“No cast.” The doctor smiled. “But you will need a boot, crutches, and to stay off it. You’ll follow up with your PCP back home in Austin — if they want to do an MRI, they’ll let you know. For now, ice, elevation, and pain meds.”
Izzy exhaled audibly, relief flooding her face.
Maggie felt it too, even if she tried to cover it with another joke. “Great. Nothing completes your wedding outfit like a Velcro boot.”
The doctor chuckled, scribbled a few notes, and disappeared again.
They left with Maggie outfitted in her new orthopedic fashion statement, Izzy steadying her as she wobbled on crutches. The pharmacy in the hospital handed over a little white bottle of painkillers. Maggie made Izzy carry it, muttering something about her dignity already being in shreds.
On the drive back to the lake house, the fall air swept crisp through the cracked windows. Maggie rested her head against the seat, watching the trees blur by. “You know,” she said, “I was reading that Hemingway used to summer at this lake when he was a kid.”
Izzy snorted. “Hemingway was a real dick.”
“Yeah,” Maggie said, smiling faintly. “But it’s still pretty cool, I guess.”
Izzy tilted her head. “Yeah. It’s still pretty cool.”
Back at the house,chaos was still in full swing — laughter, voices, clatter from the kitchen. When Maggie hobbled in on her crutches, everyone surged toward her with questions and exclamations. She waved them off, embarrassed, cheeks hot.
“Really, I’m fine,” she insisted as Danica steered her toward the couch like a queen in exile. “A little sprain, nothing dramatic.”
They piled blankets around her and shoved a pillow under her leg as Gladys set up as part guard, part nurse on the end of the couch.
Danica handed her a cardboard box full of plastic champagne flutes. “You can sit there and assemble these,” Danica decreed. “It’ll keep you busy while we set up outside.”
Maggie sighed, snapping stems into bases while the TV murmured in the background. She felt ridiculous. Embarrassed. Sorry for herself. Everyone else was bustling with wedding prep and she was stuck on the couch, Queen of the Plastic Cups.
She was halfway through the box, lip caught between her teeth as she watched her thirdGolden Girlsepisode, when the front door burst open.
And there she was.
Gwen stood in the doorway, blazer rumpled, hair loose around her face, dress shoes scuffed like she hadn’t stoppedmoving since she left wherever she’d been. Chest heaving, eyes locked straight on Maggie.
Gladys barely lifted her head, annoyed to be woken up.
For a second, Maggie didn’t breathe. She held herself rigid, like maybe she could still bluff her way through this, keep the armor on. But then Gwen’s gaze didn’t shift, didn’t soften, didn’t blink — and the dam broke.
The tears came hot and sudden, blurring Gwen into shapes, spilling faster than she could swipe them away. Maggie pressed her palms hard against her face, but it was useless; the sob ripped through her chest before she could choke it back. The sound startled even her — ugly, unguarded, nothing like the brave, breezy front she’d been holding together for weeks.
She curled forward, shaking, words stammering out between hiccuped breaths. “Sorry — sorry, I’m fine, I’m okay—” But the words collapsed under the weight of her crying. For the first time, she wasn’t fine. She wasn’t pretending.
Gwen crossed the room in three strides, no hesitation now. She dropped her bag by the door, crouched, and pulled Maggie against her chest. Her arms were steady, anchoring, her blazer scratchy against Maggie’s cheek, her heartbeat pounding hard and fast.
“Hey,” Gwen whispered, low and rough, her hand threading into Maggie’s hair. “You don’t have to be fine.”
That undid her all over again. Maggie clutched fistfuls of Gwen’s shirt, sobs tearing loose in a way she hadn’t allowed herself in months. Gwen just held her tighter, rocking them both in the stillness of the room, as if she could absorb the shaking right out of Maggie’s body.
Because this — this was what she’d accused Gwen of never doing. Not showing up. Not putting her first. And now she was standing in a lake house two flights away from home, when she should’ve been in a glass tower conference room nodding at renderings.
The swell of relief was so sharp it almost hurt.
Then panic hit Maggie like a second wave. Her heart jerked. “Wait. Where are the kids?”
“The kids are fine,” Gwen said quickly, her voice steady in a way that made Maggie’s stomach twist. “My mom’s with them.”
Maggie exhaled, some of the panic ebbing — but it left her lightheaded, like standing too fast.
“Tell me everything. Start from the top,” Gwen asked, softer now, eyes searching Maggie’s face like she could read every hidden answer there.
