What if he’d suggested the fake breakup to giveheran out?
No wonder Zack had looked so disappointed when she’d told him Andrew was acting flirty. He’d been rejected by a woman he had feelings for and watched her go after someone else.
How had she been so clueless? And so cruel?
“I don’t think he thought you were being mean,” Lulu said. “He liked bantering with you. I’m glad he got his shot, even if it didn’t work out.”
By the time their food arrived, the conversation had moved on, but Olivia had trouble feigning interest in the scandal that’d roiled the New Mexico art museum where Paula worked part-time as a docent. If she’d known about Zack’s crush on her earlier, would she have behaved differently? Would she have risked hurting his feelings just to increase her chances with Andrew?
Would she have thought about Andrew at all?
Lulu, Karen, and Paula burst out laughing. Olivia hadn’t been paying attention well enough to understand the joke, but she smiled nonetheless, grateful that her mother was still able to laugh with such abandon.
“Ladies,” a man’s voice said. “The management received some noise complaints. I’m going to have to ask you to keep it down.” They all turned to see Bill standing by the table, watching them fondly.
“Your humor’s so cheesy, I should take Lactaid an hour before you show up,” Paula said with a smile. Olivia knew that it’d taken Paula and Lulu’s other friends a while to accept Bill when he and Lulu had first gotten together. He couldn’t have been more different from the talented, temperamental artists she generally dated. But the clean-shaven, short-haired, earnest hedge fundmanager had eventually won them all over with his clear love for Lulu and her daughters.
“I brought your pills.” Bill placed a small orange bottle on the table in front of Lulu.
“Thank you,” Lulu said. She tried to unscrew the cap, but her hands were suddenly shaking.
Bill opened the bottle, removed two pills, and handed them to Lulu, who took them with a sip of water.
“I can’t believe I forgot my painkillers.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” Bill asked. “I would’ve brought them.”
“You had that call. I didn’t want to bother you. And I had the golf cart—I wasn’t going to ask you to walk all the way over here.” She glanced down at Bill’s feet; his loafers were completely caked in mud. “Those are ruined.”
“They’re just shoes.” Bill placed his hand on Lulu’s.
Paula leaned over to Olivia and whispered, “That’s the kind of love you want, sweetheart. That’s all that really matters.” She squeezed Olivia’s arm.
And in that moment, it wasn’t Andrew who appeared in Olivia’s mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENNatalie
There’s no time like the present, Natalie thought as she reactivated her Hinge account. Jonathan and Marigold were two hours away from getting married. She’d made her peace with that. Yet there was no denying that their wedding would feel like a root canal for the soul and that Natalie needed to find some kind of numbing distraction, even if it meant exchanging messages with some guy who’d ghost before they ever met up in real life.
She was sitting on the inn’s back porch, a spot that was nearly always empty since it faced a nondescript copse of trees instead of the ocean, but she still looked up every few seconds to ensure that she was still alone. The last thing she needed was for someone to spot her swiping. In a bridesmaid’s dress. Right before a wedding she was attending alone. If anyone snuck a photo, it’d be meme-worthy.
The coast seemed to be clear, luckily. The lobby had emptied out as the guests returned to their rooms to get ready, thougha few people had still been milling about when Natalie passed through. Some even expressed concern about not having seen Marigold yet. “She’s on the island, isn’t she?” Bill’s cousin had asked.
“Everything’s under control,” Natalie had said with a smile, feeling like one of those sleazy press secretaries who refuse to answer direct questions.
The golf cart taking the bridesmaids over to the inn wasn’t due to leave for another half hour, so she switched her Hinge location to New York—it’d be nice to have a date lined up when she returned to town next week—and began to swipe through the usual array of offerings: real estate brokers looking for their partner in crime, analysts who loved taking advantage of everything the city had to offer, bartender/poets seeking the mysterious lady who once bummed a cigarette on a rainy night on the Lower East Side, and podcasters proclaiming, “Hot dogs are sandwiches. Change my mind.”
After a few minutes, Natalie matched with a cute, bearded associate professor at NYU named Leo and felt a flicker of excitement before remembering that she’d matched with him about five years ago on a different app. Their first date had been the best of Natalie’s life—they’d met one Saturday afternoon at a West Village café where they’d both talked so much, they’d left their coffees completely untouched. Then they’d gone for a walk and ended up at a bookstore where, while Natalie was browsing, Leo had snuck off to buy her a copy of the book she’d expressed interest in reading. Then after asking if she wanted to get dinner, he took her to a Spanish restaurant hidden inside a town house on a leafy street, where they’d spent nearly three hours talking over tapas and sangria before ending the date with an epicmake-out session by the subway. Natalie had been on cloud nine the next day, unable to keep herself from weaving elaborate fantasies about the relationship that would inevitably ensue: the cozy nights they’d spend cooking and drinking wine, the trips they’d take together, introducing him as her boyfriend at weddings. But Leo hadn’t texted her that day, or the day after that. Finally, after a week, Natalie sent a Hail Mary text:I’m really enjoying the book—thanks so much! Any interest in a drink this weekend?Five days later, he’d responded,Sorry for the delay. Work’s been intense. I really enjoyed our chat but I’m also feeling pretty picky at the moment, waiting for something that feels just right, and I’m sorry that this isn’t quite it for me.
It wasn’t the rejection that’d stung—she’d been on the apps long enough to become fairly immune to that—it was the way he’d framed their seven-hour, laughter-filled, multistage date as a “chat.” As ifhehadn’t been the one to keep extending it, the one who’d bought her a gift and suggested dinner. Who’d initiated the kiss and let his hands roam down her back before whispering in her ear, “I can’t wait to do this again.”
Before Natalie could decide whether or not to unmatch, he sent her a message.
Hey there, stranger. What have you been up to?
With a sigh, Natalie closed the app and headed back inside. It was almost time to head over to the yacht club for the ceremony. Natalie just needed to run upstairs to grab Marigold’s dress so it’d be there waiting for her. At this point, there wouldn’t be time for her to get dressed at the cottage or at the inn. She’d texted when she’d landed at the Portland airport two hours ago but hadn’t sent any updates since.
As she headed up the stairs, Natalie tried to imagine whatthey’d do if Marigold was late. Like, really late. Not just Marigold late. Would they make an announcement to the guests? Or just hope that most people would avail themselves of the pre-ceremony open bar and get too sloshed to notice?
