Claire leaned her head against Astrid’s.
“He bought a house,” Astrid said. “An entire house without telling me. Asking me. He just . . . did it, like I didn’t even exist.”
“Well, that’s a shitty thing to do,” Iris said.
“Do you . . . do you remember when my mother signed me up for tennis when I was thirteen?”
Claire caught Iris’s eye again, both their mouths pressed flat. Of course they remembered. Astrid hated tennis. She always had, ever since her gym teacher had done a unit on it in fourth grade and a ball hit her square in the nose. But Isabel didn’t think track—which had been Astrid’s preferred sport since middle school—was a very ladylike activity. It wasn’t . . . posh enough. So she’d signed her up for tennis at the Bright River Club, private lessons, crisp white pleated skirts, the whole nine yards.
And Astrid did it for a year before it was clear she was terrible. Only then, when Isabel’s reputation for having a clumsy-on-the-court daughter was on the line, did she relent and let Astrid return to track and cross country.
“Yeah,” Claire said. “We remember.”
Astrid sighed. “She never asked me if I wanted to play. Never even thought about asking me, if I had to guess.”
Claire rubbed circles on her back.
“She never asked me about French lessons or what color dress I wanted to wear to all of her events. Never asked me what kind of cake I wanted for my birthday. She just always bought angel food.”
“God, I always hated your birthday cakes,” Iris said.
“Iris,” Claire hissed, but Astrid just laughed.
“No, she’s right,” Astrid said. “Angel food cake is the worst. But it was what my mother wanted, just like everything else, like taking over Lindy Westbrook’s business, like—”
“Whoa, wait, what?” Iris asked. “I thought taking over for Lindy was what you wanted?”
Astrid sighed, waving a hand. “My point is, she doesn’t ask. No one ever fucking asks, and Spencer never asked me either.”
Claire’s heart ached for her friend. She tucked a piece of blond hair behind Astrid’s ear. “About the house?”
Astrid shrugged. “About the house. About moving to Seattle at all. He just assumed I’d say yes, because I always say yes. Don’t I?”
They sat silently for a bit, Claire totally unsure how to answer that. Because Astrid wasn’t wrong.
“I don’t want to go to Seattle,” Astrid finally said.
“Then don’t,” Iris said. “You don’t have to.”
“I . . . I don’t know how . . .” Tears finally welled in Astrid’s eyes, spilling down her cheeks so quickly, it was as though they’d been waiting for years to be set loose. “I don’t know how to say no. I don’t know how to do it.”
“We’ll help you,” Claire said. “We’ll do whatever you need us to do.”
“I’m awesome at saying no,” Iris said.
Astrid cracked a smile, but it faded quickly, and she wiped her eyes. “God, my mother. She—”
“Will get over it,” Iris said. “This is your life, not hers.”
“Jesus, what a mess,” Astrid said, then her posture went ramrod straight. “There’s so much to do. I need to call the caterers. And the florist. God, Delilah. I need to—”
“Stop,” Claire said, pulling her friend closer. Her heart flipped at Delilah’s name, but she ignored it. “We’ve got time. Right now, just . . . just sit here with us, okay?”
“Or,” Iris said, “if you wanted to get some practice in saying no, you can tell us to go fuck ourselves right now and we’ll get going on these phone calls stat.”
Astrid laughed, then shook her head. “No. No, taking a minute is good, I think.”
“See?” Iris said. “You just said no to me telling you that you could say no. An expert already.”
Astrid laughed again, then flopped back onto the bed, her arms splayed above her head. A very un-Astrid-like motion, and it made Claire smile. She lay back too, followed by Iris, and the three friends hooked their arms together, relieved tears running down all of their cheeks and splashing into the thousand–thread count duvet.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
DELILAH WAS WAITING outside the Kaleidoscope Inn, something like worry coalescing in her chest at how late Claire was in picking her up and the three unanswered texts Delilah had sent her, when her phone rang. Already gripping the device in her sweaty palm, she slid her finger across the screen, relief filling her up at the sight of Claire’s name.