Happy Place(17)

It was something she and I bonded over early on: her dad, who burned through marriages like they were limited-series thrillers, and my parents, who stayed together but rarely seemed happy about it.

Sabrina had never wanted to get married, lest she have to go through a vicious divorce. I was more scared of marrying someone who couldn’t bring himself to leave me or to keep loving me.

It was why I hadn’t let myself cry when Wyn dumped me, or ask for answers or a second chance. I knew the only thing more painful than being without him would be being together knowing I no longer truly had him.

Parth, Wyn, and Kimmy were all the product of loving, lasting marriages, and Cleo’s parents had split when she was little but stayed on excellent terms. They still lived a block apart in New Orleans and had regular family dinners with each other and their respective spouses.

“Anyway,” Parth says. “Sabrina decided she’d been letting her dad have too much impact on her life. She didn’t want to make any more decisions just for the sake of not doing what he’d do. So I said yes and then planned my own proposal.”

“Well, naturally,” I say. “You’re the Party King of Paxton Avenue.”

He laughs, flicks back his wet hair. “I needed her to know I wanted it too, you know. Maybe it’s weird to combine the wedding with this goodbye trip, but I don’t know. I just need this week to be absolutely perfect for her.”

My chest aches. My palms itch.

“I’m really, really happy for you,” I tell him.

He grins crookedly, plants a loud smooch atop my head. “Thanks, Har. We really couldn’t have figured our shit out without you and Wyn. I hope you know that.”

“Oh, come on,” I say.

“I’m serious,” he replies. “You were the first ones to cross that friendship line, and to prove it could work. Sab says all the time that she spent way too much time worrying that going after what she wanted could jeopardize what the six of us already had, and watching you two keep loving each other for all these years, that really helped her believe we could do this.”

My throat squeezes, and my eyes go straight to the poker match. Wyn’s not looking, is focused on his phone, but heat unfurls from my hairline to my collarbone anyway.

Behind us, Kimmy cries, “I did it! I’m a god!” right before she topples again.

“I think I need to pee,” I tell Parth, hauling myself from the pool. “Or drink water. One of those.”

“If you can’t tell the difference between those, Harry,” Parth calls after me, “I think you need to see a doctor!”

“Parth,” I say, pausing in the doorway. “I am a doctor.”

“Seems like a conflict of interest.” He flips backward, away from the wall, and strokes toward Kimmy.

I towel off as I make my way through the cool, silent house. The kitchen is a mess, so I wipe down the counters, add the empty bottles to the recycling, and then head toward the powder room tucked back by the laundry. No one ever uses this one, because it’s been here in some form since the early 1900s and thus is approximately two feet wide.

I take hold of the sink as I try to catch my breath. In the mirror, my face is already sunburnt, my hair a salty, tangled mess. So much for that shower. Maybe I can sneak away for a quick rinse while everyone’s still out back.

Maybe I can throw all my clothes back into my bag and run away and, I don’t know, not ruin my best friends’ wedding. Oh god. This is a disaster.

I pee, wash my hands with the luxurious grapefruit-scented soap Mr. Armas stocks all his hotels with, take one last deep inhale, and open the door.

My first instinct when I see Wyn waiting in the narrow hall is to slam the door shut in his face. Like this is a bad dream, and if I close it and open it again, he’ll have disappeared.

But as usual, my body is two and a half steps behind my brain, so by the time I’ve registered him and the sound of overlapping voices down the hall in the kitchen, he’s already pushing me back and shutting us in together.

My heart is hammering. My limbs feel hot and unsteady. I’d already turned off the light, and for some reason he doesn’t reach to switch it back on, so we’re cast in the dim, candle-like glow of the sensor-operated night-light mounted beside the mirror.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Relax.” The dark makes his voice sound too close. Or maybe that’s the six inches between us.

“You can’t shove a woman into a dark room and tell her to relax!” I hiss.

“I couldn’t figure out how to get you alone,” he says.

“Have you considered that might be intentional?” I say.

He huffs. “Our plan isn’t going to work.”

“I know,” I say.

His brow lifts. “You do?”

“I may have just mentioned that,” I say.

He sinks back against the door, chin lifting, a deep inhale filling his lungs to the point that our chests brush. I try to step backward and am met with a towel rack.

“We’ll have to stick it out five more days,” I say.

He rebounds from the door. Our chests press together, a current of angry electricity leaping from his skin into mine, or maybe the other way around. “You just agreed with me that we couldn’t do this.”

“No, I said we can’t follow through with our plan. They need this week to be perfect, Wyn. Sabrina’s already a bundle of nerves. This could mess up everything.”