Chapter One
BRYNN
I always imaginedmy next big life change would start with a cosmic sign—maybe a flamingo holding a banner readingThis Way, Brynn!Instead, my welcome was a cheerfulcarved boardhanging from a crossbeam, its paintedWelcome to Sunset Siesta Resortfaded by years of salt and sun.
My suitcase wheels rattled along the shell-strewn path, past a two-story room block whose faded pastel paint and sagging rooflines felt as tired as I did after my flight from Atlanta. The salt-laced air of the Florida Keys, however, was a time machine, transporting me straight back to the summer I turned seventeen. I stopped and gripped my long brown hair in one hand, the breeze stirring up old memories—long beach days with Holly, the giggly hush of post-midnight adventures, a first beer that had tasted more of regret than anything else.
But I wasn't here for a trip down memory lane. I was here with two jobs: survive my cousin Holly Shaw’s destinationwedding without becoming a human exhibit for family pity, and, more secretly, figure out if I had the guts to give mywhat iflife a fighting chance.
The lobby’s air conditioning hit me like a slap. The decor attempted to capture Old Florida, with bamboo furniture, faded manatee prints, and a taxidermied marlin mounted like a sentinel above the reception desk.
A woman in a pineapple-print blouse and a nametag readingDanasmiled. “Checking in?”
“Brynn Vance,” I replied.
She typed, her nails clicking crisply, before sliding a key folder across the counter. “Ah, you’re part of the wedding party! Room 215. The welcome mixer is at the Tidal Hops brewpub tonight at six.”
“Great. Anything I should know about the room?”
Dana shrugged. “It’s pretty standard. I doubt much has changed since your last visit. Don’t feed the iguanas.”
Laughing, I saluted her with the key folder and stepped back into the breezy air. The walk to my room was a nostalgia bomb. Winding shell paths crunched under my suitcase, and the sea breeze whipped my hair into the same hopeless knots I remembered. Back then, this place was the backdrop for Holly’s wild schemes. Now, she was getting married while I was here solo, which felt both poetic and tragic.
My second-floor room overlooked the ocean, its paint faded from aqua to the color of hospital scrubs, but the deck was freshly swept. I flopped onto the clean, palm-print comforter, my spine realigning. If this was myfind yourselfjourney, the bar was set at shabby chic. I could work with that.
I unpacked a wardrobe of compromises, choosing a blue linen dress that had survived years of first-gradeclassroom drama and a pair of sandals I’d bought just for the trip. I arranged my toiletries with the efficiency of a woman trying to impose order on her own chaos. On the desk, my welcome folder held a map, an itinerary, and a handwritten note from Holly.
BRYNN!
You made it! Don’t let my mom rope you into any “fun runs.” Meet you at the taproom at six for pre-game drinks. We’re going to make so many bad decisions. (Kidding. Mostly.)
Love you more than SPF 50,
Holly
I smiled.Only Holly could make a wedding sound like an illicit adventure.
Sliding open the door to the deck revealed a sliver of sandy beach that arched toward a weathered wooden pier, the water glittering as the sun began its lazy descent. Two pelicans argued on a mooring post.
This is it. My second chance.
I closed my eyes, the warm air filling my lungs. If I stood still enough, I could almost picture seventeen-year-old me still on the sand, plotting how to outrun the future.
The future arrived as another text from Holly.
Holly: The resort is still so unique. Rustic charm with a laid-back vibe. Not fancy, but it has character! Tidal Hops is great. Hurry!
I rechecked my hair,hesitating. I was used to minimizing myself—shrink to fit, blend in, don’t ruffle feathers. Walking into a room of strangers and family set my stomach tap-dancing.
But tonight was for Holly. And maybe for the Brynn who wondered what it felt like to own the room.
I slipped on my sandals and stepped into the humid, golden evening. The path to the taproom curved along the water, lit by somewhat rusty solar lights. I skirted a cluster of guests already deep into the welcome punch and ducked into the ladies’ room for a pep talk.
“Don’t look like you’re casing the joint,” I muttered to the mirror. “Just be normal.”
My reflection looked unconvinced, but I squared my shoulders anyway and went to face the mixer.
Tidal Hops had cheery turquoise walls hung with vintage wooden surfboards and a ceiling strung with LED string lights. Wooden beams were etched with initials, and the walls held framed photos of fish and locals with fish. Every table was packed, the noise level just shy of a rock concert, and the air thick with the smell of hoppy beer and fried seafood.
