“Come on.” Serena grabs my suitcase before I can protest. “The car’s this way. We have plans.”
“Plans?” I raise an eyebrow. “I just got off a nine-hour flight.”
“Plans that involve your couch, delivery coffee and pastries, and us not leaving your side for the next three hours.” She’s already walking, my carry-on bumping along behind her. “Non-negotiable.”
Layla loops her arm through mine. “We missed you, Aud. Let us fuss.”
I let them lead me out of the terminal. It’s easier than arguing. And when I unlock the door to my apartment, the giant, hand-lettered and covered-in-glitter banner that’s strung across the living room tells me that my besties missed me more than a little bit.
“Welcome home!” they both shout, lifting their arms to the banner that says the same thing. There are even fresh flowers on the kitchen counter. Peonies, my favorite. The fridge, which I emptied before I left, is stocked with wine and cheese and the fancy olives I can never justify buying for myself.
“You guys.” My voice comes out weird. Thick. “You didn’t have to?—”
“Shut up, yes we did.” Serena steers me toward the couch. “Sit. I’m opening wine.”
“It’s two in the afternoon. I thought we were getting coffee and pastries.”
“It’s eight p.m. in Stockholm. Your body doesn’t know the difference.”
I sit. I don’t have the energy to argue. And honestly? The sight of my apartment—clean, decorated, full of evidence that people missed me—does something to the knot in my chest. Loosens it, just a little.
Layla settles beside me, tucking her feet under herself. “So. Three months in Sweden. Tell us everything.”
“I already told you everything on our calls. I worked. I ate my weight in meatballs. I learned to appreciate the concept of hygge.”
“That’s Danish,” Serena calls from the kitchen.
“Whatever. Scandinavian coziness. Same vibe.”
Serena returns with three glasses and a bottle of something expensive looking. She pours, hands one to each of us, and folds herself into the armchair across from the couch. “To Audrey,” she says, raising her glass. “Who survived three months of pickled fish and seasonal depression and came back hotter than ever.”
The old me would have snorted and said something self-deprecating. The old me would have made a joke about how ‘hotter’ is a relative term when your baseline is ‘short, round ball in a lab coat.’ But that Audrey got rejected. This Audrey just smiles and raises her glass.
“To Audrey,” Layla echoes.
I clink. I drink. The wine is good. The company is better.
And for a moment, I let myself believe that coming back was the right choice.
Over the next two hours, we talk about everything and nothing. Layla’s wedding planning has reached ‘mildly unhinged’ status—"Bennett had Jenna make this," she says, scrolling through tabs labeled FLORALS (OPTIONS), FLORALS (BACKUP), and FLORALS (NUCLEAR OPTION). “He has opinions, Audrey. So many opinions. I didn’t even know he knew what a hydrangea was, and now he’s sending me Pinterest boards and rejecting shades of ivory. He said one of them had ‘chaotic energy.’”
“That’s... sweet?”
“It’s insane.” She takes a long sip of wine. “I love him, but if he sends me one more color combination to consider, I’m going to fold him into a napkin.”
Serena’s consulting firm is taking off. She’s landed three major clients in the last month, all crisis management cases that need her particular brand of strategic thinking. And she’s moved in with Caleb, which means navigating the minefield of cohabitation with a man who genuinely believes there’s a ‘correct’ way to load a dishwasher.
“He reorganized my bookshelf,” she says, horror in her voice. “Bygenre, Audrey. And then sub-sorted by publication date.”
“That’s psychotic.”
“I know. I love him anyway. What does that say about me?”
I laugh—the kind I haven’t managed in months. These women know me. They knew me before the blonde hair and the new clothes and the Swedish escape. They’ll know me after.
Maybe that’s why I came back.
Layla starts to mention something about work, then stops herself.
