Florence and her partner Alistair met around the time of Alba’s New Year’s Eve wedding more than a year and a half ago. They’re getting married on the last Saturday in August, about a month from now.
I know you, Flora, I tease. I expect it’ll be the swankiest quaint wedding anyone’s ever pulled off.
She pats my shoulder affectionately. Thankfully you’re here to help me pull it off, then.
We chat for a while about some of the wedding plans and who else is coming early, like me.
Alistair’s mom is already here and has been staying with us, Florence says. Alba has cottages for you and Finn at the bed and breakfast. That’s Al’s younger brother, though he’s the same age as us, actually.
We figured you’d like your own space, Alba says, raising her eyebrow at me before continuing. Not that the three of us haven’t handled it well before. During the pandemic year, while the three of us had lived crammed into what was originally my tiny Toronto apartment, we really had managed well—but it’s different now that we have Alba’s wife, Florence’s fiancé, and his family thrown into the mix.
Okay Violet, are you ready? Alba asks, pulling me from my thoughts.
We’re hereeeeeeeee! Florence squeals, clapping, as we pull into Rose Cottages, the bed and breakfast named after Alba’s wife Rose, who I’m keen to finally meet in person for the first time.
I can see a circle of cabins surrounding a beautiful large building in the centre, the main lodge where they have breakfast in the mornings and a few rooms. Alba and Rose’s house, which I recognize from Instagram photos, is tucked off to the side.
Alba, I say, feeling so incredibly proud of my friend. I can’t believe this is yours, it’s gorgeous.
Would you expect anything less from me? She arches a dark brow in my direction from the driver’s seat. Ahead of where she’s parked, I can see the bright blue sapphire of the lake.
Never, I say before turning to Florence, and grinning at my friends. I’m ready for that swim.
Chapter 2
FINN
THIS WAS, WITHOUT A DOUBT, the worst flight of my life.
I thought the flight from Glasgow to Halifax was direct, and it was supposed to be—but the plane had some technical issue, and we had to stop somewhere in Newfoundland. I’ve been sitting in this godforsaken airport for hours now, hungry and irritable and in desperate want of a shower.
Despite the lack of seating, the seats in my immediate vicinity remain empty—I suspect I am radiating ire. My body language is sending a message clear as day: not friendly, approach with caution—or actually, do not approach at all.
I’ve been told, on a number of occasions, that I have an attitude problem. That started at fourteen, and I could probably pinpoint the exact calamitous moment. But while I had my own shit going on, my reasons for acting out were always the same: it’s not my fault that people are fuckin’ morons.
Nobody ever seems to like that answer.
I have other more pressing problems at the moment though—besides my shite mood, and my current flight status. The most pestering issue is that women seem to want me for one thing, and one thing only. And while I know I’m particularly skilled at that one thing, it’s starting to make me feel hollow. Like something real, something long-term, might never happen for me.
To rub salt in that particular wound, I am now en route to stand in my brother’s wedding.
When are you going to find a nice girl, hmm, my wee Finnie? This was becoming a semi-regular question from my mother, ever since Alistair and Florence got together. I roll my shoulders, irritated as fuck at merely the thought of having to discuss any of this with my Mum.
I love my brother dearly, but he is, and will always be, the golden boy. And he’s had no bother finding steady girlfriends over the years. I don’t want to say I’m envious, but I can’t figure out exactly why that’s the case—I’m certainly just as good looking.
It’s… it’s not right Finn. We’re not a good fit, you and me. Gemma’s voice comes slamming through my thoughts, on replay since the incident had happened last week. No matter which way I spin that conversation around and around in my head, I can’t figure out where it went wrong. Except for me, maybe I’m wrong somehow. Not a good fit.
Hence my shite mood. And therefore my shite behaviour.
I haven’t felt this low in a long, long time.
I toss more salted almonds—that I purchased in desperation and paid an arm and a leg for—into my mouth. The only thing I can be grateful for is that I am suffering this miserable layover alone, and not flying with my mother, who went ahead to Canada a few weeks before me.
Alistair had asked me to convince Mum that he wanted to show her around his new home before the wedding. I had enlisted my aunts to help me nudge her in the right direction.
I love my mother, but she can be a lot—and letting her be Alistair’s problem for the majority of the summer seemed like a good deal to me. Since she seems to be my responsibility the rest of the time.
But then my brother had informed me that he wanted me there a few weeks beforehand, so we’d have time to spend together before the wedding insanity began. I could tell he was keen—keen to see me himself, keen for me to see Canada and where he lives, but also keen for me to get to know his bride.
