“You should milk this more. Build your social media following by being seen with him. You need a foundation before your career skyrockets.”
I shook my head at Summer and looked to the backseat of the car, studying a giant box wrapped in lavender paper, with a huge white ribbon on top.
“What did we get them?” I asked.
A shit-eating grin danced on Summer’s face.
“Something Cecily would hate.”
“Towels that aren’t monogrammed? God forbid.”
Everything she registered for was pastel-colored and monogrammed. It was as if Cecily was afraid they’d forget their own names in their own fucking apartment.
“A karaoke machine,” Summer announced.
I stiffened.
“You did not.”
Summer eyed my expression.
“I did. What’s your problem?”
“Don’t you think a karaoke machine would remind Garrett of his old life? And make him feel sad?”
“Yes. That’s exactly why I got it. Because his fiancée sucks and he sucks now, too, and I want him to live with his suckage every day.”
“Summer, that’s not nice.”
“I know. I’m not a nice person.”
I reached back toward the card tucked under the ribbon.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Seeing if I can tastefully take my name off the card.”
Summer swatted my hand away from the gift, casually swerving onto the yellow lines.
“Get a grip, woman,” she said.
“Why don’t you put your grip back on the wheel of the moving vehicle. Look, I don’t want Garrett to get this gift from me and then wonder if I’m mocking him.”
“Why?”
“Because…”
I bit my lip, and I could feel Summer’s eyeballs on me, trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together.
“Spill.”
“Spill what?”
Her eyes darted all around my face. “You’re holding something back.”
I hesitated, opening my mouth to tell Summer All The Things, but then I grabbed her chin and moved her eyeline away from my face and back toward oncoming traffic.
“What did you do?” she asked.
Summer didn’t let things go without a fight, and her best friend’s “something is horribly off” radar was never wrong.
“I didn’t do anything,” I lied. “It’s just been a weird couple weeks.”
Summer squinted her eyes, not wanting to show that she was hurt, but I knew she was. Historically, I always shared too much with Summer. My heavy “I bled through a supersized tampon and a pad” flow day, my hookup’s “above average, so I’m gonna need lube” penis size, a new lyric I needed to try out on her, a 2 a.m. phone call to drunkenly lament about a criminally underrated Taylor Swift song which I emphatically believed should have been a single （here’s looking at you, “Cruel Summer”）。 I shared too much because I didn’t know how to not share it all with my best friend. She made me want to tell her the most important and dumbest shit ever, and she brought the truth out of me like a hostage injected with a serum.
Instead of pulling this one from my insides, Summer stitched up her disappointment, pointed her chin in the air, and glared at the road ahead.
“I’m here when you want to overshare about whatever it is you feel the need to keep from your best friend who would murder a horrible person for you and has never judged you.”
“You judge me all the time.”
“It’s for your own good. You spend like a third of your day YouTubing beauty tutorials, I have to keep you grounded.”
I gripped onto the handle above my head as Summer nearly missed the entrance into W?lffer Vineyard. My stomach flopped to my side as she made a sharp turn into the beautiful estate—a gorgeous Tuscan-style mansion sitting on a fifty-five-acre vineyard. I had been both a cater waiter and a singer at various W?lffer weddings. They were famous for their rosé, Summer in a Bottle—Summer loved to call it, “Me in a Bottle.” In 2014, the Hamptons and W?lffer almost ran out of rosé, which was one of the most devastating misfortunes affluent New Yorkers have ever collectively endured.
Summer parked at the side of the estate and tugged her boobs up higher in the rearview, creating decent cleavage with her plunging floral wrap dress. I did the same in my mid-length floral dress, and with a wave of nerves attacking my insides, I apprehensively followed Summer out of the car.
“C’mon, let’s go pretend we support this union,” Summer said.
“That, I can do.”
Summer paused, cackling with her head tilted back.
“What?”
“Babe, you’ve never been able to pretend a day in your life.”
She wasn’t exactly wrong.
I pasted on a smile as we made our way through the boho-chic tasting room, which opened out into the vineyard. Below us, the vines were bathed in a yellow-and-blue sunset, and a four-piece band played a folksy cover of Bill Withers under an elegant white tent. It was a perfect night to celebrate an imperfect pair.
I gazed longingly over my shoulder, eager to flee, when Summer tugged me forward. My heart thumped faster and faster as my heels dipped onto the soft grass and then found the hard glossy surface under the tent. The smell of wine and eucalyptus swirled in the air, with pastel hydrangeas and fresh greenery in the center of round-top tables. I tried my best to avoid eye contact with roughly a hundred floral-clad guests as they mingled with beaming, dewy faces and rosés in hand.
A cater waiter walked by, and I desperately reached for a glass of rosé, gulping notes of peach and citrus down with eyes glued to a ridiculous poster-size photo of Garrett and Cecily. The phrase “Meant to Be” was stenciled atop the wooden frame, taunting me like a foregone conclusion. Maggie Vine still had questions. I courageously fought the urge to grab a Sharpie and add “BUT IS IT?” to the frame, when all at once, an unmistakable laugh boomed behind my strapless dress.
My heartbeat found my eardrums. A familiar musky vanilla scent swirled into my lungs, tightening my insides, reminding me of my hands in his hair, his lips on my neck, my mouth on his mouth. I hadn’t spoken to Garrett since our kiss. Not a text, a phone call—nothing. And now— “Hi.”
I held on to my own shoulder, hopeful that if I slapped my arm across my chest, the added layer of skin and bones would calm my heart palpitations. Not so much. I slowly turned to meet his face. Garrett stood uncomfortably in front of me, adjusting the lapel of his light blue linen blazer, which sat perfectly against his neck. My eyes floated past Garrett, toward his bride-to-be. Cecily was on the dance floor, aggressively using her hands and neck to compensate for her lack of footwork. A gaggle of similarly sophisticated and WASPy friends without rhythm danced frigidly around her. Cecily’s tasteful tea-length blue dress matched Garrett’s blazer, and I narrowed my eyes on her solid color choice. Of course she was the only woman not wearing an ode to florals. As usual, the mandated attire, “Garden Party Chic,” applied to everyone but the bride. What kind of bride would Cecily be if she didn’t treat her engagement as an excuse to wield unspeakable power over her friends and family?