Page 75 of Kiss Slay Replay

She snorts. “Oh my gosh.”

“It’s true!”

“I don’t think so. There’s no such thing as the perfect couple. I mean, maybe. In the same way that there might be Bigfoot or unicorns or the Loch Ness Monster or, I don’t know. Aliens.”

“You lost me,” I say, trying not to think about the existence of those things. Putting them out of my mind so I don’t somehow summon them into this reality. I don’t know what the deal is and I’m paranoid. I clear my throat. Once. Twice. I’ve got this persistent tickle, and I hope I’m not getting sick. That whatever virus I inevitably picked up at urgent care this morning hasn’t already taken hold.

“Like, they could be out there, but probably not. I don’t believe in perfect couples or soulmates. Don’t get me wrong, Jace and I are good. We’re really good together. But it hasn’t always been easy. Everyone wants to buy into the fairy tale because the truth isn’t as simple or pretty.” She sips her prosecco. “Did I mess up my lipstick?”

“Nope. You’re fine. Is there more bubbly?”

“I think so,” she says. “I can go check.”

“No, that’s all right.” I swing myself to stand. “On second thought, I should really go get ready.”

“Yes, yes! Oh, I’ve missed you so much.” She throws her arms around me. “Once this wedding craziness is behind us, will you come visit? We can ditch Jace for some girl time and I’ll take you to my favorite restaurant. It’s just down the street, and they have the best wood-fired pizza. And mojitos!”

“Sounds perfect.” I pull away, smiling like I believe her, like I trust this will happen.

We’re always making these theoretical plans. A college friend trip where we’ll rent a house in Maine and go hiking and eat lobster rolls. A long weekend in NOLA for me, Cass, Evan, and Steph to explore the city, get drunk off hurricanes, and eat beignets. But there’s always a wedding, a baby, a new house, a new job. Good ideas but never a good time.

We’re a phone call away, we always say. But a phone call isn’t the same.

I reach out for Steph’s lovely face, here, right in front of me. I don’t touch her. I can’t touch her. My hands are sweaty, and I’m covered in lingering urgent care germs. I can practically feel them crawling all over me, inside me. I clear my throat again.

I’m a mess and she’s together. I’m a mess, and she’s the bride.

“Love you,” I tell her.

“We’re going to have so much fun tonight. We…” She sniffs. “Do you smell that?”

“Smell what?” I ask, instinctively playing dumb to spare her any wedding day stress.

“It smells like…meat? Like expired meat.”

It’s the same dead animal scent I caught out the window on my drive up. Doesn’t bode well that an entire stretch of the Hudson Valley reeks of carcass.

This is the moment. My opportunity. I should say something. I should be warning her. It’s much easier to imagine yourself saving the day than it is to actually do it, especially when nothing has happened yet. What if I speak too soon? What if nothing goes down this time? What if I ruin the wedding for no reason? Then everyone will think I’m crazy, gone off the deep end. Because I am, because I have. Fuck. My heart pounds, the itch in my throat intensifies. If I hold my tongue, is it for Steph’s sake or for mine?

I inhale. “No. I’m not getting anything.”

“Huh,” she says, putting a nail between her teeth.

“Don’t.”

“Right!” She pulls her hand out of her mouth. “Someday I’ll kick the habit.”

“Someday.” I start down the steps. “I have to book it. Can’t show up to your ceremony looking like this.”

“You look beautiful, as always, as ever,” she says, blowing me a kiss. I catch her kiss and smack it on my cheek, grab my suitcase, and head up the path toward the friend cabin.

Cass sits on the porch. She’s wedding-ready—dressed, hair done, eyeliner on. She’s got her vape in one hand, a canned margarita in the other. She shoots up when she sees me. “Willa! Jesus Christ. Why haven’t you responded to me? I thought you were dead.”

“I might be.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m serious. Why haven’t you called or texted me back? I was legit worried, Wills. You’re late.”

Apparently, my anxiety is contagious. I’m a worry super-spreader.