I pause the video. The answer is obviouslySecrets of the Bizarre. In middle school Sybil wasobsessedwith this sci-fi show that explored weird theories like where bigfoot lives and how aliens built the pyramids. If you don’t know Sybil well, it seems pretty off-brand. I’m actually not sure if Jamie will get this one. In my anticipation to find out, I hit play a second too early.
“Secrets of the Bizarre,” Jaime says on my phone.
“Happiest Place,” Sybil overlaps.
“Wait, what?” I’m looking at Sybil, but she’s looking at Finn. The two of them have dissolved into fits of laughter.
“Remember Tony from season three?” Finn asks.
“With the”—Sybil gasps for air—“loose tooth?”
Finn nods, and Sybil bursts out a tinkling laugh that somehow becomes a snort.
Nikki and Willow look as confused as I feel.
“That reality show about the sex lives of theme park workers?” Willow asks.
“Oh, right,” Nikki says. “I know a girl who auditioned for that.”
Wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, Sybil goes to take her drink, but I reach out a hand to stop her.
“I’m sorry, what the hell are you talking about?” I’m growing indignant—on Jamie’s behalf, of course. “You lovedSecrets of the Bizarre!”
“Yeah, but I don’t really think of that as a guilty pleasure.” Sybil shrugs. “It was just a phase.Happiest Placeis…”
“A way of life,” Finn finishes.
Irritation prickles along my spine. Clearly this show is something Sybil and Finn bonded over during what I only half-jokingly call “the dark years”—the brief period when my friendship with Sybil faded into childhood friends who have years of shared memories, but who don’t talk on a regular basis. In some ways it was a natural, normal drifting apart—Sybil started hanging with a cooler crowd senior year, I threw myself into academic pursuits—but nothing about it felt normal at the time. Maybe because that’s also around the time Finn and Sybil became close—despite the fact that Finn and I had already suffered a disastrous junior prom incident the year before that all but obliterated our friendship, which Sybil well knew. In some ways, it felt like she was choosing him over me. And that stung.
But this isn’t about Finn Hughes temporarily usurping my role as Sybil’s best friend. This is about the fact that Sybil is objectively wrong about this trivia question, and I grab my phone to prove it.
“Dictionary.com says a guilty pleasure is ‘something one enjoys despite feeling that it is not generally held in high regard,’” I read off the screen. “I’m sorry, Sybil, butSecrets of the Bizarreis not held in high regard by anyone except you and the tinfoil-hat makers.”
“Well, actually,” Finn interrupts with perhaps the two most obnoxious words in the English language, “according to their IMDb,Secrets of the Bizarrewon two Janner Awards for television production, so you could argue that—”
“No.” I’m standing now, like I’m at an invisible podium. “You have to define the terms within the context of the social sphere in which they’re—”
“Oh, here we go.” Finn rolls his eyes, but he’s standing now, too, both of us assuming the debate team stance. Willow steps between us.
“All right, nerds, settle down,” she says, holding her arms out like she, at six and a half months pregnant, is going to prevent a fistfight from breaking out. Willow heaves a small groan and rubs her lower back as she shuffles over to give Sybil a hug. “Sybs, I’m sorry, but I think I’m going to head to bed. Don’t worry, as soon as the baby is born, you can give them hell for making me such a party pooper.”
Without Willow standing between us, suddenly I’m mere inches away from Finn Hughes and his deep brown eyes. They bore into mine, burning with that familiar spark—annoyance, competition, and maybe, just a little bit of fun?
“I’ll go with you.” I snap my gaze away from Finn’s, away from what can only be described as dangerous territory. Finn and I have had our chances, and they all imploded spectacularly again and again, across a series of stupid moments from forever ago that I am totally over. Except for when I’m forced to come face-to-face with Finn Hughes. On those rare occasions, I’m suddenly dropped back into a swirl of memories and go from confident, twenty-eight-year-old Emma to heartbroken,sixteen-year-old Emma—every single one of my insecurities wailing like a tornado siren.
“It’s nearly two a.m. New York time. I’m exhausted.” It’s a lie. I’m totally wired. But I hug Nikki and Sybil goodnight. Finn I just nod to. “Is it okay if we take the golf cart? I can ask the concierge to send one back.”
“I can drive Sybil and Nikki back,” Finn assures me. Willow and I wave a final goodbye and head to our rooms.
IT FEELS LIKEI’VEjust fallen asleep when I hear a loud crash and soft curse from the living room of our cottage. I lay there for a minute debating going to check, but a history of cleaning up the aftermath of Sybil’s late-night whims has me dragging myself out of bed. Sybil has thrown the doors to the coat closet wide open and is struggling to unzip the garment bag housing her wedding dress. I am immediately wide awake.
“What’s going on?” I ask cautiously.
“I need to try on my dress.”
“Why don’t we do it in the morning when there’s more light?” And less chance of a drunk Sybil destroying a five-figure gown.
“No, I need itnow. I need to make sure it still fits.”
