The day began the way I had always imagined. My best friend, Tara, was doing my hair, and we laughed so much she had to redo the braid twice. My mom kept rushing in and out with armfuls of last-minute details. Miranda was already there, her voice sweet yet sharp.
“Sit still, Amelia,” she said, pinning my veil with businesslike precision. “You want everything to be perfect, don’t you?”
“Perfect’s overrated,” I muttered. But despite myself, I wanted perfection.
