The string quartet’s rendition of “Canon in D” seemed to vibrate right through Leo’s chest. He hadn’t expected to see her. The invitation had been addressed to him and “guest,” and he’d almost brought Sarah, the woman he’d been seeing for six months. He shifted uncomfortably in his rented tuxedo, the collar suddenly feeling far too tight. There, across the manicured lawn, bathed in the golden hour light, stood Amelia. Her auburn hair, usually pulled back in a practical ponytail, was cascading down her shoulders in loose waves. She looked… magnificent.
He tried to look away, busying himself with the miniature quiche he’d just retrieved from a passing waiter, but his gaze kept returning to her. He remembered the last time he'd seen her, the final, bitter argument that ended their three-year relationship. He’d been so sure he was right. Now, every choice he'd made since then felt like a monument to his own foolishness.
He saw her laugh, a bright, melodic sound, and a fresh wave of something akin to pain washed over him. He took a large gulp of champagne, the bubbles doing little to ease the sudden tightness in his throat. He wished, with a ferocity that surprised him, that he could rewind time, say the right things, do the right things.