Morning sunlight spilled across Mira's bedroom in long golden bars, dust motes drifting lazily in its warmth. Somewhere outside, the low hum of voices carried on the breeze—vendors calling out prices, doors opening and shutting, the light clang of someone setting up a stall. It was festival day in Westcliff, and the entire town seemed to be holding its breath in that slow, anticipatory way people did before a celebration.
She pushed herself upright, still tangled in the quilt, and for a heartbeat her brain reached for the familiar blare of a city siren, the muffled rumble of traffic. Instead, she caught the clean scent of early morning air and the faint, rhythmic creak of a rocking chair on someone's porch. It was quiet in the kind of way that made her chest feel both unmoored and grounded.
Downstairs, her mother was already in motion, arranging flowers in glass jars for the evening tables. Mira padded into the kitchen barefoot, offering a drowsy "Morning" as she tied her hair into a loose knot.
"Morning, sweetheart," her mother replied, smiling without looking up. "Can you help me take these to the porch? They'll get better light there."
Mira carried the blooms outside, the wooden boards of the porch warm under her feet despite the early hour. All around, people were already prepping—streamers fluttering, colorful paper lanterns strung between buildings, and the smell of cinnamon drifting from the bakery two streets down.
The festival wouldn't start until six, but in Westcliff, preparations were half the fun. Mira spent the late morning tying ribbons around vases and helping her mother arrange pastries in neat rows for the evening table spread. By early afternoon, she slipped upstairs to change into something light and comfortable, ready to step out.
When she finally met Zuri in the square, her cousin was leaning against the fountain's edge, phone in hand and sunglasses perched on her head.
"Fashionably late," Zuri teased.
"Blame Mom and her five hundred vases," Mira said, rolling her eyes with a small laugh.
They strolled toward the main street together, weaving through the slow bustle of people. The conversation flowed easily—Mira talking about the nonstop pace of her old job in the city, the chaos of deadlines, and the way people there seemed to walk like they were all being timed. Zuri laughed at the little quirks Mira described, occasionally nudging her arm.
By the time they reached Lydia and Hazel's mother's shop, the air smelled faintly of fabric dye and fresh cotton. Inside, Lydia stood behind the counter sorting ribbons while Hazel folded stacks of printed scarves. Their mother's shop was warm, cozy, and bright with color, the kind of place where you could lose track of time running your fingers over every pattern.
"Hey, you two," Lydia said warmly as they stepped in.
"We thought we'd come help," Zuri announced. "Festival prep chaos and all."
The four of them settled into an easy rhythm—passing bolts of fabric, tying price tags, chatting about everything from school memories to whose porch would have the best view of tonight's fireworks.
It was all going smoothly until Mira made a casual comment about how "life has a way of arranging itself if you let it." Lydia nodded in agreement, adding something about how perfection wasn't always possible, but you could make the best of what you had.
Hazel's voice cut in, lighter at first but edged with something sharp. "Or maybe perfection's just a word people use when they've already decided to settle."
Lydia frowned slightly, keeping her tone even. "That's not what I meant, Hazel."
"It's what it sounded like," Hazel muttered, folding the same scarf twice.
The air tightened just a little, and Zuri and Mira exchanged a glance.
"What's your problem lately?" Lydia asked finally, exasperation breaking through. "You've been snappy over literally everything I say for days now."
Hazel's hands stilled on the fabric. "You tell me. Maybe if you weren't so busy planning the perfect little wedding, you'd notice what's going on around you."
Lydia blinked, thrown. "What are you even talking about?"
Hazel's chest rose and fell sharply before the words burst out of her. "I'm talking about how you're marrying someone you shouldn't be marrying, Lydia. Someone who—" She swallowed hard. "—someone I'm in love with."
The room went still.
Zuri's eyebrows shot up. Mira's mouth opened but no sound came out. Lydia froze, ribbons dangling from her fingers. "Grayson?" she asked finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
Hazel nodded once, eyes flashing with a mix of anger and pain.
The next ten minutes blurred into a messy overlap of voices—Hazel explaining how she'd tried to ignore it for months, Lydia swearing she'd never known, Mira and Zuri trying to be peacemakers in the middle of a storm they hadn't seen coming. The more Hazel spoke, the more her shoulders dropped, like getting the words out had lightened something heavy.
Finally, they all sat in a loose circle among piles of fabric, and the talk shifted from shock to problem-solving. Lydia admitted she wasn't sure she wanted the marriage either—not in the way their parents expected. She and Grayson had grown up together more like siblings than lovers.
"Then maybe the question is—" Zuri said slowly, "—what does Grayson actually want?"
They tossed ideas around: speaking to him directly, finding a way to explain things to their parents without causing a scandal, even subtly stalling the wedding plans. In the end, they decided to let the day's events settle first and regroup later, each mulling over the problem in their own way.
The shop had quieted again when the bell above the door jingled. Calvin stepped inside, wearing that easy grin that made Zuri light up in surprise.
"Thought I'd find you all here," he said, leaning on the counter. "There's a group of us headed to the country bar tonight after the festival. You should come."
Mira felt Zuri glance her way, already half-smiling at the thought.