Before dinner, Rhys announces that he is going for a run. I suspect the run is an alibi for a shower in the guesthouse, so I take my own shower in our bedroom and let myself be annoyed in private. When I'm dressed, I sift through the small pile of shirts, jeans, and sundresses I brought. Most of them are black, white, or blue.
One red dress sits apart from the rest. Livia gave it to me for my last birthday without asking my size; she has always had an uncanny eye for that. I used to think of it as the dress I'd wear when I was ready to date again. The few times I've tried, though, it stayed in the closet.
Now it seems made for a more specific occasion: the wedding of a man who left me, where I might knock over the cake and set his tie alight. It's short, tight, and very red. In other words, exactly right.
I pull it on, pin my hair up, put in the only hoop earrings I packed, and carry my heels downstairs.
Livia stands in the kitchen tracking our approaching cab on her phone. She's handing out water to everyone except Rhys, who isn't there.
“Drink, drink, drink,” she orders. “Tonight we're twenty-one and on spring break again.”
Jules laughs, her strawberry-blond hair bouncing. “You should all be grateful you didn't know me at twenty-one. The canned energy drinks still had caffeine then.”
“I have excellent pictures of the body shots,” Dane says. “They'd be perfect for the wedding photo wall.”
“The what?” I ask.
A chill runs up the back of my neck just before Rhys comes in from the patio. “For the wedding.”
His hair is still damp. One curl has fallen toward his forehead. In a gray T-shirt tucked halfway into blue-gray chinos, he looks up and sees me. His eyes travel over the dress, then he misses a step before catching himself. He turns to the refrigerator and fills his bottle.
I need a second to remember what we were talking about. “A photo wall for Saturday? Is there anything I can do?”
“No, not for our wedding,” Livia says. “For yours.”
“Your parents sent us baby pictures years ago,” Dane explains. “We've been adding to the wall ever since. It's a long-term humiliation project.”
“I don't remember this at all.”
“You weren't in the room when we decided,” Rhys says. “You were teaching that semester.”
Livia finally looks up from her phone. She sees the dress and grins. “Mara. Va-va-voom. I told you red was your color.”
I make myself smile. “You were right. I wear it on date nights now.”
A splash against the floor draws everyone's attention. Rhys has tipped his bottle, and water runs over the tile. Bianca jumps off her stool to get out of its path. Her mushroom guide slips from her hand.
“Sorry,” Rhys mutters. He grabs the lobster-print towel from the dishwasher handle and gives it to her to dry the water on her black dress and boots. In that outfit, she could front a famous grunge band.
Dane pats Rhys's shoulder while Rhys mops the floor. “You all right? You seem somewhere else.”
“I'm fine.” Rhys tosses the soaked towel onto the counter. “Fine.”
The second answer sounds even less true. I step around the island, take the bottle from him, and hold his gaze while I drink.
“Thirsty?” he asks.
“Not anymore.” I hand it back.
“Our cab's here!” Livia says, rising from her stool. “Book away, Bianca. Finish your water, Jules. Let's go.”
• • •
I take my time climbing into the van, making no effort to keep my barely covered backside away from Rhys. Once I'm wedged between him and Livia, my confidence fades a little. Dane turns on a playlist of early-2000s party songs, which saves us from conversation. Rhys spends the whole ride looking at his phone.
A few minutes later we reach our old haunt, the Net Shed. It's a battered little bar with no sign and no mention of that name on the menus or napkins. Somehow everyone knows what to call it.
I was nineteen the first time I came here, newly dumped. Livia knew they didn't check IDs. Back then Bianca could take six tequila shots and still be upright, arguing with frat boys about portrait painters.
We sang and danced, and cinnamon whiskey kept appearing at our table. At last I stopped checking my phone for a message from my ex. But when we got home and Livia and Bianca went off to shower, the loneliness returned. The alcohol had worn down my defenses.
I went to the little powder room no one used, turned on the faucet, sat on the closed toilet, and cried.
Not over my ex. I was lonely and afraid I'd never stop being lonely. Feelings shift. People can surprise you. You can't make someone stay by wanting it hard enough.
Bianca and Livia found me there. Livia said she'd break down the door if I didn't let them in. Then she'd have to go with her father to a polo match as an apology, she said, and she'd never let me forget it.
I unlocked the door. My tears stopped, but the knot in my throat made speech difficult. I tried to apologize and tell them I was fine, just embarrassed. They wrapped their arms around me.
“You don't have to be fine,” Bianca said.
“Or embarrassed,” Livia added.
I let them hold me until the heaviness eased. They promised they were there. After that, loneliness never found the same grip on me. No matter what, I thought, I'd always have them. At least, I used to believe that.
After this week, things between us will change. They have to.
I tell myself not to go there yet. I'm here, outside my favorite bar. Livia, Dane, Bianca, and Jules are already at the entrance.
I take a step and my heel catches between two cobblestones. Rhys appears beside me and steadies my elbow before I can fall.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “You aren't used to those shoes.”
Anger flares through the fog of nostalgia.
“You don't know what I'm used to anymore, Rhys.” I pull free and walk through the round-windowed doors.
A karaoke singer is belting out an old power ballad. The place smells of fried fish, paprika fries, beer, and vinegar. Christmas lights hang across the ceiling, scattering color over the crowd.
I catch up with Bianca. Gold flecks in her eyes catch the lights; her deep brown skin has the same warm undertone. “This place never changes,” she says close to my ear.
“Everything changes,” I answer. Seeing her expression, I force a smile and thread my arm through hers. “Remember when the crab rolls were six dollars?”
She doesn't buy my cheer. “Are you okay?”
“It's hard to breathe in this dress without worrying about the seams. Otherwise, fine.”
She still looks unconvinced. Bianca has always been able to see me clearly. I used to watch her paint and wonder how she knew which colors belonged where. I couldn't see it until the picture suddenly came together.
Rhys moves through the crowd toward the small table Livia has claimed at the back. Bianca catches me following him with my eyes.
“We had a little fight,” I admit. I'm surprised by how good it feels to tell her even that much.
“Do you want to talk about it?” She pauses. “Or maybe you need to.”
“It's fine. I'm not even sure what we were fighting about.”
“Oh, the ‘am I hungry or tired, or are you actually being awful’ fight. I know that one.”
I snort. “You and Jules don't fight.”
“Mara. I'm a sober introvert who likes to stay home. My girlfriend is a walking party bus with flashing lights. Of course we fight.”
Livia waves us over.
“Whatever's going on with Rhys,” Bianca says as we cross the room, “you'll work it out. You always do.”
Guilt settles in my stomach. “How are you? We haven't had a minute to catch up.”
“Good. Tired. Jules and I usually get up between four-thirty and five.”
“That's enough to bring back my hangover.”
She laughs. “I mostly love it. Being up before everyone else, seeing the sunrise, working outside with the vegetables.”