Everything looked perfect at my best friend Aisha’s wedding until I saw the groom’s strange habit.
Jason kept rubbing his wrist, wincing like it hurt.
It was a gesture that I’d seen before: my brother did the same thing after he got a fresh tattoo.
As Aisha reached the altar, Jason’s sleeve slipped just enough for me to see the truth — a red, irritated patch of skin and fresh black ink spelling out a name.
Not hers. Cleo. Cleo, our mutual friend. The one Aisha had left off the bridesmaid list because of “complicated history” with Jason.
