For a moment, Iman was alone.

Her sisters, her mother, Wendy, were all somewhere else. It was only Iman and her reflection, her skin a warm brown against the V-necked, white-laced dress, her collarbones bare without a necklace, teardrop earrings dangling from her ears. She had seen the dress many times before. When she bought it, when it was in alteration, those few nights leading up to this day where her impulse overcame her and she had to put it on again—just to make sure, just to make sure.

But it was different this time. Maybe it was the addition of the earrings, of the floral hair piece that swept one side of her curls behind her ear. Maybe it was the chiffon veil that kissed her shoulders. Maybe, even, it was herself: the doe-eyed make up Hana had done on her, the nervous thud of her heart within her ribcage.

There was no time left to wait. It was happening, and it was happening now.

"Oh, Iman," said a voice—Annette's—as Iman slowly came round to her senses again. Iman turned, glimpsing her mother over her shoulder, and was surprised to find tears resting in Annette's eyes. "You look lovely."

"Like a princess," added Cam.

Even Hana was misty-eyed, though she was trying very hard to act like she wasn't. "Beautiful, Im."

Wendy rose from the loveseat in the corner, lending Iman an endearing smile. The bridesmaid dress suited her, as it suited Cam and Hana, too: a simple design, spaghetti-strapped, dark emerald silk. "Well?" said Wendy, fussing briefly with her side ponytail before looking up at Iman again. "You're ready, right?"

Iman held out both her hands, turning from the mirror. Without explanation, Annette took one hand, and Hana took the other; the five women made a circle amongst themselves, skirts brushing against the floor, the ocean like a gentle song in the distance.

"This is it, Immy," said Cam, beaming. "This is really it."

Iman nodded her head. She hadn't seen Beck all day—even though he made the argument that the whole "you can't see the bride before the wedding; it's bad luck" did not apply to a blind person, the girls had made sure Iman was kept away from him. She missed him: his gentle demeanor, his fidgety hands, the tightly-wound curls on his head.

A brief knock sounded. "Hey," said Julien from the other side of the door. "Can I come in now or is Cam going to karate-chop me again?"

Iman raised an eyebrow at her younger sister, but Cam just rolled her eyes and called: "I won't. Promise!"

The door squeaked open, and Julien edged inside. Iman exhaled, pulling away from the circle and turning to face him, stepping off the pedestal and into the heels resting beside it.

The two of them regarded each other in a somewhat awkward silence for a moment, Iman eyeing Julien's simple black tuxedo, his polished shoes, his gelled hair, Julien's eyes skipping from the dress to the veil and finally, to Iman's face.

They both coughed. "You look nice," they said at once.

Silence passed between them again, but it was interrupted shortly after by their laughter. With a shaking breath, Julien stepped forward, both his hands extended palm-up.

Iman folded her hands into his, searching his face for any doubt, unrest, but there was none. He was just smiling at her—his true, honest, smile, not sarcastic or sheepish, but honest—and she was smiling at him, and even if her heart was pounding, pounding, pounding, for that instant she was ever so calm.

Julien brushed her cheek with his thumb. "Ay, mi amor," he said, clicking his teeth. "All those crappy nights in San Diego and elsewhere, and look where we end up. I guess everything happens for a reason, right?"

"Right."

His smile faltered for a moment, halfway between that and a frown. "Do you mind if I ask you something?" He waited until Iman nodded before asking: "Why do you want me to walk you down the aisle, Im? It's not like I have any right to—"

"Because you're like family to me, Jules," said Iman without a beat of hesitation. It hadn't been a decision she'd slaved weeks over, after all. It was more intuition: she knew who she wanted without giving it a second thought. "If...If my dad can't give me away, I want you to. Because you're my family."

Julien sucked in a long breath, his eyes widening with a slight surprise. He looked away—so sharply that a strand of his dark hair fell out of place—but Iman nevertheless caught the gleam of a tear as it sloped down his cheek. "Very well," he said matter-of-factly, squeezing Iman's hand. "Let's go, then. I believe you've got someone waiting for you at the altar."

Iman was married.

Julien had watched the whole thing, and from a closer view than most. It was only an hour ago, but regardless Julien remembered the event in vibrant bits and pieces: Iman's trembling hand in his, the sun glaring white in his eyes, a quiet smile shot in his direction as he helped her onto the altar. A brisk kiss on his cheek—I love you, Jules—before she turned to join hands with an already-weeping Beck. The whole ceremony had been a blur of emotion and passion that made Julien feel mushy and strange in a way he never had before. Now he lounged at the bar, half-leaned over the wood table, drinking something that made him feel even more mushy and strange.

Though the sun had set, disappearing behind the line of the sea in a blaze of purple and orange and yellow, the reception was still going strong. From his perch, Julien could see Iman dancing hand-in-hand with Fritz, her face bright with a smile, Fritz tossing his head back with a laugh. Beck wasn't far away, his fingers interlaced with his younger sister's as she guided him carefully around the dance floor. Everyone was with someone else, but Julien was delightfully unattached, his heart and mind safe from this distance.

Iman Caulfield, he tried in his mind, and frowned. It just sounded weird.

"Are you with the bride or the groom?" came a female voice from beside him.

Julien didn't turn, merely reached for his glass of bourbon and took another sip. "Bride," he said automatically. He was used to the question by now. If only someone had told him how repetitive all these wedding interactions would be. "I'm her best friend."

"Must be hard watching her go on without you, isn't it?"

That was not something he had heard before. Julien swallowed, a cold unease spreading through his gut. "I don't understand."

"That's the thing about being us," the woman said. "Nearly everything we love is only temporary."

Julien turned his head, locking eyes with Iman.

At least, for a second, he was sure it was her. He recognized Iman's birdlike eyes, her narrow nose, that sun-kissed brown skin with the natural flush at the cheeks. But she was different: her hair darker, longer, straighter, her voice lower, her mouth quicker to a clever smirk.

Julien stared. "I'm sorry," he began. "Do I know you?"

"Not anymore," said the woman, "but you did once, Julien."
Adrenaline surged through his veins all at once. He got to his feet, his cup of bourbon rattling on its base. "Who the hell are you? How do you know my name?"

"I know a lot of things about you. I know your favorite color is red but you tell people it's blue because you think it makes you seem more intelligent. I know you love baking, especially cookies. I know your favorite thing to do before you died was sunbathe. You loved it. Like a little cat, lying around in the sun all day until your father yelled at you to get up."

"I—"

"I know you, Julien," she said, "because I'm the one who turned you."

Julien was sinking, sinking fast. Try as he might to grasp something to hold him here, to hold his logic, he found only air. I'm the one who turned you. It couldn't be true, and yet it had to be true, because what other explanation was there?

Julien's gaze shot towards the dance floor. Fritz and Iman had slowed down, and both of them were watching him with a silent concern, Iman's brows furrowed, Fritz's face white as a sheet.

A single finger turned his head away again; the woman in front of him only grinned, tracing his chin with her hand. "I missed you, Juliano. I think it's time we got reacquainted again, yes?"

She took his hand, starting to lead him out of the reception tent, out onto the beach again. It didn't matter how many times he told himself to turn back, to dig in his heels, to return to Iman and the others. His body carried him without consideration of his mind. Something else, someone else, was moving him.

"You still haven't told me your name!" Julien called as they got further and further from the wedding, the music mere background noise now to the whoosh of the waves.

She stopped, glancing over her shoulder at him. Julien shuddered.

"You'd think you'd remember your wife's name," she said with a shake of her head. "It's Rosario. Rosario Aldana."