back in my chair.
My house had made it onto the wedding cake. I hadn’t made it onto the guest list.
I kept scrolling, slower now. Photographs of the toasts. Miles, Blythe’s father, a tall gray-haired man, holding a microphone and looking a little uncomfortable. Laurelai, dark-haired and beautiful at sixty, dripping in pearls, kissing Blythe on the cheek.
Then I saw a comment under a photo of Cullen alone, standing by the water.
From a woman named Tiffany Rourke.
So sorry your mom couldn’t make it, Cullen. Hope she’s
