariah.

All the while, however, I am searching for Orm. I don't even know why. I don't know what I intend to say to her. I don't even know if I have anything to say to her in the first place. I just want to see her—to be near her.

She's off being a dutiful maid of honor, though. I think I catch glimpses of her as cocktail hour moves seamlessly into dinner. I thought she might be seated near the new Mr. and Mrs. Navarro, who are smiling and bashful up at the head table, but Orm is merely a slip of blue silk weaving through the crowd like a ribbon caught on the breeze. Even though that means getting close to her will be even more difficult tonight than I hoped, I can't help smiling to myself. She's elusive and it's maddening, but she is also fascinating to me. I think she always has been.

"Hey, Ling," says the woman seated next to me at the dinner table—another Caltech alum named Stacy. I wasn't particularly close with her during college, but I always admired her sharp wit and zero-nonsense attitude.

"Hi, Stacy. Haven't seen you around these past few days."

She shrugs, tucking a lock of short brown hair behind her ear. "Just flew in this morning. I was in Seoul dealing with some clients and almost didn't get away in time. I already missed Elijah's first wedding, though. I really didn't want to miss this one. Especially since they're so clearly..."

Stacy turns to look at the bride and groom at their designated table. Elijah is grinning at something Josie is saying. He looks like the happiest man alive.

Natalie, who is sitting on my other side, leans forward and finishes Stacy's sentence for her. "Soulmates?"

Stacy snorts. "You know, I'm really not the sort of person who believes in stuff like that, but I think you're right, Natalie."

"Of course I'm right."

Just when I think I'm about to become the awkward silent one stuck in the middle of their banter, Natalie's attention gets grabbed by Harry, who is sitting at the table next to ours. She leans back precariously in her chair to chat with him, leaving me to figure out how to make small talk with Stacy.

Except Stacy doesn't do small talk.

"Anyway," she continues, turning her attention back to me with laser focus. "I was actually hoping to talk to you, Ling."

"Oh? About what?"

"Business."

I quirk an eyebrow at her. "What kind of business?"

She readjusts her glasses and spears a perfectly cooked piece of steak onto her fork. "You still freelancing?"

Everybody else at the table is absorbed in their own conversations, so I don't bother sugarcoating when I reply, "Yeah, I guess so. If that's what you want to call it."

Stacy snorts. "Well, listen. That app you sold to Samsung a few years ago? It was genius."

"Oh. Thanks."

"Any chance you've got a price on that genius?"

"Pardon?"

"I mean, what do I have to do to get you on board with my company? I want you, Ling. Professionally, that is. Women aren't really my cup of tea in the other sense."

I stare at Stacy for a long moment, food temporarily forgotten, as I try to piece together the details of her company from the scattered facts I remember. If I'm not mistaken, it started as a telecom startup out of her dorm back in our Caltech days. I recall seeing her featured in Wired a few months ago, casually mentioning Samsung as if they were old friends. If she was just in Seoul on business, then it all lines up.

"I'm not sure I'm looking for a full-time contract at the moment," I admit.

Stacy's already shaking her head before I finish my halfhearted protest.

"No, no. It's more of a leadership gig. I want to open up an office here in San Francisco so I can finally scoop up some prodigies from Sillicon Valley Universities before they run off to Google or Meta. Or whatever. And when I was thinking of old school chums who might be a good fit to run that office, your name came up."

Old school chums? Stacy and I had maybe three conversations in all of college. Then again, I wasn't exactly social back then. Or now, for that matter. If I'd made more of an effort, maybe we'd be better acquainted.

"That's... flattering," I answer, feeling more caught off guard than anything else.

Stacy rolls her eyes. "I'm not trying to flatter you, Ling. I'm trying to hire you. What do you say?"

I blink. Of course Stacy would drop a job offer at a wedding dinner, over roast vegetables and wine. My gaze drops to my plate, as if the answer might be tucked somewhere between the carrots and asparagus. To buy myself a little time, I reach for my wine glass and take a generous sip.

The truth is, I don't have much tying me to Los Angeles. I freelance out of a quiet office, coding for niche clients. It's not even about the money—I made enough from my first big app deal to ensure I'd never have to work again if I didn't want to. And yet, I do. Work keeps me sane. It keeps me grounded.

But what am I really doing in LA? My parents are there, yes, but they're consumed with their own lives. My father buried in his law practice, my mother balancing her philanthropy work with her social calendar. They have their circles, their routines. They don't need me.

I have friends, sure—but not many. Not the kind that would stop me from leaving. I could sell my house, pack up my things, and leave without anyone really noticing I was gone. It's not the kind of life I ever thought I'd build, but it's the one I have.

And San Francisco... San Francisco isn't far from here. From her.

No. Stop it. My mind tries to lurch in that direction, but I pull it back. Moving across the state for a girl who can barely stand to look at me most of the time is absolutely not a valid reason to accept a job offer.

And yet... there's something about this place. Point Reyes. The air feels cleaner here. The people seem warmer. Less superficial. Less... LA. And when I think about being here, about starting something new, I can't stop picturing Orm.

The thought makes my chest ache.

"Listen," Stacy says, breaking through my internal spiral. "I'll email you more info, yeah? I'll lay it all out for you and copy my assistant so she can also answer any questions you might have. Just think about it, Ling. I know it'd be a big move, but I'm certain it'd also be the right move."

She punctuates her pitch with a wink.

There's no harm in considering the idea. At least, that's what I tell myself as I nod and say, "Sure, Stacy. Send me an email. I'll think about it."

She beams at me, and I manage a faint smile back. And then, my heart picks up its new favorite song all over again.

Orm. Orm. Orm.