Happy Place(85)

“Keep up,” Parth calls back to us.

Wyn brushes his lips against mine once more. “We’ll have time later,” he says.

Not enough, I think with a pang. How can I exorcise all this trapped, combustible love in one day? How can I stockpile pieces of him in the next twenty-four hours and then let him go, like he needs? Like he deserves.

I force myself to nod, and we catch up with the others.

The harbor sits in a basin, the waterfront lined with restaurants and docks, while the rest of the town rises up along curving and crisscrossing streets, wild and verdant gardens spilling over the sidewalk, tiny ferns dotting the lawns of the salt-weathered bed-and-breakfasts.

We make our way up one of these streets, past the dark windows of the Fudge & Taffy Factory and Skippy’s Popcorn, with its hundred different flavors on display behind glass. They’ll be open later for the weekend, but everything is already shuttered tonight.

Past the Warm Cup, we turn up a quiet side street. Easy Lane. It takes me a second to place why it’s familiar: I saw this street mentioned on the itinerary. Tomorrow morning, pre-wedding, Sabrina had scheduled personalized surprises for each of us, and the address for mine was 123 Easy Lane. Which I’d noted, specifically because naming a street Easy Lane instead of Easy Street struck me as a purposefully missed opportunity.

At the end of the first block of Easy Lane, Sabrina turns us down another street. Only two buildings are still aglow: a sprawling hotel and pub called the Hound & Thistle, and a black-trimmed storefront with off-white sans serif letters across its window reading TEMPEST TATTOO.

Sabrina stops and spins back to us, arms thrown out to her sides. “So,” she says, “what do you think?”

“Sab!” Kimmy says, pouncing on her. “You’re getting a tattoo?”

“Close,” she says. “We’re getting tattoos.”

No one reacts, apart from the strained smile Parth flashes and the twitch of Wyn’s fingers against mine. Kimmy’s gaze darts to Cleo, her grin flagging at Cleo’s stunned expression.

“We’ve talked about it forever,” Sabrina goes on, “and this is the perfect time. To commemorate our last trip to the cottage and the last ten years of friendship. Something that will always connect us.”

My stomach sinks, even as my heart feels like a crazed bird fighting its way up through my windpipe.

It’s one thing to accept that I might always be a little bit in love with Wyn Connor. It’s another to put a permanent reminder of that on my body. Before I’ve come close to finding a way out of this, Cleo says, “I don’t think so, Sab.”

You’d think the shocked silence might’ve prepared her for this, but Sabrina looks genuinely flabbergasted. “What do you mean you don’t think so?”

Cleo shrugs. “I don’t think we should get matching tattoos tonight.” Kimmy touches her arm, some unspoken sentiment passing between them.

Sabrina laughs. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to,” Cleo says. “And looking around, I’m not sure anyone else does either.”

Sabrina blinks and scans us.

“It’s not that,” I say. “It’s just . . . really sudden.”

“We’ve been talking about this for a decade,” she says.

“And we’ve never decided what it would even be,” Wyn says.

“Who cares what it is?” Sabrina says. “It’s about the bond.”

“Maybe next time,” I suggest. “We can pick a design tonight, and then everyone has some time to get used to it, and then—”

“I’ve already put a deposit down,” she says. “I got the shop to stay open for us.”

Cleo rubs the spot between her brows. “Sab. You should have asked us before you did that. You can’t assume we’ll go along with whatever you want.”

“What the hell does that mean, Cleo,” Sabrina says, hurt splashed across her face.

“She just means this is a big, permanent decision,” I say. “We all need a little time to commit to this kind of thing.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Cleo says calmly. “I meant what I said. That she can’t just decide how things should be between all of us and then bulldoze all of us to get her way.”

“She’s not bulldozing anyone,” Parth says, stepping in toward Sabrina. “She’s doing all of this for you all. This whole trip was for you. All of it.”

“If it’s for us,” Cleo says, “then you’ll respect my decision not to do something I’m uncomfortable with.”

“You have, like, nineteen separate tattoos,” Sabrina says. “What’s so uncomfortable about this one?”

“Can we please drop this?” Cleo says, averting her gaze.

“Sure,” Sabrina says. “I’ll drop it. I’ll drop the fact that one of my best friends keeps canceling plans and the other will barely text me back, and my dad’s selling the only place that’s ever felt anything like home to me, and that no one except me seems to give a fuck that we’re growing apart.”

She turns back toward where we left the car.

“I’ll talk to her,” I tell the others, chasing her down the sidewalk. When I catch up, I reach for her wrist. “Sabrina, wait.”