The words hung there, heavy, too loud for how soft they’d been said.
Gwen’s jaw tightened. She reached for her glass of wine, more to occupy her hand than because she wanted it. “This isn’t the place, Maggie.”
“I know,” Maggie muttered, folding her arms across her chest.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The laughter from the other side of the suite swelled, masking the silence between them. But Gwen felt the tension buzzing like static, familiar and unwelcome, even here. Especially here.
Gwen pressed her lips together, staring at the rim of her glass. She could feel the heat creeping up her neck, the tightness that always came when Maggie jabbed a little too close.
What stung most was the timing. They’d had such a good morning sitting close on the helicopter, Maggie white-knuckling her hand the whole flight, both of them pressed shoulder to shoulder in a way that felt almost affectionate. And later, when Maggie came back from the spa, she’d seemed genuinely glad to see Gwen again, like the distance between them had thinned for a while.
They’d settled into a call with the kids, the boys tumbling over one another to talk about soccer practice, Rosie proudly announcing she’d made grilled cheese “all by myself,”Gwen’s mom popping in to insist with a laugh that she hadn’t let their child use the stove alone. Jude had looked between them thoughtfully and said, “You’re together.” Maggie had gotten teary in that soft, unguarded way that always made Gwen want to reach for her, to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, to remind her she wasn’t carrying that missing alone.
For a few minutes, it had felt good. Like maybe they were finding their way back to something steadier.
Now, this.
Of course she’d been working. What did Maggie expect — that she could just leave in the middle of a deadline?
The project depended on her. Her team depended on her. This was the biggest project she’d ever taken on, and a promotion depended entirely on her doing well. Dropping the ball wasn’t an option. Not when she’d spent years proving herself, climbing rung by rung until she was close —so close— to the position she’d worked for her entire career.
Maggie knew that. She’d always known that. Yet somehow, every time Gwen picked up her phone, it turned into an argument about her priorities.
Gwen clenched her jaw, her fingers curling tight against her knee. She wanted to shake it off, let it slide, but the sting of Maggie’s accusation sat heavy in her chest.
She wasn’t half here. She was hereandworking. Carrying both, like she always did.
And wasn’t that enough?
The conversation with Maggie sat between them, sharp and unfinished, but the suite didn’t give them room to stay there.
Because suddenly Pete came barreling out of the bedroom with Danica in tow, both of them dressed head to toe in white — white shirts and slacks for Pete, a white sundress for Danica, white sneakers, white sashes across their chests that glitteredQueerly Belovedin rhinestones.
Pete spun in a circle, arms wide. “Behold,” she crowed. “Bachelorette power couple.”
Danica beamed, smoothing her sash. “We coordinated.”
“Obviously,” Maggie said, beaming with a smile.
Izzy let out a low whistle. “You look like you’re about to either get married or lead a cult.”
“Both,” Pete said, entirely unbothered. “Anyway — bachelorettes don’t sit around drinking wine in a hotel room all night. Tonight, we bar crawl.”
Kiera groaned, tugging at the hem of her dress. “Define crawl.”
“Crawl until our livers give out,” Pete said. She produced a folded neon-pink flyer from her pocket like she was unveiling the Dead Sea Scrolls. “I mapped the route. Five bars. Five themed shots. Zero shame.”
Lillian arched an elegant brow, sipping her gin. “Do any of these establishments have seating?”
Pete grinned wolfishly. “Nope.”
The room buzzed with the kind of frenetic energy Gwen had come to expect from this weekend. Glitter, chaos, too much eyeliner. Everyone shouting over each other about who had to carry the emergency water bottles, who was most likely to vomit in an Uber, whether Pete’s plan actually had any chance of survival.
Gwen sat back, watching Maggie get pulled into the excitement despite herself. Her heart thudded with something complicated… relief at the distraction, and that same ache that never really left, even in the noise.
Pete was still waving the flyer like a war banner when Gwen finally spoke up, voice dry. “I don’t know if my liver can take this, Pete.”
Pete flopped dramatically onto the arm of the couch. “Don’t worry. If you pass out, we’ll just Weekend-at-Bernie’s you from bar to bar. You’ll look incredible in sunglasses.”
