A kid ran past, maybe seven years old, wearing a cape and rainbow sneakers. They tripped, fell flat, and immediately popped back up. “I’m okay!” they yelled to no one in particular, and kept running.

The dress was yellow—pale, like the inside of a lemon drop—with thin straps and a skirt that fluttered just above her knees. She’d bought it online, returned three others, and nearly talked herself out of coming at all. But then her best friend, Dez, had texted: If you don’t wear it, I’m showing up in a wedding gown. You know I have one.

Mara’s eyes stung. She pressed her palm flat against her chest, over her heart, which was still galloping—not from fear now, but from the sheer, improbable fact of being seen.

“You’re staring,” Dez said, appearing at her elbow with a paper plate piled high with vegan potato salad.

Later, as the sun sank low and someone started passing around a guitar, Lourdes stood up. She clinked a spoon against her glass.