Lauretta had never understood why people cried at weddings.

She understood crying at funerals.

Even advertisements, if they involved an old man and a dog.

But weddings?

Everyone was smiling. There was champagne. There was music. Someone had spent an unreasonable amount of money decorating the ceiling with flowers.

There was nothing to cry about.

"You look like you're attending a funeral."

Lauretta turned.

Her best friend, Nadia, was staring at her.

"I'm observing."

"You're judging."

"There's a difference."

"Not with you."

Lauretta smiled and took another sip of champagne.

The reception hall was beautiful.

Too beautiful, probably.

Tall windows overlooked the city, golden lights hung above the tables, and a string quartet was playing something soft enough to make everyone feel romantic whether they wanted to or not.

Lauretta didn't.

She was twenty-nine, successful, comfortably wealthy, and perfectly content with her life.

At least, that was what she told people.

She had a beautiful apartment, a career she actually enjoyed, friends she loved, and a mother who had recently become obsessed with asking when she planned to "settle down."

She didn't need a husband.

She certainly didn't need a man who arrived with flowers and promises and a lifetime subscription to emotional complications.

She was fine.

"You're thinking too loudly."

She looked at Nadia.

"How?"

"Your face."

"My face is innocent."

"Your face has never been innocent."

Lauretta laughed.

Then someone bumped into her.

Her champagne tilted.

A hand caught the glass before it fell.

"Careful."

She looked up.

And forgot what she was about to say.

The man standing beside her was tall, dressed in a perfectly fitted black suit, with dark hair that looked slightly untidy despite the obvious effort someone had put into making him look expensive.

He handed her the glass.

"You almost committed a crime."

"What crime?"

"Twenty-year-old champagne."

She glanced at the bottle on the table.

"How do you know it's twenty years old?"

"I asked."

"Why?"

"I like knowing what I'm drinking."

She smiled.

"You're very serious."

"I'm actually not."

"You're wearing a serious suit."

He looked down at himself.

"It's a funeral suit."

She laughed.

"See? I knew it."

He smiled.

"I'm Elias."

"Lauretta."

"I know."

She raised an eyebrow.

"That's becoming a strange thing for people to say tonight."

"The bride mentioned you."

"How many times?"

"Enough that I feel like I've already met you."

"That's unfortunate."

"Why?"

"You've missed the fun part."

He smiled.

"What was the fun part?"

"Not knowing me."

There was something about the way he looked at her then.

Not intensely.

Not dramatically.

Just long enough to make her suddenly aware of herself.

"I think I prefer this part."

"What part?"

"Finding out."

Before she could answer, the music changed.

People began gathering near the dance floor.

Nadia appeared beside them.

"Lauretta, they're taking pictures."

"I'll be there."

Nadia looked at Elias.

Then at Lauretta.

Then back at Elias.

She smiled.

"I'll give you five minutes."

"I don't need five minutes."

"Of course you don't."

She disappeared.

Lauretta sighed.

"She's going to be unbearable."

"She seems efficient."

"You've known her for thirty seconds."

"I've known you for longer."

"How long?"

He looked at his watch.

"Seven minutes."

She laughed.

"That's not long."

"Give it time."

They ended up talking for almost an hour.

Not about work.

Not about money.

Not about the things people usually asked when they were trying to impress each other.

They talked about cities they hated.

Books they pretended to understand.

The strange comfort of late-night grocery shopping.

Whether people actually changed or simply became better at hiding the things they didn't like about themselves.

At some point, Lauretta realized she was laughing.

Properly laughing.

The kind that made her forget to be careful.

Elias noticed.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You're staring."

"I like your laugh."

She looked away.

"That's a dangerous thing to tell a woman."

"Why?"

"She might start doing it more."

"I wouldn't complain."

The music slowed.

Elias held out his hand.

"Dance with me."

"I told you, I don't dance."

"You've told me several things tonight."

"And?"

"I've decided not to believe all of them."

She looked at his hand.

Then took it.

He wasn't an impressive dancer.

That surprised her.

"You lied."

"About what?"

"You don't dance."

"I said I don't dance well."

"You absolutely did not."

He smiled.

"You're enjoying yourself."

"Unfortunately."

"Good."

They moved slowly beneath the lights.

For a few minutes, the room seemed to disappear.

Lauretta rested one hand lightly against his shoulder.

Elias looked down at her.

"Can I tell you something?"

"That depends."

"I've seen you before."

She laughed.

"Where?"

He frowned slightly.

"I don't know."

"That's not very convincing."

"I know."

He looked almost confused by his own words.

Then he smiled.

"Maybe I'm remembering someone else."

"Hopefully someone prettier."

"No."

The answer was immediate.

Lauretta looked at him.

He smiled.

"You have terrible timing."

"So I've been told."

The song ended.

Neither of them moved immediately.

Then applause filled the room.

Lauretta stepped back.

"I should find Nadia."

"Probably."

She started walking away.

"Lauretta."

She turned.

Elias took his phone from his pocket.

"Can I have your number?"

She smiled.

"I thought you preferred finding things out."

"I do."

He held out the phone.

"Start with your number."

She typed it in.

Then handed the phone back.

"Goodnight, Elias."

"Goodnight."

She walked away.

Three steps.

Four.

Five.

Then she looked back.

He was still watching her.

She smiled.

He smiled back.

Neither of them knew it yet, but years later, Lauretta would remember this moment with painful clarity.

The music.

The lights.

His smile.

The way his hand had felt around hers.

She would remember everything.

Because when you lose someone you love, the mind becomes cruelly generous.

It keeps the smallest things.

The things you never thought you'd need again.

And sometimes—

just sometimes—

it gives them back.