NINE
Lauren
As we walk, I worry.
How much has Kate had to drink? Did she pound shots when I wasn't looking? Like me, she’s has never been able to hold her liquor. Take the time in college when we used our terrible fake IDs to get into a club: she ended up spending the entire night barfing in the bathroom, and I passed the whole evening at her side holding her hair out of the toilet instead of dancing with a hot guy from Toronto whose name I never caught.
Back then I'd laughed it off, because it was hilarious. Tonight, practically a decade later — a decade, we were eighteen at that club on Chicago's Miracle Mile — it's a little less funny.
Way less funny.
Being with Max at the springs was wonderful, and I'm annoyed our evening got interrupted. It isn't often I get to make out with a man who's handsome and kind and funny and apparently also a closet romantic who carries heart-shaped rocks in his jacket pockets.
I practically have to run to keep up with Remy, who has long legs like his brother. We power down a path toward the far edge of the springs. Remy and Max wave to a small cluster of guests who are smoking weed at a clearing.
After a couple more minutes we stop. Damien's pacing on the limestone path, and Tate is sitting a few yards away on a bench, smoking a cigar.
“I found Lauren,” Remy pants.
Damien takes a few steps toward me. In the darkness, he looks even bigger, especially with that scowl.
“Where is she?” Panic rises in my chest, and I think about all those Lifetime movies Kate and I used to watch on Sunday afternoons. Did Damien do something? Say something? Did he hurt her? “What happened?”
“Over there. She got a little emotional and wants to talk with you. Only you.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down. “Not me.”
For a man who's supposedly marrying Kate out of kindness and concern for her health insurance, he looks like someone who is lovesick. I glance at the limestone ledge where it extends over the water. In the moonlight I can make out a figure in a white dress, huddled at the edge. Below us, the water shimmers and it’s almost otherworldly.
I feel like I’m suddenly in a fantasy novel.
“Okay,” I say. “I'll go talk to her.”
I slip my sandals off and hand them to Max. When I step onto the first flat rock, he reaches for my arm.
“We'll go slowly, okay?”
I turn to him. “There's no we. Kate won't talk if you're with me. I'll be fine.”
“You sure? The limestone can be uneven and slippery.”
“I’ve walked on tons of rocks before.” Although I can’t really name any at the moment, beyond a neighborhood river in Ohio when I was a kid. Still. The rocks are mostly flat, and not steep. I hand my purse to Max.
“Wait. Here.” Max pulls his phone from his pocket and switches on the flashlight, handing it to me. Our fingers touchfor a second and I briefly wonder why I didn’t think of that with my phone, since it’s like my third arm. “Be careful.”
I give him a small smile, wanting to lean over and kiss him but aware of the three Hastings brothers standing nearby.
Right. Focus.
I turn and begin stepping carefully, rock by rock, shining the light about a foot ahead of me. Step, pause. Step, pause. Some of the rocks tilt at odd angles, but most are solid. I extend one arm for balance.
Piece of cake.
When I'm about five feet from Kate I slow down. “Hey. Katie,” I say softly.
She twists her head. I can see in the phone's light that her eyes are already puffy. “Hi,” she sniffles.
“You okay?” I reach her and crouch on the rock beside her. She's dangling her legs over the edge of the limestone, a few feet above the water, and the spring goes a deep, sapphire blue for a second. Part of me wants to ask about what’s up with the water, but there are bigger issues afoot.
I fold one knee slowly to my chest, then the other. Max's illuminated phone rests in my lap and gives off just enough light that it looks like my midsection is glowing. I can practically feel the angst coming off Kate in waves.
