“Bullshit,” I argue. “That’s not true.”
He shoots a flat look over at me. “Jude, I’ve been trying to get out of the friend zone with Astrid for months. Then you sit down at her baronce, and the next thing I know, she’s texting me, asking if the buddy I always mention, Jude Larkwood, is taken or just casually dating, and would I give her your number just in case.”
For a moment, I’m at a loss for words. “Shit, I’m sorry, Hen. I didn’t realize.”
He waves my apology away. “You never do, but as your shorter, less-chiseled best friend, let me assure you that it’s a pattern.”
I hardly know what to say to this, partly because I feel like a dick, and partly because in my own mind, I’m still the gangly kid with dental headgear and glasses on my nana’s refrigerator.
“I’ll try to be more self-aware,” I promise him. “And I won’t stand in your way with Gracie. You’re both sickeningly romantic and stunningly naive—a perfect match.”
Henry grins at me. “Then let’s head toward her cottage. Never know if we’ll run into her.”
“You go ahead,” I tell him, knowing I won’t be able to safely watch him ask Gracie out to dinner without risking a burst blood vessel. “I need to shower before the plaster-repair person gets here.”
“Okay,” he says. With a nervous grin, he adjusts an invisible bow tie. “Wish me luck.”
I give him a weak salute before he turns away, running down the path toward the kind of woman he deserves. A woman who deserves him, too. Chest aching, I tell myself it’s from the run. The fall. Anything but the pain of losing something I never had in the first place.
16GRACIE
Five Weeks Before the Wedding
It’s eleven thirty on a rainy Tuesday night, and I should be asleep, but instead, I’m staring up at my ceiling in the dark, thinking about Jude. Not productive or wise, especially after the things he said anddidn’tsay to me at the bar the other night, but I can’t seem to help it. I spent the day following up with my ex-clients and was prepared to cry alongside them again. But with every conversation, I was stunned to discover that each of them had managed to find gorgeous new venues to squeeze them in at the last moment. When I asked them how they managed it, they all had the same answer: Jude Larkwood.
Apparently, Jude used his connections among the Rhode Island estate community to pull strings for all my former clients, securing them locations that usually book over a year or two in advance. I clutch my blankets to the center of my chest.Was he ever going to tell me?
I’ve been thinking of texting him all day, despite the awkward way we left things at the bar. Not just because of what he did for my clients, but also because today is Agatha’s birthday. My own heart has felt bruised since I woke up this morning, and I can only imagine what he’s feeling. So many firsts are celebrated… first steps, first days of school, first anniversaries. But there are also the firsts that follow the loss of a loved one. Birthdays, holidays, and special moments thatare quietly passed in pain as we tend to the missing pieces of our hearts, wishing they were still here.
The only sound in my room is the rain on my roof, but it seems to whisper ideas I should definitely ignore. Instead, I roll over and look at the dark outline of my phone on my bedside table. It’s so late. Texting now would be completely—
The screen lights up the room, stopping all my thoughts. I know it’s probably Sofia ordering me to look at the full moon so that my inner goddess doesn’t shrivel, but that doesn’t stop me from lunging across my bed anyway. But I lunge too hard, and instead of grabbing my phone, I manage to knock it off the table along with my latest romance novel.
Groaning, I haul myself over the bedside, legs tangling in my sheets, but stop moving when I see Jude’s name.
Stomach summersaulting, I swipe open his message, which turns out to be a picture of him and Agatha, both wearing the same kind of party hat he wore at her memorial. It’s candid, with Agatha blowing out enough birthday candles to start a bonfire. Jude, meanwhile, is captured reaching out a blurry hand to pull her silk scarf out of the way of the flames, terror etched across his handsome face.
I can’t help the laugh I let out, even as my nose and eyes begin to sting at the sight of Agatha in her element. Then a second text comes in.
Jude:Missing her.
My heart rises inside my chest until it’s blocking my throat.Jude. Pulling myself back into bed, I start typing the words “me too,” but stop. Bite my lip. The same feeling I had at Agatha’s memorial is churning in my chest—the need to be closer to him when the loss feels too big to bear alone.He’s up, right? And talking is easier than texting, I reason. Before I can second-guess myself, I call his number.
“Hey,” he says, sounding surprised when he picks up. His voice is low and hoarse, like he hasn’t used it in hours. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“I miss her, too,” I interrupt, my heart beating far too fast for someone sitting in bed.
He’s quiet on the other end of the line. “Yeah?”
“I was about to text,” I admit. “It felt… I don’t know. Weird to let the day pass without acknowledging her birthday?” I say, rubbing a hand under my bangs. “I mean, I didn’t have a priceless photo of Agatha nearly setting fire to the entire Eastern Seaboard to share, but I was going to say something.”
His chuckle is soft and exasperated. “You know she did that every year? Wore something highly flammable and dangly?”
“Just to keep you on your toes?”
“Or incinerate them. Hard to tell.”
I smile as I lie back down, tucking into my covers. “Are your man feetthathorrific?”
