“Fine,” he says. “I’ll go back to LA, then. And we’ll put off getting married.” He speaks the words like a threat, but the thing is, Vivi is relieved.
The following week, she takes Brett to the airport. “You’re going to do great,” she says. “I love you.”
Brett slouches toward the airport doors. He turns back to wave and then disappears inside.
This is the last time Vivi sees Brett Caspian. She calls him at the hotel the night before she leaves for Duke and breaks his heart.
“Martha?” Vivi whispers with her eyes closed. She’s lying on the green velvet chaise, still in a dream state. She raises her voice a little. “Martha?”
There’s a rustling. When Vivi opens her eyes, Martha is sitting on the white enamel bean-shaped coffee table, facing her. “Yes, Vivian, I’m here.” Martha’s scarf is wound around her wrist and forearm, looking like a cross between a cuff bracelet and a very chic bandage.
Vivi’s eyes flutter closed again. The phrase I’ll sleep when I’m dead drifts through her mind. “I want to use my second nudge,” Vivi murmurs. “I need to let Brett know that I’m sorry.”
“He knows you’re sorry,” Martha says. “It’s all right there in your book.”
“Will everything be okay, then?” Vivi says. “My secret won’t come out?”
There’s no answer. Vivi rouses herself and turns to see the tail end of Martha’s muumuu disappearing through the green door.
“It had better be okay!” Vivi calls after her, wide awake now. “You made an executive decision!”
Brett could still tell people. Vivi is number two on the bestseller list; his revelation might be newsworthy, if only because his story so perfectly mirrors the plot of the book. The internet might blow up. Vivi’s secret might come out and go viral. Aren’t readers always looking for the story behind the story? And what if Willa tells Carson, Leo, Savannah, JP? What will they think? Will they think she was just a human being like the rest of them? Or will they think something worse?
When Vivi wrote the book, she knew there was a slim possibility that Brett would find out about it and an even slimmer chance that he would read it. A surprising thought crosses her mind: Maybe a teensy part of her, lurking in the dark chamber where she’s been hiding this secret all of these years, wanted Brett to know the truth. Maybe she wanted to confess.
She stares up at the ceiling and runs her hand along the soft velvet of the chaise. She can’t deny it—she feels lighter, nearly unburdened.
Amy
JP takes Monday off so he and Amy can go to the beach together. Amy puts on the new black bikini she optimistically bought on January 8, a week into her new year’s diet, and studies herself from every angle. She has bulges of fat at her middle that are threatening to turn into actual rolls; she’ll have to be careful how she sits. Her backside has filled out, but Amy thinks maybe the world likes this look now. （Sometimes at work, Lorna will grab Amy’s ass and say, “Dummy thicc,” which is apparently a compliment.） Amy puts on a diaphanous white cover-up and applies her expensive sunscreen and wishes she’d gotten a pedicure—she works at a salon!—but JP announced his intention to take a day off only the night before. It’s a spontaneous decision to spend quality time with the woman he loves…but it might also be a chance for them to have the “talk” he mentioned, something Amy has been studiously avoiding.
The ring is no longer in the top drawer. JP either returned it…or moved it. It might be in his truck. Is she grasping at straws? Oh, hell, probably—but it stands to reason that any proposal JP had planned would have been pushed back by Vivi’s death. It’s not impossible that he’s going to propose today.
JP is in charge of the food. Amy is hoping they can go to the Nickel for sandwiches but JP feels awkward about seeing Joe DeSantis because apparently Leo and Cruz aren’t speaking. JP makes ham and Swiss with thin slices of ripe fig and a combination of mayo and Dijon on toasted sourdough that he got at Born and Bread. He packs a bag of dill-pickle-flavored potato chips （Amy’s favorite, a nice touch）， some cold grapes, and several bottles of water.
Amy notices there’s no alcohol—no bottle of Whispering Angel rosé, no champagne, not even a beer. She nearly says something, but the picnic is JP’s department and she won’t interfere.
She’s deluding herself about the proposal. Nobody proposes without champagne.