“What's going on?” I ask softly, glancing back at the four brothers on shore. “Did you drink too much?”
She shakes her head. “I haven't had much to drink at all.”
“Then what is it?”
Kate sniffles loudly, then breaks out into a sob. And another. She leans into my body and cries into my shoulder, and I wrap my arm around her. Her cries get swallowed up by the night sounds — the water moving below us, the wind in the cypress trees, the very distant murmur of the last bonfire stragglers.
“I love him,” she sniffles.
“You love who?” I whisper.
“Damien.” She pulls back and looks at me with her puffy, moonlit eyes. “I love him, Lauren. For real. I realized tonight that we've spent a lot of time together and they've been the best weeks of my life.”
I take that in. My first instinct is a small, private sting. I would’ve guessed her best months were that first summer in our Chicago loft, rollerblading on the waterfront, crashing into the Bean while tourists photographed us. Working all day and dreaming about our new careers at night over a bottle of wine and some Lou Malnati’s deep dish pizza. But I don't say this.
“He understands me, like you do. He makes me laugh. He makes me think. I feel like myself with him. And when he said he'd marry me for health insurance I didn't want to say yes but I did, and now I love him. I want to be his real wife.”
“Have you told him this?”
“No.” She swings her feet above the water. “I was watching him at the bonfire. He plays guitar — did you know that? He has this beautiful, quiet voice. He started singing and he looked at me the whole time, and I just — I lost it completely. It hit me like a freight train.”
“So you came out here to cry alone on the rocks instead of talking to him?”
She gives me a watery look. “Obviously.”
“Kate.” I sigh. “Come on. Let’s be rational. Tell him.”
“What if he doesn't feel the same way? What if I’m like a pity project, and telling him scares him off right before our wedding?”
I lean my head against hers. “The man was pacing the shore like a worried parent when I walked up. That's not how you look at a pity project. I also saw him kiss you and that is a man who was enjoying every second.”
She sniffles. “You think?”
“I know it for a fact.”
“Listen. Let’s just get through the wedding.” I squeeze her shoulder. “We’re going to have a blast. Damien’s great. His family is pretty wonderful.”
At that moment, I feel her whole body relax against mine. The spring glows quietly, a beautiful deep blue. Something in the night air shifts and tension dissolves.
“Lauren,” she says after a while.
“Yeah?”
“I'm a mess. I'm back in Cypress Grove. I have no job except bartending at a tiki bar, and I'm in love with my fake husband.”
“Not the wedding you imagined?”
“Nope. And it probably wasn’t what you anticipated, either.” She follows that up with a loud sniffle.
I think about Max at the springs. The way he'd listened. The stone he'd pocketed. The way he'd kissed me like he meant it.
“Actually, it’s not what I expected,” I admit, “but it might be exactly what I needed.”
She lifts her head and looks at me with one raised eyebrow.
“I'll explain later,” I say, slowly standing up and holding my hand out for her. “Right now, let's get you back to the resort. We can hang out in my room and watch some late night TV and sleep. We have a lot to do tomorrow. And maybe you want to have a chat with Damien, too.”
“You’re right. Hey, thanks. Thanks for being here for me.” She takes my hand and lifts herself to her feet, then embraces me.
