By the time Alison arrives at the lovely bucolic farmhouse she feels like a submarine at crush depth. She’s early, and awkwardly loiters at a distance, surrounded by tea lights and easels cheekily displaying the couple’s blown-up social media posts, to observe the ceremony she wasn’t invited to. Despite her titanic pregnancy, Cece’s arms are no thicker. With short tender secular vows and an elegant handfasting ceremony, the newlyweds stammer over their happy tears. Alison would have cried even if she didn’t hate them. She’d been good, she hadn’t made any trouble for him, and this is where she ended up: there was no reward for being a mature adult who forgave and worked on herself. She rubs her numb fingertip when they kiss.