“Do you actually think they're going to be okay? Damien and Kate?”
“Do you know something I don't?” I raise an eyebrow.
“I know Kate.” She meets my eyes. “She’s more complicated than she looks. And he's heading out west soon and she's going to be here, and I just —” She stops. “I worry about her.”
“I worry about him,” I say. “He doesn't let people in easily. Never has. If Kate's gotten in, that means something. It's not casual for him.”
She absorbs that. Nods slowly. “Okay. I guess that's good.”
“What about you?” She pokes my knee with the toes of her good foot. “Are you actually okay? You've been managing a lot this weekend.”
The question catches me slightly off guard. “I'm fine.”
“That was a fast answer.”
“I'm —” I stop. Look at the middle distance for a moment. “It's strange being back here. The resort. I spent my whole childhood in this building and now I'm the one selling it. Some days that feels like the right thing. Some days it feels like something I'll regret for the rest of my life.”
I pause. “That's more than you asked for.”
“No,” she says. “That's exactly what I asked for.”
We sit silent for a moment.
“I grew up in a rental house in Chillicothe, Ohio,” she says. “So I genuinely cannot imagine what it's like to have a placethat's been yours since childhood. But I think I understand not knowing whether you're doing the right thing.”
Something in me settles slightly at that. It’s not a panacea, but for now, I feel a little less alone.
“You want to know something ridiculous?” she asks.
“Very much.”
“I show people the beautiful version of my life. That's literally my job. And I'm good at it. But the real me is a lower-middle-class girl from Ohio with a severe case of imposter syndrome who fell off a rock in the dark and broke her ankle at her best friend's wedding because she's a klutz.” She pauses. “And I don't know what's next.”
“The real you also gave that toast,” I say. “And went out on the limestone ledge when Kate needed someone. And cried through the entire ceremony with my handkerchief.”
She lets out a breath. “I've demolished that handkerchief, by the way. I'm sorry.”
“I think I have a few more.” I pause. “Which Lauren do you think is more interesting? The curated one or the one who falls off rocks and shows up for her best friend anyway?”
She opens her mouth and closes it again.
“Scooter down the aisle,” I say. “Tampon bouncing off the doorframe. That's the Lauren I've been paying attention to all weekend.” I pause. “You're aware of that, right?”
Something shifts in her expression — surprise, and something more careful than surprise.
“Nobody actually wants that Lauren,” she says quietly. “That woman is often told she's too much.”
“I do. I want that Lauren.”
She looks at me for a long moment. The ceiling fan turns. The DJ winds down somewhere below us. I desperately want to kiss her but don’t know if this is the moment.
“I should probably check my phone,” she says finally. “I've been ignoring it all night. I didn't want to know what was happening out in the world. I just wanted to be here.”
She picks up the phone from the nightstand. “A photo I posted of Kate and Damien's vows has probably done well.”
I get up to refill her water. At the small kitchen window I look out at the dark line of the Starlight River through the cypress trees. The wedding lights are still strung out there, swaying in the breeze.
I hear the clicks of her scrolling. Then a long silence that has a different quality than before.
