“Yes and yes,” Sabrina says, confirming we will be doing two of our usual—and most diametrically opposite—Maine activities: a trip to the local bookstore (Cleo’s and my favorite) and a very ridiculous way of grocery shopping, which has been Parth and Kimmy’s great passion ever since they teamed up three years ago and started a “winning streak,” insomuch as one can “win” at grocery shopping.
Wyn and I used to debate whether Sabrina concocted the game of Grocery Gladiators because she got tired of how long our trips to the market were. There’s a heavenly bakery in one corner, and a whole local snacks section, and between the six of us, it’s like shopping with very bougie, somewhat drunk toddlers, one person wandering off every time the rest of us are ready to go.
“But tonight I figured we’d swim, do our usual cookout and all that,” Sabrina says. “I just want to bask in the togetherness.”
“To togetherness,” Parth cries, initiating the fifth toast of the day. As soon as Wyn removes his arm from around my shoulders, I scooch my chair sideways under the pretense of grabbing the open prosecco to refill my glass.
“To Grocery Gladiators,” Kimmy joins in.
To drinking your body weight in wine and hoping you wake up and realize this was all a dream, I think.
Across the table, Cleo’s looking at me thoughtfully, a little divot between her delicate brows. I force a smile and lift my flute in her direction. “To that one guy at Murder, She Read who still gives us the student discount.”
Cleo’s mouth quirks faintly, like she’s not fully convinced by my display, but she clinks her glass—water; Cleo gave up alcohol years ago because it irritated her stomach—to mine anyway. “May we always be so lucky, and so youthful.”
“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.”