Page 5

Me: Here! Let me know where you want to meet.

No response. I waited five minutes, then ten, stewing in the silence. I opened the wine, poured a shot-glass’s worth, and stared at my phone like it owed me money. Still nothing.

I checked my email, and in less than thirty seconds, I was sucked into a vortex of urgent messages: a supplier in Napa had botched a delivery, a manager in Vancouver needed to revise the WorkSafe protocols, and a board member (helpfully?) forwarded a twelve-page op-ed about “The Myth of the Four-Day Work Week.” I responded to all of them in five minutes flat.

After pressing send on my dozenth email, I lifted my head and saw the sun was already angling low across the pond. A low thump-thump of music drifted up from the edge of the property, accompanied by the unmistakable smell of lighter fluid and grilling meat. The Welcome BBQ. I checked my phone again—nothing from Julissa—then made an executive decision to go find her myself.

I changed into a fresh shirt, put on my “wedding weekend” face, and headed toward the source of the music. The trail wound past a stand of wild roses. The path opened onto a lawn strung with lights. Picnic tables were dressed in gingham linens, and at least fifty guests milled around with drinks.

Half were related to me. My Auntie Cherise stood at the head of a table, entertaining an audience with one of her dramatic stories. Her arms were waving. People were laughing. A hot dog appeared to be involved.

Business as usual.

I scanned the crowd for Julissa.

And then I heard it.

A laugh.

Deep. Familiar. Cocky.

My entire body went cold.

No.

Absolutely not.

I'd first heard that laugh when I was thirteen, standing in my school hallway while Kenny Washington walked past with his football teammates.

He'd caught me staring.

“You coming to the game tonight, Dimples?”

I'd nodded like an idiot.

“My first touchdown's for you.”

He'd scored four that night.

After every one, he'd pointed at me in the stands.

And just like that, I'd fallen hopelessly in love. We'd spent the next four years in an exhausting cycle of breaking up and making up. I'd catch him flirting. He'd insist the girl misunderstood his friendliness. I'd dump him. He'd show up with flowers and promises. I'd take him back.

Rinse. Repeat.

I'd thought ten years apart would've changed things.

Apparently, the only thing that had matured was his ability to lie.

I turned toward the sound. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and not in a good way. I felt dizzy and nauseous as I glanced to my left and there it was, the axis of my entire year of misery, standing not even twenty feet away: Kenny Washington.

He was holding a red Solo cup, laughing at something, and for a split second I thought maybe I’d conjured him out of sheer masochism. Maybe this was just my brain, doing a little festive self-torture to spice up the weekend. But no, Kenny was there, in the flesh, and he wasn’t alone.

Beside him stood a petite woman with perfect posture and dark wavy hair, wearing a form-fitting maxi dress that emphasized her cleavage and backside. Annie Sullivan. My childhood best friend.

I’d always known, intellectually, that the world was unfair, but there was something about seeing your ex and your former best friend together at a family function—out in the wild, casual, arms looped with easy familiarity—that made the whole idea feel newly offensive.

My stomach bottomed out, my ears rang with the hush that happens right before you faint or get into a car accident. I needed to sit, or scream, or possibly projectile vomit.