BEFORE DINNER, WYN “goes for a run.” I’m reasonably certain this is an excuse for him to use the outdoor shower by the guesthouse, so I take the opportunity to fume while I lather up in the shower in our bedroom. Afterward, I riffle through my assortment of T-shirts, tanks, jeans, and sundresses. Basically I packed a blob of white, black, and blue.
And then there’s the lone splash of red, which I’d thrown in more to please Sabrina than because I actually planned to wear it. She’d sent the dress to me on my last birthday, without even knowing my size—she’d always had an eye for that sort of thing—and I’d tentatively thought of it as my Getting Back Out There Dress, though in my few depressing attempts to Get Back Out There, I hadn’t been able to bring myself to wear it.
Now it strikes me more as the kind of too-short, too-tight, too-red dress you’d wear to the wedding of a man who jilted you, with plans to tip over his cake and set his tie on fire.
In brief, it’s perfect. I stuff myself into it, twist my hair into a clip, slip the one pair of hoops I brought through my ears, and grab my heels on my way out the door.
Downstairs, Sabrina’s watching the progress of our approaching cab on the phone while plying everyone with water. Well, everyone except Wyn, who isn’t in the kitchen.
“Hydrate, hydrate, hydrate,” she chants. “Tonight, we’re going full twenty-one-year-olds on spring break.”
Kimmy guffaws, her strawberry blond waves jouncing with the motion. “You all should be very glad you didn’t know me when we were twenty-one. Four Loko still had caffeine in it then.”
“I got great pictures of the body shots, by the way,” Parth says. “Those will be perfect for the photo wall.”
“Photo wall?” I repeat.
The back of my neck tingles in the second before I hear his voice: “For the wedding.”
I turn toward the patio door he’s stepped through, his hair damp and that one lock curled toward his brow.
He’s wearing a gray T-shirt, half tucked into slate-blue chinos, and the color combination brings out all the green in his eyes as they rove over what I now must rename my Vengeance Dress. He misses a half step in the process but recovers quickly, averting his eyes as he heads to the fridge and starts filling his water bottle.
I wonder if my cheeks are nearing the color of the skintight chiffon yet. It takes me a second to retrace the conversation to where we left off. “So what’s this about a photo wall for Saturday?” I manage. “Something I can help with?”
“No, it’s not for our wedding,” Sabrina says. “The photo wall is for yours.”
“Remember?” Parth says. “We got your parents’ contact info so we could get your baby pictures? We’ve been slowly accumulating a wall of humiliation for years.”
The flush in my face is downright itchy now. “This isn’t ringing any bells whatsoever.”
“You weren’t part of the conversation. You were TAing that semester,” Wyn says, without looking over.
Sabrina glances up from her phone and clocks the dress for the first time, her face lighting up. “Harry! Va-va-voom. I told you red was your color.”
I force a smile. “You were right. This has become my go-to Date Night Dress.”
The sound of water splatting against the floor draws all of our attention to the fridge. “Shit!” Wyn’s gaze snaps away from me like a whip to the water spilling out over his full water bottle onto the floor.
Cleo yelps as she lurches off her stool at the marble island, out of the water’s path. Her new mushroom book (or maybe her old one) goes flying out of her hand.
“Sorry,” Wyn says under his breath, grabbing a lobster-print tea towel off the dishwasher handle so Cleo can sop up some of the water that hit her clingy black midi dress and boots. In this outfit, she could easily be the gorgeous front woman of a famous nineties grunge band.
As Wyn stands from soaking up the rest of the water on the floor, Parth claps a hand on his shoulder. “You okay, man? You seem kind of out of it.”
“Fine,” Wyn says, tossing the now drenched towel onto the counter. “Fine.”
The second fine sounds even less convincing than the first. Now we’re getting somewhere. I slide past the marble island to pull his water bottle from his hand, holding eye contact as I take a long sip.
“Thirsty?” he says dryly.
I shove the bottle back toward him. “Not anymore.”
“Cab’s here!” Sabrina announces, jumping up from her own stool. “Book down, Cleo. Finish that water, Kimberly. We’re out of here.”
AS I’M CLIMBING into the passenger van, I take zero care to keep my barely covered ass out of Wyn’s face. I feel a smidge less bold once I’m smooshed into the back seat between him and Sabrina, but at least I’m spared from small talk by the early 2000s Pump Up playlist that Parth blasts from the front passenger seat. Plus, Wyn’s on his phone the entire ride over anyway.
A handful of minutes later, we pull up in front of our old haunt, the Lobster Hut. It’s a ramshackle dive with no sign and no indicator of its moniker on either its cocktail napkins or its sticky laminated menus, though somehow everyone knows what to call it.
The first time I came here, I was nineteen years old, fresh off my first breakup. Sabrina knew they didn’t card, and that was back when Cleo could knock back six tequila shots and still be on her feet, fending off frat boy advances with diatribes about Modigliani paintings.
We sang, we danced, we downed the steady stream of Fireball that kept appearing at our high-top in the corner, and I finally stopped checking my phone compulsively for some word from Bryant. When we got home, and Sabrina and Cleo both flounced off to shower, the loneliness crept back in, and the booze had filed down all my defenses.
I beelined toward the powder room no one ever used, nudged on the faucet, sat atop the toilet, and cried.
Not about Bryant. From the loneliness, from the fear that I would never escape it. Because feelings were changeable, and people were unpredictable. You couldn’t hold on to them through the force of will.
Cleo and Sabrina found me there, and Sab insisted she’d break down the door if I didn’t let them in. Then I’ll have to, like, go to a polo match with my dad as an apology, she said, and I won’t let you forget that until one of us dies.
As soon as I unlocked the door, the tears dried up, but the knot in my throat made it hard to speak. I tried to apologize, to convince them I was fine, just embarrassed, as they wrapped their arms around me.
You don’t have to be fine, Cleo said.
Or embarrassed, Sabrina said.
I stood in that tiny bathroom, letting them hold me until the heavy feeling, the unbearable weight of loneliness, eased.
We’re here, they promised. And the loneliness never found such a foothold again. No matter what, I’d always have the two of them. At least I used to think that.
After this week, things will change between all of us. They’ll have to.
Don’t think about it, I tell myself. Don’t go there yet. Be here, on the sidewalk in front of your favorite dive ever. Sabrina, Parth, Cleo, and Kimmy are already at the front door.
I take one step to follow them, only for my heel to catch in a crack between two cobblestones. Wyn appears at my side, dutifully steadying me by the elbow before I can break my ankle. “Careful,” he says in a low murmur. “You’re not used to wearing shoes like that.”
Anger shoots through me like an emergency flare, the only thing bright and hot enough to be seen through the fog of nostalgia.
“At this point, Wyn,” I say, jerking my arm free, “you have no idea what I am or am not used to.”
I stalk off through the portholed front doors into the dark bar, a karaoke version of “Love Is a Battlefield” folding around me at full volume. The smell of fried haddock and paprika-dusted potato wedges hangs thick in the air, right alongside the tang of beer and vinegar, and the year-round Christmas lights strung back and forth over the ceiling dust the crowd in every color of glitter.
As I catch up with Cleo, she looks over, the lights accentuating the bits of gold in her eyes and the matching gold undertones in her deep brown skin. Leaning in, she says, “This place never changes, does it?”
“Everything changes eventually,” I say, and then, at her odd expression, force a smile and thread my arm through hers. “Remember when the lobster rolls here used to be like six dollars?”
She’s not falling for the false cheeriness. A divot forms between her winged brows. “You okay?”
“Hard to breathe in this dress without worrying about the seams splitting,” I say, “but otherwise good.”
She still looks unconvinced. Cleo’s always been able to see through me. When we lived together, I used to watch her paint for hours and think, How does she always see things so clearly? She knew what colors to start with and where, and none of it made sense to me until, suddenly, it all looked exactly right.
Wyn brushes past us, swims through the crowd toward the too-small table Sabrina’s already claimed at the back of the room. Cleo catches me watching him.
“We had a little argument,” I admit, surprised by the relief I feel at sharing this tiny sliver of truth with her.
“You want to talk about it?” she asks. “Let me rephrase that: maybe you should talk about it.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “I don’t even know what it was about, really.”
“Oh, yeah.” Cleo nods. “The am I hungry/tired/stressed or are you actually being the worst fight. I know it well.”
I snort. “You and Kimmy don’t fight.”
She drops her head against my shoulder. “Harriet. I’m a sober introvert homebody, and my girlfriend is a human party bus, complete with flashing lights and spinning dance poles. Of course we fight.”
Across the bar, Sabrina waves us over.
“Well, whatever’s going on between you and Wyn,” Cleo says as we start across the packed bar together, “you’ll figure it out. You always do.”
My stomach sinks guiltily. “Anyway, how are you? I feel like we haven’t had a single second to talk yet.”
“I’m good,” she says. “Tired. Not used to this schedule. Kim and I usually get up between four thirty and five.”
“Excuse me,” I say. “That just brought my hangover back.”
She laughs. “It’s not that bad. I actually mostly love it. I love being up before anyone else and seeing the sunrise every day, being outside with the vegetables and the sunshine.”
“Sometimes I still can’t believe you’re a farmer,” I say. “I mean, it’s so cool, don’t get me wrong. I just really did think you’d have art in the Met someday.”
She shrugs. “It could still happen. Life’s long.”
That makes me snort with laughter. “I don’t think anyone says that.”
“Maybe not,” she says, “but if they were truly present, maybe they would.”
“So wise,” I say. “So deep.”
“Read it on the inside of a Dove chocolate wrapper,” she jokes. “What about you, Har? How’s the residency?”
“Good!” I know I’ve said it too brightly from the way her brow lifts. I forge ahead anyway, with the spiel I give my parents every time we talk. “It’s busy. Long hours and a lot of work that has nothing to do with surgery. But the other interns are nice, and one of the fifth-years has kind of taken me under her wing. It could be a lot worse. I mean, I’m helping people.”
Thinking of the hospital always floods my body with adrenaline as if I’m there, scrubbed in, someone’s skull open on a table in front of me.
Happy place, I remind myself. That’s where you are. The Lobster Hut. Knott’s Harbor.
“I always knew our girl was going to save the world,” Cleo says. “I’m so proud of you, Harry. We all are.”
I glance away, chest cramping. “Same goes for you,” I say. “A whole-ass farm.”
“And we maxed out our CSA.” She clarifies, “The crop-sharing subscription we do for locals? We officially can’t grow enough for everyone who wants in.”
“In three years!” I cry. “You’re incredible.”
“And to think,” she says, “a mere decade ago, we were dancing on these tables to that one MGMT song that played every fifteen minutes.”
“You,” I say, “never danced on those tables. I distinctly remember Sabrina commanding us to get up on them, and you calmly saying, No thanks.”
Cleo laughs. “There is nothing my parents drilled into me like good boundaries.”
“God, that must be terrible,” I say. “Miles and Deandra must lie awake every night, in their matching houses, wishing they could do it all over again.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” she agrees. “It probably kills them, knowing how many baby showers I’ve had to miss, simply because I had no interest in going to them.”
“Brave,” I say. “I spent my last day off at my new hairdresser’s daughter’s bat mitzvah, so I don’t relate.”
“Oh, Harry,” she says, wincing. “You deserve to honor yourself.”
“Well, I toasted myself at the bat mitzvah,” I say.
She grins, but her brow remains lifted skeptically. I don’t think she’s ever totally understood why I find it easier to fulfill other people’s expectations than to set my own.
Underneath her tiny frame and button nose, Cleo’s always had a spine of steel. Back in college, she could drink the better part of a bottle of Tanqueray, and you still wouldn’t convince her to do anything stupider than continuing an in-depth conversation about nihilism with a wasted field hockey player.
And then one day, she decided she didn’t like how she felt when she drank, so she just stopped. It was the same way when she changed her mind about going to an MFA program and announced she found a job on an urban farm instead.
When Cleo knows her mind, she knows her mind.
As we reach the table, I ask Sabrina, “Did you know Cleo and Kimmy’s co-op maxed out?”
“I did,” she says. “Not that I’ve been able to see it in action.”
Cleo slides onto a chair beside Kimmy. “We’ll find a time this winter.”
“You name the date,” Sabrina replies, almost like a challenge.
“We live too close to each other to go this long without hanging out,” Parth puts in. Cleo doesn’t reply, and Kimmy casts her a quick sidelong look, the kind of temperature check that passes between two people who know each other inside and out. Cleo’s getting irritated.
“Remember coming here with Kimmy for the first time?” I pipe up.
Cleo lifts her girlfriend’s hand to kiss the back of it.
“That’s right,” Sabrina says. “This is where we fell in love with you, Kimberly.”
“To be clear,” Cleo tells Kimmy, “I was in love with you well before that.”
“Awwh! You guys!” Kimmy instantly tears up. “You’ve always made me feel like I belong.”
“Of course you belong,” I say.
“You were our missing link.” Parth settles into the chair beside Sabrina’s. “We needed a redhead to round us out.”
“Keep your eye on those blue-haired ladies, by the way,” Sabrina says, looking toward the women nursing sodas at the next table over. “When they go, we’ll grab one of their chairs.”
“I’m fine to stand,” Wyn says, pulling the final available chair out for me. He meets my eyes. “Go ahead, honey. Give yourself a break from those heels.”
I wonder if my fake smile is doing anything to soften my very real glare.
“Well, someone sit,” Parth says. “You’re making me nervous.”
“You know what?” I touch Wyn’s bicep. “I’ll sit in your lap.”
He balks, and I push him toward the chair. With the air of one resigned to his grisly fate, Wyn sinks into it, and I drape myself across his thighs like a living toga.
His arm comes around my back, a highly impersonal touch, but it’s all it takes for my body to remember, replay, relive that moment in the cellar.
A server stops by, and Sabrina puts in an order for a pitcher of margaritas, a truckload of fries, and Cleo’s usual soda with lime.
“Could I get one of those as well?” I call as he’s walking away. As badly as I want some alcohol to disrupt the electrical impulses firing through my neurons, I need to stay clearheaded.
The memory of Wyn’s velvety murmur: Arms up, baby.
My drunken warble: Did you get me the shirt about the rodeos?
My spine prickles. The backs of my thighs warm.
The crowd is roaring along to Shania Twain now, a bachelorette party tipsily leading the charge from the karaoke stage at the back wall.
Before Kimmy, Cleo mostly dated ultrahip people who were completely uninterested in hanging out with us. Laura, who rode a motorcycle and had the bridge of her nose pierced. Giselle, who always wore red lipstick and never laughed. Trace, who joined a punk band that got huge, and then dumped Cleo for the famous model daughter of another famous model.
Then Cleo met Kimmy, a gorgeous and affectionate goofball who never stopped laughing, while working on an organic farm in Quebec.
The first time she came on the trip, Kimmy, Sabrina, and I smoked the best joint of our lives in the Lobster Hut bathroom, then performed “Goodbye Earl” together.
From the beginning, she belonged. With Cleo. With us.
An uneasiness needles between my ribs. Again, I find myself wondering what we’ll be, exactly, after this week, when the trip is over and the cottage is sold. When Wyn and I come clean.
Sabrina has started filling salt-rimmed glasses from the margarita pitcher, and I fight the urge to throw one back. Instead, I lean across the table to grab one of the sodas the server dropped off and, in so doing, inadvertently shove my ass back into Wyn’s crotch.
Wyn shifts uncomfortably. What did he call it? Vindictive grinding?
I drain my soda like it’s my last shot of moonshine before an 1800s doctor pries a bullet from my arm, and then lean forward exaggeratedly again to return my glass to the table.
While the others are busy pouring their drinks, Wyn drops his lips beside my ear. “Can we step outside for a minute?” he asks stiffly. “I need to speak with you.”
So did I, I think. Five months ago.
It’s too late to talk. It’s too late for him to ask if I’m happy, or how my residency’s going, or whether I’m dating the man he pinned our breakup on. I didn’t sign up for that. I signed up to play this game, and now I’m going to play it.
I sift my hand through his hair, winding the ends around my knuckles. “Don’t you just love Wyn’s hair like this?” I shout to the others over the music.
Over the sweating lip of his margarita glass, Parth says, “He looks like he’s the tormented leader of a motorcycle gang.”
Wyn clenches my hips, a warning that I’m playing with fire. “Just haven’t had time to cut it, honey.”
“I think it looks great, Wynnie,” Kimmy says. “And the beard.”
“I’m going to shave that too,” he says.
I turn into him with an exaggerated pout, slinging an arm around his neck. “But I like it.”
The skin above his collar prickles, and our gazes lock in a game of chicken, his hand sliding across my stomach, his palm almost preternaturally warm.
On a laugh, Parth says, “Hey, remember when we swore this would never become a couples’ trip?”
Sabrina takes a sip. “Pretty sure you were the only one who cared.”
“Pretty sure you only said it because you didn’t want Sabrina to bring her boyfriend,” Cleo puts in.
“That was just an added bonus,” Parth says. “The main thing was, I wanted to stay young forever. Couples’ trips seemed like such an old-person thing. My parents would go to Florida with my aunties and uncles all the time, and then they’d make us look through one hundred separate pictures of them inside a Margaritaville.”
As long as I’ve known him, Parth’s been morally opposed to chain restaurants. Probably because, like me, he grew up in the suburban Midwest and those were the only offerings at hand. Personally, I find chains comforting. You know exactly what to expect, no huge surprises. Chain restaurants are the Murder, She Wrote reruns of the food industry.
Wyn leans past me to plop his half-downed margarita onto the table. “You’ll have to excuse us,” he says, hoisting me out of his lap. “This is Harriet’s and my song.”
I’m sure I look baffled. Our friends certainly do.
He gives me no chance to argue, just grabs my hand and pulls me into the crowd, Sabrina’s voice trailing after us, “How the fuck is Vitamin C’s ‘Graduation’ their song?”
