“It’ll be fine!” I insist as my brain already begins prioritizing tasks. “I mean, obviously I’ll need to cut some corners,” I say as my inner perfectionist purses her lips and gives me a severe look, “but I’ll manage.”
Sofia gazes at me with something like pity. “Okay, but doesn’t this seem like the perfect opportunity to say no to them for once?”
“It’s her sixtieth,” I reason. “You know if I don’t help, I’ll be written out of the will.”
“And miss out on all those inflatable lawn ornaments?” she asks dryly. “Say it isn’t so.”
“Sof, please,” I say. “They’re still my family.”
“Gracie, they literally only get in touch when they need something, and youneversay no.”
“Well, not all of us grow up with perfect parents like yours. It doesn’t mean I want to cut them off,” I respond, hurt darkening my insides like a bruise.
When we were children, it was impossible not to wish that my own parents were as emotionally available as hers. And even as I got older and realized that was never going to happen, it didn’t stop me from trying to be seen and appreciated by them.
Looking chastened, Sofia blinks several times as her legs cross a little tighter. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I know how lucky I am, but they’re far from perfect, you know,” she says in a subdued voice. “They have issues, too.”
Her expression becomes closed off as she looks away from me, and my heartbeat accelerates. “What do you mean?” I ask, going still. “Is everything okay?”
She glances up at me and takes in my expression. “Yeah, it’s fine. Same old, same old,” she assures me, but her smile is tight. “So, what do you think we should watch tonight?”
Well aware she’s changing the subject, I eye her before saying, “Evil Dead?”
She gives me a smile—a real one this time—and relief blooms through me.
“You’re probably the only hopeless romantic in the world who wouldn’t rather watchBridget Jones’s Diaryright now.”
“Gotta have balance,” I say, taking another bite of empanada. “I’m like a chocolate-covered potato chip. Sweetandsalty.”
“You are my favorite weirdo, Gracie Holland.”
I lean over and kiss her cheek. “You’re mine, too.”
She smiles, and for the rest of the night, there’s no more talk about my impending career crisis, Jude, or my questionable family dynamics. With Sofia’s tenuous support, I know my next move.
Even if it might just break me.
6GRACIE
Seven Weeks Before the Wedding
Agreeing to plan my ex-boyfriend’s wedding is something not even my wildest nightmares have prepared me for.If only. I could have used a hint on how to endure this. But after leaving Sofia’s house last night and weighing all my options (no, I haven’t ruled out chaining myself to the cottage), I haven’t come up with a plan that feels morally better than this one.
Obviously, the moreconventionalpath forward would be to just accept what’s happening and start scouring job sites while I resist the urge to toilet-paper Jude’s car. But after years of struggling with my business, I’ve finally found something I’m great at with people I love working with.
And still, as I tossed and turned last night, Itriedto convince myself to go quietly. I know this plan is ridiculous and will probably be shot down by Jude in an instant. Butnottrying leaves me with an image I can’t shake. Larkwood, languishing as some celebrity’s rarely used fifth home while Agatha looks on from above, cursing their love of bland neutrals and wall-to-wall carpeting. So while my odds of saving Larkwood might be worse than a cockroach finding true love (and by “a cockroach,” I mean Jude), I’m not ready to give up yet.
I open the video call app on my phone. On the screen, my dark eyes, dark hair, and sun-fearing skin make me look like an anemic vampire. I’ll bet anything Brooke is naturally blond, tan, andso full!after her daily green juice breakfast. But since the universe is akindandbenevolentruler (did you hear that, Universe?), I probably won’t have my suspicions confirmed on this call.Right?
Swallowing hard, I hit the Call button.
“Gracie, hi!” Calvin says, picking up after one ring. “I was beginning to think I’d never hear from you!”
I force my face not to reveal how lovely that alternative would have been as I’m confronted by the same kitchen I used to make coffee in, wearing just his T-shirt. “Hi, Cal. How are you?”
“Completely depends on you, I guess,” he says, flashing me a nervous grin. “Have you made your decision?”
“Right to the chase, huh?” I ask, reaching for a small zombie toy on my desk. Its cute little eyes and brain pop out when you squeeze it, like the world’s weirdest stress ball.
