To plan my best friend’s wedding.
The next day, the coffee maker gurgles to life in Emma's kitchen like a caffeinated resurrection. I lean against the granite countertop, still wearing yesterday's clothes because my suitcase remains unpacked in Emma's guest room.
Emma's footsteps pad down the hallway, soft and careful like she's trying not to wake sleeping dragons. Her jasmine scent carries the lingering warmth of sleep and something that might be concern or might be guilt. She appears in the kitchen doorway wearing flannel pajamas covered in tiny wedding cakes, hersleek black bob sticking up at impossible angles that defy physics and hair products.
"You're up early," she says.
"Couldn't sleep," I reply, pouring coffee into two mugs, adding cream and sugar to hers because some things never change, unlike my ability to make good life choices. "Figured I'd make myself useful before I have a complete breakdown."
"Useful would be sleeping until a reasonable hour so you're not exhausted for wedding planning," Emma says.
"Reasonable is overrated. Besides, someone needs to start breakfast, and it might as well be the woman whose life is falling apart in real time."
Emma accepts the coffee mug, then she settles onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen island, wrapping her hands around the warm ceramic like it's a lifeline to sanity.
"About yesterday," she begins with the careful tone of someone about to poke a sleeping bear.
"Griff's impressive display of reliability? Already filed under 'things that never change' and moved on with my life," I say.
"He didn't abandon you on purpose," Emma says.
"Didn't he? Because leaving someone at a bus station, and not bothering to tell you or even Dax to get a replacement sounds like the Griff I remember." The Griff who used to cancel dates for emergency construction calls, who always had just one more thing to finish before he could focus on me, who made me feel like I was competing with his work for his attention and losing spectacularly.
Emma winces, jasmine scent sharpening with something that might be guilt or might be the realization that she's orchestrated this reunion from hell. "He's gotten better about prioritizing."
"Has he? Because his foundation inspection seemed pretty important compared to basic human courtesy yesterday," I say.
"That project is his biggest contract this year. If he'd failed the inspection..." Emma trails off.
"Emma." I set my coffee mug down harder than necessary, ceramic clinking against granite with the sharp sound of my patience running thin. "You don't have to defend him. I'm not some fragile omega who can't handle disappointment."
"I know you're not fragile. But I also know how you look when someone lets you down," Emma says.
"I'm fine," I lie.
"Are you? Because you've been staring at that coffee mug like it holds the secrets of the universe or possibly your will to live," Emma says.
"Maybe the secret is that some people never change, no matter how much time passes." No matter how much you hope they might become capable of basic reliability.
Emma's jasmine scent shifts, carrying notes of something deeper and more complicated than morning coffee anxiety. She takes a long sip of coffee, gathering her thoughts with the careful precision she uses when she's about to say something I absolutely won't want to hear.
"Sav, I need to tell you something," Emma says.
"If it's about wedding details, I'm not awake enough for logistics yet. If it's about why my ex-boyfriends are apparently involved in every aspect of your wedding, I'm definitely not awake enough for that conversation," I say.
"It's about them. The pack," Emma says.
I have a feeling that she's about to tell me what Danny told me in the taxi, but it's really none of my business.
"What about them?" I ask.
Emma stares into her coffee mug like it might provide guidance for whatever confession she's building toward. "They're a disaster."
I blink at my best friend like she's started speaking ancient Greek. "Excuse me?"
"The pack. They're terrible at it. I don't even know if they'll survive until the wedding without murdering each other," Emma says.
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, sharp and disbelieving and slightly hysterical. "They've been living together for a year. How bad can it possibly be?"
