And just like that, one of the knots in my stomach—the one that had been unbearably tight since the night of the birthday party—finally loosened.
twenty-five
VANESSA
I goton the plane even though I felt like death. I hadn’t been sleeping, or eating, and I’d been working nonstop—sewing, hemming, and dragging gowns from sketches into reality. It finally caught up to me. I felt heavy, inside and out. It wasn’t flu season, but it sure felt like I’d caught something ugly.
I fell asleep in Los Angeles and woke up in Mexico, drool smeared on the pillow. I wiped it away quickly, glancing around and thanking God no one was looking.
I was so exhausted I’d slept the entire flight. Everyone else from the wedding party was already here. Their flights must have filled up fast, and by the time Morgan bought my ticket, she’d probably just grabbed the first seat she could find. Story of my life—always trailing behind. Normally, I was a bag of nerves in the air, but this time I didn’t even have the energy to be scared. First class helped.
Dragging myself off the plane, I shuffled through the airport in a zombie haze. I was about to hail a cab when I saw a black car waiting, a chauffeur holding a sign that read:
V. Miranda
Morgan had thought of everything. The sight sparked a flicker of hope that maybe—just maybe—our friendship wasn’t beyond saving. I’d confessed my fear of losing her to both my mom and my sister, but of course, they had dismissed it. That’s what my family did. It was in their DNA to love me—some invisible contract they’d never signed but couldn't get out of. Stuck with me for life.
By the time we reached the hotel, the sight of it stole my breath. I’d dozed in the car, sunk in a bone-deep exhaustion I couldn’t shake—the kind where no amount of sleep would ever be enough. The resort gleamed; it was easily one of the most expensive in Mexico. Richard had clearly spared no expense for his bride.
Morgan and Richard had been on and off since high school, but I’d always known he would be the one to last. He had adored her from the start, even when she didn’t want a relationship. He’d promised friendship and kept it. He’d been patient and played the long game. That kind of love was rare. Honestly, marrying him was the smartest decision Morgan had ever made.
They’d rented out the entire intimate resort for the wedding party and a handful of guests. I didn’t even want to know the final bill. Surprisingly, when I checked in, there was a room waiting for me. Since they’d paid for my flight, I shouldn’t have been shocked, but part of me kept bracing for the moment they’d change their minds and decide they didn't want me anywhere near them.
My room was close to the lobby. I dropped my tiny bag inside and almost cried at the sight of the king-size bed—pillows stacked high like a mountain, a thick, inviting comforter. On the entry table, an itinerary waited. I skimmed it quickly, wondering if it was personalized or if everyone had one.
Tomorrow morning: a hike up a small mountain to a breathtaking waterfall.
Tonight: Four course dinner on the beach..
That was all I needed to know. I crawled straight into the pile of pillows and crashed.
Some time later, I thought I heard voices, but I wasn't sure if they were real or part of a fever dream. I fought my way toward consciousness, clinging to the sound, desperate to surface—but the fog pulled me back under.
“Good Lord, is she alive?” Penelope’s voice.
“She’s always slept like the dead. You know that,” Morgan answered.
“Okay, she made it. We checked on her. Let’s go to dinner,” Elliott added.
I tried to wake up, tried to see if they were really in my room or just figments of my fevered brain. But I couldn’t break free. The dark dragged me back down.
twenty-six
ELLIOTT
I foughtthe itch to stand up and walk away from the table for the entire length of the dinner.
The resort was a masterpiece of luxury—the air tasted of expensive salt and vintage tequila, and the soft glow of lanterns danced off the waves crashing against the shore. To anyone else, it was paradise. To me, it was a gilded cage.
There were women at the bar and a few at the far end of our table who were making it painfully clear that I could have themif I wanted them. A hair flip here, a lingering gaze there. In any other year, I might have used them as a distraction. Tonight, I had no interest. They were white noise.
The only interest I had—the only thing that felt real in this entire godforsaken country—was lying in a heap of pillows in the room closest to the lobby. Morgan had probably put her there thinking she’d need an easy escape if things got too heavy. She didn't realize she’d also made it easier for me to count the seconds until I could get to her.
I spent the entire night wishing she was here. Even if she hated me, even if her tongue was as sharp as a razor and her eyes were full of ice, at least I could have been close to her. At least I could have watched the way she breathed, or the way she tucked a stray hair behind her ear when she was frustrated.
Instead, I was forced to look longingly at the empty place next to my seat. Her name card was still there, propped against a crystal water glass, mocking me.
My gut was a whirlpool of guilt and a long-burning desire that I had no right to feel. After the fallout at the birthday party, after she’d finally stood in that room and bled the truth in front of everyone, I didn't know if she’d ever see me the way she had when we were teenagers.
