“Wedding night, Lark,” Sloane says as we walk hand in hand toward the city hall entrance. “You’re supposed to go fuck your husband, remember? Not have two martinis and start crying on a stranger.” “I do not do that. I’m an adorable drunk.” Sloane snorts as we pass through the doors and into the lobby. Our heels clack against the floor and echo off the stark walls and vaulted ceiling. “Either adorably happy or adorably weepy. Fifty-fifty chance of happy Lark or sad Lark. One hundred percent chance of singing and tears.”
