21

DUTCH

The day before the wedding, 6:00 P.M.

After the wedding rehearsal on the beach, everyone stood around the outdoor bar, waiting to be called in for dinner. This time everyone was drinking water—not just Emma. The heat was too much. Dutch pulled at the buttons on his linen shirt, trying to pump some air between the material and his chest.

“Holy shit. Remind me of this moment if I start bitching about the cold when we get home,” he said. “This is fucking ridiculous.” He looked at Vee. “Sorry.”

“Can’t wait for the tuxes tomorrow,” Ethan said with an eye roll.

“Ugh,” Vee said. “It’s going to be brutal. You girls are lucky. Short dresses!”

“Yeah, that and ten pounds of makeup. We’ll be melting,” Emma said with a chuckle. “And I’m not slicking my hair in a bun like I originally wanted to do. I don’t have the cheekbones for it. I’ll have to think of something that won’t make me look dreadful. Maybe a side braid, so my hair is off my neck.”

Ethan pulled her close and kissed her temple. “The face that launched a thousand ships.”

She blushed and gave him a coy smile, then jumped up to meet his lips. “Eu te amo. I love you.”

“I think it’s time for a drink.” Allie fanned herself with her left hand, but it wasn’t doing the trick for her shiny chest.

“I’ll grab them,” Dutch said. “Why don’t you guys see if there’s a spot inside, in the air conditioning. There’s that landing right up the stairs with those big windows overlooking the water. I’ll grab some beers and a bottle of prosecco. And some water,” he added, looking at Emma. “I’ll have them send a bucket of ice.”

When Ethan opened the door, the cold air immediately formed dew marks on everyone’s damp skin. They all looked like a cold bottle of beer, left out in the sun. Dripping wet. Emma held her thick hair off the back of her neck while Ethan fanned her from behind and Vee cursed the humidity with his PG-words. Allie pursed her lips as if she’d be able to stare down the heat—and win.

Dutch found them on the landing in the wicker chairs and couches with plush white cushions. They were able to get comfortable without sticking to the bottom of their seats like they would have on the leather couches on the other side of the room. Dutch carried one bucket full of beer bottles in his left hand, a bucket full of plastic water bottles in his right hand, and a bottle of prosecco tucked under his arm.

“They’re bringing an ice bucket and some glasses,” Dutch said to Allie. He handed Emma a water, and she looked deprived as her friends pulled at the various libations. Dutch, too, started with a water to cool his core temperature, and unscrewed the cap as he talked. “By this time tomorrow, they’ll be married,” he said to his friends. “Awesome.”

I’m sorry, Fiona.

He wondered if the angst would ever subside.

“Yeah,” Vee said. “Another member of our little family.”

Emma and Ethan both gave a thumbs up, silently, while sipping their respective drinks.

“It’s not like we’re going to see them all that much,” Allie said after popping the top of the prosecco and placing the cork on the table. “They live here. We all live there.” She pointed up to signal north, then drank right from the bottle since no one had brought over glasses yet.

Dutch figured he had an ally in Allie, but never mentioned his distaste for Trevor to her. He was waiting for Allie to snap, to come out with it, to say something, anything that would make him feel comfortable with echoing her sentiment. But he knew Allie was practical—never emotional.

She didn’t date much in college—everyone was either “too this” or “too that.” Too sappy, too fratty, too nerdy, too psycho. She was smart—second in their class—and didn’t want to settle. It didn’t exactly shock him when she married someone powerful like Wharton.

Dutch was at the wedding. He’d noticed she didn’t beam as she walked down the aisle, her smile stiff and forced, like an untalented artist drew it on her face. Her impatient stance proved she’d rather be scrolling through Instagram when Wharton said his vows—Dutch even thought he saw her tapping her foot, signaling “Let’s get on with this already!” Their kiss was a mechanical pact—her lip gloss didn’t even smudge. In fact, the only time she showed any proof of life was when the minister mentioned her mother’s memory. It was a quick flinch, but it gave everything away.

She spent the reception dancing with Emma and Fiona and her family members, while Wharton pressed palms and smoked cigars with his older friends and associates. They seemed like acquaintances at the morning after brunch, and all the pictures she posted on Instagram from almost three weeks in the Seychelles for their honeymoon were selfies. No kisses under the sunset or them lazily lounging by the pool, his hand on her knee while they read books and took in the rays. She never did seem interested in anything long-term or till death do they part. Dutch happily thought she’d do better single anyway. The divorce would be good for her.

Vee popped the top off one of the beers and took a long swig, then held the dripping bottle to his sweaty forehead.

“Trevor’s not that bad. I just don’t know him that well,” Vee said.

“Then why are you a fucking groomsman? Sorry, Vee, but I’ve had enough of policing my language today.” Allie rolled her eyes again, and Dutch thought she’d pull a muscle—they certainly were getting a workout.

Vee shrugged. “He asked us. Why not? It’s for Fiona.” He drank half of his beer. “Plus, Trevor’s an okay guy.”

Dutch began to wonder if his friends were telling the truth.