After I paid $77,000 for my brother’s wedding, he sent me to the wrong city in Italy “as a joke.” I landed in Naples while they were celebrating in Florence. The next morning, he texted: “LOL, I just didn’t want you there.” My mother added, “This is your fault.” I didn’t argue. I smiled… and sent her a gift—four feet tall, delivered by courier. She called me in tears: “Can I please pay you back?”

Because it was messed up. And because Camille looked like she was going to throw up when your mom said it out loud Friday.

I stared at that message so hard my vision pulsed.

Out loud.

So the lie had been rehearsed in person too.

My fingers moved faster now.

Did Camille know I was sent to Naples?

The typing dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared.

Not at first, Lena wrote. I don’t think so. But she definitely knew by the rehearsal dinner. I heard her and Ethan fighting behind the kitchen doors. She said, “This is psychotic.” He said, “It’s done now.”

The room around me narrowed. The edges of my desk, the lamp, the coffee mug with yesterday’s brown ring inside it—all of it seemed suddenly overlit, like truth had turned up the wattage.

Camille hadn’t started it.

But she had stayed.