No answer. She glanced at Iris before they both headed for the hall that led to the bedrooms.
Inside her room, Astrid sat on her queen-size bed facing the window, her back to the door. Evening light streamed in through the glass, turning all the grays in the room to lavender.
“Sweetie?” Iris said, walking inside slowly. “We’re here.”
Astrid didn’t move. Her shoulders were rounded, her posture very un-Astrid-like.
“Honey?” Claire said. She moved around Iris so she could sit next to Astrid. The bed dipped, and her friend’s shoulder pressed into hers. She moved her arm and wrapped it around Astrid, holding her tight. Iris settled on her other side.
Astrid wasn’t crying, but her eyes looked a little red rimmed as she stared vacantly out the window. Claire caught Iris’s gaze over Astrid’s blond head, awhat do we do?look passing between them. They didn’t know. Finally, Iris’s arm came around Astrid’s shoulder as well, so that the three of them were locked together, just like they’d always been.
Astrid took a deep breath. She opened her mouth a few times, but it took several tries before she actually spoke.
“I don’t love him.”
Iris and Claire widened their eyes at each other.
“And I should love the person I’m going to marry,” Astrid went on without looking at either one of them. “Shouldn’t I?”
“Yes,” Claire said softly. Iris smoothed a hand down Astrid’s hair.
“I should trust him, be excited about marrying him.”
“Also yes,” Iris said.
“And I don’t. I’m not.”
Claire leaned her head against Astrid’s.
“He bought a house,” Astrid said. “An entire house without telling me. Asking me. He just... did it, like I didn’t even exist.”
“Well, that’s a shitty thing to do,” Iris said.
“Do you... do you remember when my mother signed me up for tennis when I was thirteen?”
Claire caught Iris’s eye again, both their mouths pressed flat. Of course they remembered. Astrid hated tennis. She always had, ever since her gym teacher had done a unit on it in fourth grade and a ball hit her square in the nose. But Isabel didn’t think track—which had been Astrid’s preferred sport since middle school—was a veryladylike activity. It wasn’t... posh enough. So she’d signed her up for tennis at the Bright River Club, private lessons, crisp white pleated skirts, the whole nine yards.
And Astrid did it for a year before it was clear she was terrible. Only then, when Isabel’s reputation for having a clumsy-on-the-court daughter was on the line, did she relent and let Astrid return to track and cross country.
“Yeah,” Claire said. “We remember.”
Astrid sighed. “She never asked me if I wanted to play. Never even thought about asking me, if I had to guess.”
Claire rubbed circles on her back.
“She never asked me about French lessons or what color dress I wanted to wear to all of her events. Never asked me what kind of cake I wanted for my birthday. She just always bought angel food.”
“God, I always hated your birthday cakes,” Iris said.
“Iris,” Claire hissed, but Astrid just laughed.
“No, she’s right,” Astrid said. “Angel food cake is the worst. But it was what my mother wanted, just like everything else, like taking over Lindy Westbrook’s business, like—”
“Whoa, wait, what?” Iris asked. “I thought taking over for Lindy was whatyouwanted?”
Astrid sighed, waving a hand. “My point is, she doesn’t ask. No one ever fuckingasks, and Spencer never asked me either.”
Claire’s heart ached for her friend. She tucked a piece of blond hair behind Astrid’s ear. “About the house?”
