My chest aches. My palms itch.
“I’m really, really happy for you,” I tell him.
He grins crookedly, plants a loud smooch atop my head. “Thanks, Har. We really couldn’t have figured our shit out without you and Wyn. I hope you know that.”
“Oh, come on,” I say.
“I’m serious,” he replies. “You were the first ones to cross that friendship line, and to prove it could work. Sab says all the time that she spent way too much time worrying that going after what she wanted could jeopardize what the six of us already had, and watching you two keep loving each other for all these years, that really helped her believe we could do this.”
My throat squeezes, and my eyes go straight to the poker match. Wyn’s not looking, is focused on his phone, but heat unfurls from my hairline to my collarbone anyway.
Behind us, Kimmy cries, “I did it! I’m a god!” right before she topples again.
“I think I need to pee,” I tell Parth, hauling myself from the pool. “Or drink water. One of those.”
“If you can’t tell the difference between those, Harry,” Parth calls after me, “I think you need to see a doctor!”
“Parth,” I say, pausing in the doorway. “I am a doctor.”
“Seems like a conflict of interest.” He flips backward, away from the wall, and strokes toward Kimmy.
I towel off as I make my way through the cool, silent house. The kitchen is a mess, so I wipe down the counters, add the empty bottles to the recycling, and then head toward the powder room tucked back by the laundry. No one ever uses this one, because it’s been here in some form since the early 1900s and thus is approximately two feet wide.
I take hold of the sink as I try to catch my breath. In the mirror, my face is already sunburnt, my hair a salty, tangled mess. So much for that shower. Maybe I can sneak away for a quick rinse while everyone’s still out back.
Maybe I can throw all my clothes back into my bag and run away and, I don’t know, not ruin my best friends’ wedding. Oh god. This is a disaster.
I pee, wash my hands with the luxurious grapefruit-scented soap Mr. Armas stocks all his hotels with, take one last deep inhale, and open the door.
My first instinct when I see Wyn waiting in the narrow hall is to slam the door shut in his face. Like this is a bad dream, and if I close it and open it again, he’ll have disappeared.
But as usual, my body is two and a half steps behind my brain, so by the time I’ve registered him and the sound of overlapping voices down the hall in the kitchen, he’s already pushing me back and shutting us in together.
My heart is hammering. My limbs feel hot and unsteady. I’d already turned off the light, and for some reason he doesn’t reach to switch it back on, so we’re cast in the dim, candle-like glow of the sensor-operated night-light mounted beside the mirror.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Relax.” The dark makes his voice sound too close. Or maybe that’s the six inches between us.
“You can’t shove a woman into a dark room and tell her to relax!” I hiss.
“I couldn’t figure out how to get you alone,” he says.
“Have you considered that might be intentional?” I say.
He huffs. “Our plan isn’t going to work.”
“I know,” I say.
His brow lifts. “You do?”
“I may have just mentioned that,” I say.
He sinks back against the door, chin lifting, a deep inhale filling his lungs to the point that our chests brush. I try to step backward and am met with a towel rack.
“We’ll have to stick it out five more days,” I say.
He rebounds from the door. Our chests press together, a current of angry electricity leaping from his skin into mine, or maybe the other way around. “You just agreed with me that we couldn’t do this.”
“No, I said we can’t follow through with our plan. They need this week to be perfect, Wyn. Sabrina’s already a bundle of nerves. This could mess up everything.”
“Oh, it’s going to mess up something,” he growls.
“Talk to Parth,” I say. “If you leave that conversation feeling good about blowing up this week, then I can’t stop you. But you’re not going to.”
He sighs. “This is so unbelievably messed up.”
“It’s certainly not ideal,” I say, parroting his phrasing from earlier.
His eyes flash. “Hilarious.”
“I thought so.” I lift my chin like I am not at all intimidated by his closeness. Like there definitely aren’t hundreds of hornets batting around in my chest trying to get to him.
Our glares hold for several seconds. I’m not sure he’s ever glared at me. As a categorically conflict-averse person, I’m surprised how powerful the glare makes me feel. I’m finally getting a rise out of him, getting past that granite facade he used to shut me out.
“Fine,” he says. “Then I guess we have to do this.” He catches my hand. My whole body feels like it’s made of live wires, even before I register the cool white-gold loop slipping over my finger.
I jerk back before he can get the ring on. He lets me, but again, the towel rack doesn’t.
“Someone’s going to notice if you’re not wearing it,” he says.
“They haven’t so far,” I say.
“It’s only been a couple of hours,” he says. “And Kimmy was dancing and singing into a wooden spoon to that one Crash Test Dummies song for the vast majority of that. People were busy.”
“So we commandeer the playlist,” I say. “I can easily think of at least twenty-six songs that will put Kimmy into show mode.”
Wyn’s eyebrow arches. It tugs on his mouth, revealing a sliver of glow-in-the-dark smile. That snow globe feeling hits, where up is down and down is up and everything is either glitter or corn syrup.
“Why do you even have this?” I demand.
“Because,” he says, “I knew I was going to see you, and it’s yours.”
“I gave it back,” I remind him.
“Well aware of that,” he says. “Now are you going to put it on, or should we go tell them it’s over now?”
I shove my hand out, palm up. I’m sure as hell not letting him slide my old engagement ring onto my finger.
He hesitates, like he’s debating saying something, then sets it in my palm. I put it on and hold my hand up. “Happy?”
He laughs, shakes his head, and starts to leave. He turns back, leaning into the door. “How long should we say it’s been? Since we last saw each other, if anyone asks.”
“They won’t ask,” I say.
My vision’s adjusted to the dark enough that I can see, in detail, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepening. “Why not?”
“Because it’s a boring question.”
“I don’t think it’s a boring question,” he says. “I’m desperate to know the answer. I’m on pins and needles, Harriet.”
I roll my eyes. “A month.”
His eyes close for a moment. If I knew they would stay closed, I wouldn’t be able to help myself: I’d trace a finger down his nose, around the curve of his mouth, not touching him but relishing in the almost. I hate how entangled we still feel on a quantum level. Like my body will never stop trying to find its way back to his.