People always imagine wedding disaster as rain or a florist mix-up. Mine was a lesson in what people do when a script they wrote for you gets thrown away. After the tear, time hiccuped into pieces—voices raised, someone’s water bottle hitting the floor and skittering under a chair, a bridesmaid whispering my name like it might keep me standing. “Let me put it on,” Brooklyn said again, even with the gown ruined. There was a trembling edge to her voice that used to trigger my reflex to fix. It did