“Shut up, Andrea. This is my last hurrah. I might as well live it up while I still can.”
“Amen.” Kate cracks open a fresh seltzer and stifles a yawn. I’ve nearly forgotten that she’s completely sober.
“I’m joking, Lex.” Andie throws her arm over Lexy’s shoulder. “Cut me a little one.”
“That’s the spirit. Who else?”
“I shouldn’t.” I never do coke anymore—none of us really do, except for Lexy—but I’m drained from all the sun and wine, and the offer is tempting. “Just a small one.”
“Iz?”
Isabel purses her lips. “A baby line. But don’t tell my husband.”
Lexy rolls her eyes and cuts seven lines on the glass coffee table—none for Kate, obviously. When Kendall declines, Lexy and Andie split the seventh. I’d forgotten how Lexy brings out the party-girl side of Andie.
We Uber to Sotta Sopra, an Italian restaurant in town, to find that my dad has already prepaid for our dinner.
“That is so sweet,” everyone sings in agreement.
After dinner we go next door to the Talkhouse, where a cover band is playing hits from the eighties. The Talkhouse always reminds me of being younger, of sneaking in here with Lexy before we were even legal because she knew the bouncers. And it reminds me of my earlier twenties, of the Max LaPointe years. Of being pressed against him near the back bar after too many vodka sodas, his hands running over the back of my jeans.
The band is fun; it’s one I’ve seen before, and they play all the best eighties songs such as “Take On Me” and “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” But something about being at the Talkhouse makes me feel old and nostalgic in a way that’s unsettling. I take out my phone to text Burke, but I already have a message from him.
Miss you Goose. Don’t have too much fun tonight!
I miss YOU. We’re at the Talkhouse and there’s music and it’s fun … but I also just want to be home with you.
Tomorrow. Can’t wait. I love you.
Love you more Goose.
I feel giddy with affection, wondering for the millionth time how I ever got through life without Burke. Warm, kind, dependable Burke, whom I love with ever fiber in my body.
As I slip my phone back into my purse, it vibrates again, and I smile at the thought that Burke has more to say.
But it isn’t Burke—it’s an email from Max. A wave of anxiety slams my chest. I don’t want to read it, but I can’t not.
Hope you’re staying out of trouble on the bach, psycho bride. How about a drink when you’re back? You and me, for old times’ sake. Your treat––God knows you owe me.
My insides roil with nerves and I shove my phone into my bag. I know I don’t actually have a reason to be scared—Max still follows Lexy and Isabel on Instagram; of course that’s how he knows it’s my bachelorette weekend. It’s not like he’s stalking me.
Still, his message makes me feel shaky and sick, and I decide to go home in the first Uber around midnight, before Andie. She, Lexy, Taylor, and Soph have decided to stay out later, and I don’t know what time it is when Andie slides into bed beside me. I wake to the smell of perfume, her trademark Fracas. She drapes her arm across my middle.
“I love you, Skye.” Her breath is velvety against the back of my neck. “You’re my person.”
When I don’t say anything back, Andie keeps talking. “Don’t worry about that stupid game today. I just thought you’d want to play it because everyone else always does, but it’s dumb.”
I say nothing. I want her to think I’m asleep, but I know she knows I’m awake.
“And I don’t know if you noticed, but every single question about you … Burke got all of those right. He really knows you. He loves you.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, realizing for the first time all night that what she’s saying is true—Burke did answer the questions about me correctly. “I love him, too.”
“I know.” Andie nudges in closer, her forehead against my shoulder blade, and how is it that she comes back to me when she feels like it, apologizing without an apology in a way that immediately reminds me of how I love her more deeply than I will ever love another friend?
As we drift toward sleep, the tension between us evaporates, a block of ice melting, and it’s as though it were never there.
Chapter Seventeen
Burke Michaels’s Diary
FEBRUARY 7, 2019
Dear Dr. K,
Sorry it’s been so long. It’s hard to find the time and space to write, now that I’m living with Skye.
But let me tell you—things are gearing up. Next month I’m going to ask Skye to marry me.
There are just two hurdles, one of which I tackled just a couple of hours earlier at drinks with Skye’s father.
Mr. Starling is an interesting man. I think he likes me well enough, but it’s hard to tell. He’s quiet. Skye says he got even quieter after her mother died in 2001, and he retired shortly after. I guess you can afford to stop working when your wife leaves you millions of dollars. Now he’s remarried; I’ve only met the new wife a couple of times, but Skye isn’t her biggest fan. I guess no one can ever replace your mom.
A few days ago, I sent Mr. Starling an email asking if we could set up time to meet for a drink. I know that, in families like theirs, it’s protocol to ask the girl’s father for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Of course, I never asked Heather’s father’s permission to marry her, but that was a very different situation since at the time Ernie Price was off on yet another bender, his exact whereabouts unknown.
Mr. Starling asked me to meet him at the New York Yacht Club, a few blocks from Grand Central. The place was sprawling and filled with stiff preppies, so I had to squint my eyes to find him in the mix. I spotted him at the bar. He wore a navy cashmere sweater and was hunched over a glass of Scotch, reading something on his phone. Disheveled but good-looking, he is a cross between a rigid New England WASP and a Black Sabbath groupie. He ran a hand through his tousled graying hair and looked up when he saw me.
“Have a seat, Burke.” His voice was thin but gentle. “I ordered you a club soda. What can I do for you?”
This guy is not one for small talk, Dr. K, so I cut to the chase. I told him I was in love with Skye and wished to ask his permission for her hand in marriage. I said that even though it hadn’t been long, I had no doubt that she was the girl of my dreams. I played the age card. I reminded him that I was forty-six—God, I feel like a creep sometimes, being forty-six in this scenario—and that I’d spent enough time on this planet to know what I wanted when I found it.
Mr. Starling peered at me through hooded eyes the color of rain, his jawline strong and square. For a moment, Dr. K, I swear I thought he was onto me. He’s the kind of man who seems like he can sniff out a lie from a mile away, like a hound tracing blood. I was suddenly nervous.
“I think you’re a good man, Burke,” he said after a few moments. “Skye is an extraordinary young woman. Complex, but extraordinary. I’m glad you see that.” He smiled absently.
I nodded. “I do.”
“If Skye decides she wants to marry you, I trust her judgment. You have my blessing, if that’s what you came here for.”