This Summer Will Be Different(19)
“We’ve never really committed to the full Lucy Maud Montgomery experience,” I say. “Maybe we should get Anne and Diana wigs. Straw hats. Raspberry cordial. Take a carriage ride in pinafores.”
“No fucking way. But I’ll allow a trip to Green Gables.”
“Really?” We went there during my first visit, but I would have gone back multiple times if Bridget hadn’t vetoed me. I keep my map of PEI in a glass-sided box on my desk at home. I’ve circled the places Bridget and I visited, keeping track of what I wanted to see next time. Anticipating the island was almost as sweet as being here.
Sometimes I unfold the map and run my finger along the eastern edge of the island, over the shore where Salt Cottages stand, over the area slightly inland where Felix lives. A cabin nestled among pines and apple trees, a pond under their branches.
“Really.” She unfolds the wool blanket so it covers both our laps. The Clarks have the best blankets. “One last girls’ trip. We’ll make it count.”
I huff out a laugh. “You’re getting married, not dying. We have our whole lives for girls’ trips.”
Her smile falters, and my stomach drops.
“Bridget. You’re not sick, are you?” It happened so fast with my aunt. One day, she and I were having brunch in her garden. The following Tuesday, she was in the hospital. Four weeks after that, she died.
“No.” Her hair is piled in a messy bun, and it wobbles when she shakes her head. “Of course not.” She scootches across the couch and wraps an arm around me, leaning her head on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Bee,” she says, knowing where my fear comes from.
After the funeral last summer, Bridget put me on a plane to PEI. I blame what happened—the way my feelings for Felix seemed to explode out of nowhere—on my emotional state. Grief-stricken. Recently dumped. I’d been so tender.
But I don’t need to worry about Bridget’s health. She’s not sick. Her family is well. I know she loves her job, and her coworkers love her back. The bridal shower her boss held was outrageously elaborate. That leaves only one explanation.
“Things with you and Miles: You’re sure everything’s okay there?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Hmm.” It’s not exactly convincing.
“I just missed my parents and the island,” she says. “And I’ve been stressed about the wedding. I need a break. Some fun.”
Interviewing wedding vendors, collecting RSVPs, preparing a run-of-show for the day itself—that is Bridget’s idea of fun. And I know, because her nuptials have monopolized most of our conversations since Miles proposed ten months ago.
She came to the store after closing to show me the ring. Miles works in real estate development, and he picked a diamond that proved it. I oohed and aahed, because that rock is stunning, and then dug out the emergency bottle of vinho verde I keep in the flower cooler.
“It’s not a lot of time to plan,” Bridget had said, grinning broadly. “I can’t fucking wait.”
No one shivers with pleasure at the words tight work-back schedule the way Bridget does. So I don’t buy for a second that she’s stressed, or that she needs “some fun.” It’s like we’ve been cast in a play, where Bridget and I have been made to switch roles. She’s supposed to be the adult in our relationship. I’m the one who runs away from my problems. I can’t decide whether to be concerned about her or annoyed. Scratch that, I can be both.
“You know I rescheduled a really important meeting to be here,” I say. “I’m pretty sure my contact at Cena knows she’s handing me a golden egg and thinks I’m flighty for rescheduling. Not to mention I’m doing the flowers for your wedding in eight days.”
“I’m sorry to inconvenience you,” she says, suddenly snippy.
I hate fighting with Bridget. I’m not good at it, and she’s exceptional. My thoughts turn mushy, and I end up forgetting why we’re arguing in the first place. So even though this trip is a major inconvenience, I back down. Bridget needs me, even if I don’t know why. And she’d be there for me. Without question.
“You’re not,” I say. “I love you more than anyone. You know that. I just have a lot going on.”
“I know you do.”
We’re quiet for a full minute before she says, “We can’t forget about the third rule.”
“I would never.”
“I might have been a little oversensitive when I came up with that one,” Bridget says with a dry laugh.
What an understatement.
“Nevertheless,” I say. “I think it’s best if we keep that one in place.”
Rule number three: Don’t fall in love with her brother.
9
Now
I sit on the deck after Bridget goes to bed, watching the sky turn pink over the ocean, wondering if it’s possible we won’t be celebrating her wedding in a week. I’ve been looking forward to it. Yes, it feels like the end of an era, but your best friend only gets married once. Ideally.
The Gardiner Museum is an elegant venue, and Bridget and Miles specified a “black tie” dress code on their letterpress invitations, sealed them with B&M stamped in wax, but there’s no way the event will be as stiff as the stationery.