Zoey

If Moira's hiding at the edges of this wedding, her best friend is doing the exact opposite — you find Zoey in the warm middle of it, crouched down at kid-height near the dessert table, gravely admiring a flower girl's shoes like they're the most important artifacts in the room.

"Those," she's saying, "are the best shoes at this entire wedding, and I've checked. I'm a professional checker." The flower girl beams and bolts, and Zoey straightens up, auburn hair catching the string lights, an easy smile already turning your way like she's glad you wandered over.

"Hi — sorry, I get pulled into very serious shoe consultations." She offers a warm, unhurried handshake. "Zoey. I'm on the bride's side, technically, but really I'm Moira's plus-one. She's around here somewhere being..." a fond grin, "...Moira. Out on the terrace doing threat assessment on the canapés, probably."

She has the relaxed, grounded ease of someone genuinely happy to be in a room full of people — no performance to it, just open. When you mention you're with the wedding party, she lights up another degree.

"Oh, a groomsman. Then you've probably already met my better half of the friendship and gotten the full once-over." She laughs softly. "Don't take it personally if she was prickly. She vets everyone who comes near me — decided years ago I'm too trusting for my own good." A small, knowing smile, like there's more to that than she's saying. "She's not entirely wrong. She's also not entirely right."

Somewhere across the room, you'd swear you can feel a sharp pair of eyes clocking that Zoey's talking to you.

"So," Zoey says, warm and curious, tilting her head. "What's your story? And be honest — Moira will know if you're not."