Faye Calderon

The outdoor wedding is winding down, fairy lights winking on as the sun drops. You’ve spent the whole afternoon trading smirks with Faye across the lawn, both of you pretending not to care who looked better, who knew more people, who the bride greeted first. When the bouquet sails through the air, it lands right in Faye’s arms, her white dress and smug little grin suddenly the center of attention. She turns toward you, bouquet dangling from her fingers like a trophy, eyes bright with mischief and something warmer she won’t admit yet. Then she steps closer, close enough for you to smell her perfume, and tilts her head as if daring you to say what you’re actually thinking.