She stood at the wedding arbor in the County Administration Center’s Waterfront Park, holding a single yellow rose, her pulse racing faster than an F/A-18 taking off from Miramar. Don’t lock your knees. Passing out during the lunchtime ceremony would be a total wedding faux pas. Not what she needed when she already felt like a complete fraud, fake, liar. Her stomach churned, trying to wash away the guilt. Clicks sounded—photographs being taken by her friend Emily Rodgers. The digital images weren’t fun shots to be shared via Instagram, but pictures to place in a fancy white album, a remembrance of the wedding day. Air rushed from Addie’s lungs. Breathe. But less and less oxygen seemed to go into her lungs. Uh-oh. Do. Not. Lose. It. Nick Cahill, a close friend since kindergarten, stood next to her. The wind blew the ends of his wavy light brown hair, making him look like a model. He wore black trousers, a slightly wrinkled white dress shirt and a black bowtie. He looked so handsome and groom-like.
