The door opens silently and steam billows out as I take two steps forward, aiming vaguely for where I think the counter should be. My hip bumps something solid—found it.
And then I make the biggest mistake of my life.
I look up.
The mirror's fogged, but through a clear patch in the shower door, I catch a glimpse that stops my heart. Ivy, with her head tipped back under the spray, water cascading down curves I've tried not to notice for years. A flash of soft skin, the elegant line of her throat, the gentle slope of her hips.
Fuck.
My brain short-circuits, blood rushing south so fast I get dizzy.
This isn't happening.
I'm not seeing this.
I'm not standing here like some creep while my best friend . . .
If she knew I just saw her like this, it would shatter everything between us. All those years of easy comfort, of falling asleep during movies, of her trusting me enough to share space without thinking twice. Gone.
I snap my gaze away, nearly dropping the toiletry bag. One second. That's all it took to burn the image into my brain forever. I'm out of there before my brain can even form another thought, heart hammering against my ribs, jeans suddenly way too tight. I'm such a dumbass.
Time to find my brother. And maybe drown myself in that pretentious fountain out front.
The universe must be feeling generous, because I find the happy couple downstairs. They could be starring in a country club recruitment ad. Well, Sarah could. She's honey-blond, and annoyingly flawless in crisp riding whites, not a single strand out of place. Matt looks more like he lost a fight with the horse—shirt half-untucked, bits of hay clinging to his mess of curls.
"Look who finally made it," Matt's looking way too pleased with himself, and he's got that same smirk he used to wear before telling Mom it was me who broke the window. "What? No 'thank you' for the room upgrade? Those swan towels took actual talent."
"Fuck you very much." I fix him with my best death glare. "The rose petals were a nice touch. Really captured that 'my brother's still an asshole' vibe."
"Please, I did you a favor. That girl's been looking at you with actual hearts in her eyes since the day you met."
"Matthew!" Sarah smacks his arm. "For heaven's sake, be nice." She turns to me. "The room situation really was unavoidable. Virginia and Jefferson had this awful breakup."
"Apparently Jefferson's into green juice now," Matt adds, running a hand through his sandy hair. "And yoga. Lots ofyoga."
Sarah shoots him a glare. "If it was up to me, I would've kicked him out entirely, but . . ." She trails off, somehow making even frustration look elegant. "Well, he and Matt work together, our families go way back, and Mama would've thrown an absolute fit about changing the numbers this close to the wedding."
"It's fine," I lie, because Sarah looks genuinely upset about this. "We'll figure it out."
"Thank you, Caleb." She reaches out to squeeze my arm, and I freeze like a deer in headlights. Do I hug her? Pat her hand?
She notices my discomfort and steps back. "I brought those peanut butter cookies you like. The ones with the chocolate chips? They're in the kitchen if you want some later."
"Oh. Uh, thanks." I shift my weight, jamming my hands in my pockets. "That's . . . really nice."
She beams like I've given her the greatest compliment. Sarah always tries so hard with me, and it makes me feel like even more of an asshole for not trying harder back.
I wanted to hate her when Matt first brought her home. Planned to, actually. But Sarah makes it impossible, with her genuine smiles, and the way she remembers all the small things I mention. She's just so damn nice, like she walked out of a Southern hospitality handbook, and I can't even properly resent her for stealingmy brother.
"I need to change before lunch." She stretches up to kiss Matt's cheek. "Try not to traumatize your brother while I'm gone?"
"No promises, babe." The way Matt watches her go, as if she's still the best thing he's ever seen, almost makes me forget I want to punch him.
"So," he turns back to me. "How's life treating you?"
"Stellar." I pick up a framed photo from the side table. Matt and Sarah at some charity gala. Of course these rich people would turn the whole place into a shrine to the happy couple—photos everywhere, a literal welcome book with their faces on it, probably monogrammed toilet paper in the bathrooms. The guy in the picture wearing a thousand-dollar suit barely resembles the one who used to blast Blink-182 from his room. "Living the dream."
"Come on, man." Matt takes the photo, setting it back with methodical precision. "When's the last time we actually talked? You ghost my calls, ignore my texts—"
