“Not to anyone else. You look like a stunning bride-to-be,” she said. “But we’ve been friends a long time. I know how you feel about this sort of thing.” She nodded in the direction of my hand. “I’m imagining it’s a lot.”
I glanced at the doorway one more time before letting everything spill.
“It is, and I feel so guilty about that. I mean, Oliver is great. Perfect. The way he went about the proposal was so thoughtful. He included Marmee. And the ring is gorgeous. I really never thought I’d be this enamored by someone. I should be happy. Ecstatic. And yet…” I paused, trying to find the best way to describe what I was feeling. “I’m so fucking scared.”
Marlowe smiled, tossing back her drink. “Does it feel better saying it out loud?”
“Yes, actually,” I said, surprised by the release of anxiety in my chest. “It does.”
“Sometimes you just need to get all the icky stuff out to make room for the good feelings,” she said. “It’s natural to have both. Especiallywhen you’ve been as averse to relationships as you have been over the years.”
I continued to breathe, suddenly less burdened by all the emotions inside of me. I felt seen, and I was grateful it was by someone other than Oliver. It wasn’t lost on me that Marlowe of all people was able to pick up on my nervousness, the only member of our circle to go through both a wedding and a divorce.
“Did you feel this way before marrying Michael?”
I braced myself for her response, hoping it wasn’t too soon to bring him up. Marlowe was gifted at spotting the vulnerabilities in other people, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t put up her own walls.
“Not really. All I felt was the excitement and the fun and the love. Looking back, I wonder if that wasn’t a red flag, you know? I was so caught up with the extravaganza. The wedding and the planning and the dress. All those decisions seemed to overshadow the most important one I was making.”
“I was there, too, remember,” I said. “You and Michael loved each other.”
“I know we did. Everything felt right, and it was. Something can be meant to be and still not meant to last. I’ve come to terms with that. The way you’re feeling right now is valid. You should be scared. It’s fucking scary.” She laughed. “But that doesn’t mean it can’t be beautiful, too.”
I thought about what she said, how difficult it must be for her to come to terms with her simultaneous successes and failures.
“I just want to make sure I’m not ignoring something. My intuition.”
“Always listen to that. That little voice inside is what will guide you the rest of your life,” she said. “All I’m saying is just because something scares you doesn’t mean it’s bad. You have to feel the fear. Lean into it. There might be something spectacular on the other side.”
She reached for my hand and put it on her lap. I dared to look at the sparkling diamond on my finger again. Forever is a frightening place. No wonder I’d always kept commitment at a distance.
But all of that was before I met Oliver. He’d done nothing but bringme out of my box. Add more color to my life. He wasn’t this big, scary fiancé I’d been envisioning, this life sentence I’d vowed to avoid. He was just a person. My person. I needed to lean into that.
“There you are!” Ava wobbled in the doorway, her body doing a little drunken sway. “We thought you’d ditched us.”
“Just needed some fresh air,” I said, squeezing Marlowe’s hand.
“We need more pictures,” Ava said, raising a hand in the air.
“Ava, come on,” Marlowe said. “We’ve taken enough.”
“Don’t be a grouch,” she said, pointing a finger. “Tippi will remember this night for the rest of her life.”
Marlowe gave me a protective look, one that asked if I was okay. I nodded my approval as I stood.
“Come on,” I said. “Just a few more pictures.”
As I went back inside, joining my friends at the party—joining my fiancé—Marlowe’s words stayed with me. I hoped she was right.
Usually she was.
17
Friday: The Night of the Party
It feels as ifI’m outside alone with Marlowe for hours. Years. An eternity.
I stare at her broken body, unable to look away. Limbs contorted unnaturally, a puddle of blood that stretches and spreads into the cracks of the patterned stone. I close my eyes. Violent flashes emerge—memories of Marlowe earlier in the night and images from the tarot cards intertwine with the gory brutality of her death.
