This is why I shouldn't do readings tipsy, especially not in a room exploding with glitter, gingham, and way too many mason jars. But Sarah had spotted my cards and turned those bride-to-be puppy eyes on me, and well . . . here we are. Dottie had the right idea, sneaking off to bed an hour ago.
"That's not—" I start, but Virginia's already standing.
"Save it." Her mascara's smudged now, making her look less country club princess and more avenging angel. "I pushed him in a fountain this morning. Pretty sure I don't need cards to tell me my relationship's fucked."
"How delightfully theatrical," Magnolia clears her throat. "Though perhaps we should stick to more conventional activities, rather than some picture playing cards?"
"Mother." Sarah's face mask flakes as she frowns. "Ivy's just trying to—"
"Help?" Virginia scoffs. "That's what everyone says right before they tell me what I'm doing wrong with my life."
She downs her champagne in one gulp and stalks toward the bar. "I need another drink. Or ten. And absolutelyzerocosmic commentary on my poor life choices."
"Well, this has been insightful," Magnolia rises with the grace of someone who's never had a genuine emotional outburst in her life. " I'm retiring for the night. Beauty rest is essential, after all."
The moment her heels click down the hallway, I excuse myself to the bathroom. It takes exactly ten minutes to get this green goop off my face.
I ease the living room door open and freeze.
Sarah's sprawled on the chaise lounge wearing a tiara with flashing lights, and a silk robe. Virginia's somehow acquired a hot pink feather boa and is using it as a lasso. Mary's behind the bar, mixing something that's definitely not on the approved beverage list. And Delilah's arranging penis straws into what looks alarmingly like a phallic bouquet.
"What happened in ten minutes?"
"Shh!" Sarah tosses something at me—oh god, is that a penis whistle? "We're playing Most Likely To, and you're behind on shots."
Mary raises an eyebrow that promises trouble. "Current question: Most likely to catch feelings during a hookup."
Every single person stares directly at me.
Well,damn.
"Drink!" Sarah commands, and Mary's sliding ashot my way.
"I don't—" But Virginia's already counting down.
"Three, two . . ."
The tequila burns, but not as much as the stares drilling into me.
"My turn!" Delilah claps, her Southern accent getting thicker with each drink. "Most likely to drunk text their ex."
"That's not fair," Virginia protests, but she's already reaching for her shot. "He wasn't technically an ex when I sent that novel-length critique of his personality."
We all burst into fits of giggles as she recounts that embarrassing night.
"Most likely," Mary drawls, shuffling the cards with scary precision, "to hook up with someone at this wedding."
Sarah gasps. "We arenothaving another Palmer wedding incident."
"That wasonetime," Delilah protests. "And Jamie looked nothing like his brother from behind."
Two hours, and countless martinis later, I'm sprawled on the floor next to Sarah, watching the chandelier lights blur together. There's something weirdly comforting about being drunk with someone who doesn't know all my stories yet. Someone who sees Caleb as Matt's brother, not as the town's eternal playboy.
I've been holding these feelings so tight they're starting to bruise me from the inside. My friends would have opinions—loud, well-meaning, completely overwhelming opinions—about me and Caleb. But Sarah? She's a perfect blank slate. No history. No expectations.
"Can I tell you something?" The words spill out in a rush. "But like, you can't tell anyone. Not even Matt. Especially not Matt, because he'll tell Caleb."
Sarah flops onto her side, facing me while Virginia attempts to belt Whitney Houston in the background. "I promise not to say anything."
