Bridget shakes her head. “It’s the bare minimum you should expect. But I’m happy you finally found one of the good ones.”
“Hey, Aulie? Roger.” Emy’s voice sounds over the walkie-talkie.
“Here. Rabbit.”
“Uhm—have you been on Instagram or TikTok today? Roger.”
“No, my phone is off. Did someone else elope? Oh god. Who could—”
“No, no one eloped. It’s fine, everything is fine… just…I…I’ll be right there. Roger Rabbit over and out.”
Well, that sounds oddly ominous.
The spasm from earlier hasn’t quit, and I look at my watch to see if it’s time for more ibuprofen. Thank god it is.
I grab my purse, where I’m always sporting a bottle now (and pads), and settle on the couch while I wait for Emy.
“Did she say what she wanted?” Bridget asks.
“No, but she sounded…panicked.”
“Of course, the fair from hell would end with a problem.”
A wrinkle forms between my brows. While I haven’t been able to get to the fair, all the reports were that everything was fine. It’s part of the reason I’ve felt so expendable and unaccomplished lately. “What do you mean, the fair from hell?”
Bridget’s stoic expression breaks. Her eyes widen, and her throat bobs nervously. “Nothing. Everything has been great.”
“Bridget, you’re a terrible liar,” I say, looking suspiciously at her. “How has the fair been going?”
She takes a deep breath, collapsing on the couch across from me. “If you were a fair-goer, it’s been fine. But we fucking missed you—it’s been miserable on the planning side. I don’t know how you’ve shouldered most of this the past few years. I’ve already applied for a student worker grant for next year because I refuse to let it fall all on you again. Why haven’t you spoken up about how much there is to do? Seriously, you were doing the work of like four freaking people.”
“I—uhm. I don’t know if I ever really thought about how much there was to do. I just did it.” If I’m being honest, for the longest time, productivity and results were so ingrained in my self-worth. That’s the only thing that I was focused on. “Was it that much?”
Leaning in conspiratorially, Bridget peers at me through the glasses falling on the slope of her nose. “Colonel Brandon married Marianne in his street clothes because I didn’t have the will to tell him to change into his uniform.”
“No.” I gasp.
“I’m serious. He wore a brown waistcoat! And I didn’t care!”
I place my hand on my heart like I’d been shot, and we both break into a fit of giggles.
Emy bursts through the tent flaps, pausing as she enters and putting her hands on her knees. “Lord, I’m so grateful this is the last fucking weekend. This has sucked.” Her eyes widen, meeting mine.
“I know everything was a mess, and you need me.” I wave her off, my chest warming.
“Great, because we need to discuss how much you did yourself. What the hell were you thinking?”
I think Dr. Smith might be right about that therapy thing.
“I need to get through Christmas at Pemberley season, and then we can revisit how much I’ve taken on.” I smile.
“Right.” Emy slides the clipboard with the checklist out from my hands and writesask Bridget and Emy to help with Christmas at Pemberley stuffon the list. “Okay, but tabling your overworking issue for now. I—” She takes a deep breath. “You need to see this.”
She places her phone in my hand, and I look at her skeptically. “You realize that most of the problems in my life start becauseyouchecked Instagram, right? I’m considering banning you from the platform.”
“I don’t think this is a problem—I just—I think you need to see it from the source rather than through the rumor circulating. Sabrina is already discussing it with some of the other cast members in the house, so I can’t keep it from you today.”
A video from Veronica’s page is pulled up. The caption reads, “Visiting bae after the game. It’s a good thing I’m confident enough to share. There is no way he won’t choose me in the end. #MayTheBestGirlWin”
