“Shoot, bottle’s empty,” Sabrina says from the end of the table.
I lurch to my feet before Wyn can volunteer. He starts to rise anyway, and I shove him back down in his chair. “You stay here and relax, honey,” I say, acidly sweet. “I’ll get the wine.”
“Thanks, Har,” Sab calls as I beeline for the back doors. “Door should be open!”
Another facet of Mr. Armas’s upgrade to the cottage: he had the old stone cellar converted to a top-of-the-line vault for his immense and immensely expensive wine collection. It’s password protected and everything, though Sabrina always leaves it open so any of us can run down and grab something.
Too quickly I find a bottle whose label matches the one on the table. I’m guessing that means it’s not a thousand-dollar prosecco, but with Sabrina, you never know. She might’ve pulled out all the stops for us, regardless of whether our unrefined palates are able to appreciate said pulled stops.
It makes my heart twinge, thinking of this perfect final week she’s planned for us and my utter inability to enjoy it.
One day. Let them have one perfect day, and tomorrow we’ll come clean.
By the time I get back upstairs, everyone’s laughing, the very picture of a laid-back best friends’ trip. Wyn’s gaze snags on mine, and his dimpled smile doesn’t fall or even falter.
He’s fine! No big deal that his ex-fiancée’s here, or that we’re essentially staying in a honeymoon suite with an extreme every-surface-here-is-specifically-designed-with-fucking-in-mind vibe!
No discernible reaction to my presence.
This time, the zing that goes down my spine feels less like a zipper undone and more like angry flame on a streak of gasoline.
It’s not fair that he’s fine. It’s not fair that being here with me doesn’t feel like having his heart roasted on a spit, like it does for me.
You can do this, Harriet. If he’s fine, you can be too. For your friends.
I set the wine bottle on the table as I round it and come to stand behind Wyn, sliding my hands down his shoulders to his chest, until my face is beside his and I can feel his heartbeat in my hands, even and unbothered.
Not good enough. If I’m going to be tormented, so is he.
I burrow my face into the side of his neck, all warm pine and clove. “So,” I say, “who’s up for a swim?”
Goose bumps rise from his skin. This time, the zing feels like victory.
* * *
? ? ?
“I’M STARTING TO suspect,” Kimmy says, “that we might be a wee bit in-bree-biated. In-bee-biatred.”
“Who? Us?” I say, slowly trying to push myself to my feet on the slippery stand-up paddle mat as Kimmy crouches on the far end. Wife Number Five bought the mats for “aqua yoga” a couple of years back, and I’d forgotten all about them until tonight.
Kimmy screams, and Parth dives out of the way as the mat flips over, dumping us back into the pool for easily the sixth time.
The three of us pop out of the water. Kimmy flicks her head back to get her matted red-gold hair out of her face. “Us,” she confirms. “All of us.”
“Well,” I say, jerking my head toward the patio table, where Cleo, Sabrina, and Wyn are deep in a game of poker, “maybe not them.”
“Oh, no,” Parth says. “Sabrina absolutely is. But competition sobers her up, and her big goal of the week is to finally beat Cleo.”
“And to get married,” I point out.
“And that,” Parth agrees, swimming toward the side of the glowing pool. Kimmy’s already trying to wrangle her way back upright on the paddle mat, but I kick my way over to follow Parth.
“How did it happen?” I ask.
“Don’t you want to hear it from her?” he asks.
“No, I want to hear the detailed version,” I say. “Sabrina’s terrible at telling stories.”
“I heard that!” she cries from over at the table, then lays her hand down. “And I’m not terrible. I’m succinct. Straight flush.”
Beside her, Cleo grimaces a little and says, almost guiltily, “Royal flush.”
Sabrina groans and drops her forehead to the table. From behind us comes the unmistakable sound of another Kimmy belly flop.
Conspiratorially, Parth says, “I asked her a year ago,” and I’m so surprised, I accidentally smack him.
“A year?” I cry. “You’ve been engaged a year?”
He shakes his head. “Back then, she was still saying she never wanted to get married! Wouldn’t even take the ring. And then, a few weeks back, she found out about the house, and . . .” He glances toward the poker match. Sabrina’s absorbed in shuffling. “She asked me.”
“What?”
He grimaces and rubs the back of his neck. “And I said no. Because I thought it was, like, this knee-jerk reaction. You know how it is for her. This house was the last place she felt like she had a family, before her parents split. And then once she brought you and Cleo here—and then the rest of us—this cottage is the place she considers home. So when her dad told her he was selling it, I figured she was scrambling to put some kind of anchor down. That wasn’t a good enough reason for me to say yes.”
“So you proposed and she said no,” I reply, “and then she proposed and you said no?”
He nods. “But that was a month and a half ago, and I thought she was mad at me for it. Until a couple weeks ago. She asked me again, with this for-real proposal. Like, planned an elaborate scavenger hunt and everything.”
“Wow,” I say. “Parth vibes.”
“I know,” he agrees. “Anyway, at the end, she got down on one knee in Central Park, like a bona fide romantic, and told me that she’s always known she wanted to be with me forever, but she was so scared that was impossible, she’d never let herself say it aloud. Because of her parents, you know. And Cleo’s.” He gives me an apologetic look as he adds, “And yours.”
It was something she and I bonded over early on: her dad, who burned through marriages like they were limited-series thrillers, and my parents, who stayed together but rarely seemed happy about it.
Sabrina had never wanted to get married, lest she have to go through a vicious divorce. I was more scared of marrying someone who couldn’t bring himself to leave me or to keep loving me.
It was why I hadn’t let myself cry when Wyn dumped me, or ask for answers or a second chance. I knew the only thing more painful than being without him would be being together knowing I no longer truly had him.
Parth, Wyn, and Kimmy were all the product of loving, lasting marriages, and Cleo’s parents had split when she was little but stayed on excellent terms. They still lived a block apart in New Orleans and had regular family dinners with each other and their respective spouses.
“Anyway,” Parth says. “Sabrina decided she’d been letting her dad have too much impact on her life. She didn’t want to make any more decisions just for the sake of not doing what he’d do. So I said yes and then planned my own proposal.”
“Well, naturally,” I say. “You’re the Party King of Paxton Avenue.”
He laughs, flicks back his wet hair. “I needed her to know I wanted it too, you know. Maybe it’s weird to combine the wedding with this goodbye trip, but I don’t know. I just need this week to be absolutely perfect for her.”