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I pictured the stone chapel in Middleburg. I pictured the white lilies, the string quartet, my father walking Chloe down the runner, my mother beaming in the front pew, and Ryan standing at the altar in his bespoke morning coat, smiling that triumphant, aristocratic smile that said he had traded up without losing a single dollar of social standing.
At two-forty-five, my phone began to buzz furiously against the coffee table:
*BZZZZT. BZZZZT.*
