We hurry back to the party.
“She passed out in one of the upstairs bedrooms, but when I went back, she was gone,” Luna says. “Viv and I can’t find her anywhere.”
“She’s a bit of a drunk wanderer,” I puff back. “Last New Year’s she went missing for hours. I found her at the dollar-pizza place.”
The house is bordered by cliffs. What if she stumbles, loses her footing? Panic grips me. I shout her name, scan the cliff tops. Nothing. The sound of the party gets louder. The band has started; fun, fizzy dance-pop. The reception is still in full swing.
“Let’s just find her and leave,” I say. I squeeze Cooper’s hand. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry about,” he says. “I’ll check the parking lot and the front of the house.”
We fan out. I edge around the crowded dance floor, searching for a flash of brown skin in a lady tux. Everyone is talking, laughing, shouting over the band. The night is loosening. Little kids race through the adults’ legs, knocking over a potted plant. Someone’s fedora floats in the koi pond, nibbled by fat orange fish. Two teenagers with hollow cheekbones and flops of hair are voguing with the intensity of a drill sergeant. An old man is sleeping peacefully, his cheek resting in a fat slice of white frosted cake.
Of course. I know where Steph is.
The kitchen is no longer the bustling epicenter it was hours ago. Plates of half-eaten appetizers crowd the counter. I could’ve sworn she’d be here, inhaling crab cakes and stuffed mushrooms. Stainless steel pots and pans hang like avant-garde decorations above the kitchen island. His reflection appears in a soup ladle, warped and stretched out.
“Not now,” I groan.
“Lacey,” Elan says, his voice serious and low. “Please. We really need to talk.” He puts a hand on my arm.
I shake it off. “Go away. Before someone sees you.” I glance behind me.
And see that someone already has.
Vivian is in the kitchen entrance.
For one long moment, we all stand there, frozen. We were talking about business, about something to do with the app. But the truth unfurls over Vivian’s face and I know that she knows. My eyes meet Elan’s. At least he can take half the assault that’s about to happen.
Elan puts his hands into his pockets, and takes a step back.
Don’t you fucking dare. Don’t you dare back out of this.
But of course, he does, leaving my business partner and me alone in the kitchen.
Her lips are pressed so tight they’re white. “Before he joined the board of directors, or after?”
Two party guests barrel in, laughing, drunk, diving for the appetizers. I move closer to her, away from them. “Not now.”
“No,” she says, her eyes hard as bullets. “Now.”
I follow her into a laundry room. Two industrial-size washer-dryers sit silently in the darkness, big enough to fit a body in. The air smells like fabric softener and dryer sheets, the scent so fake and cloying it makes me feel sick. This room is distinctly absent of wedding niceties: it’s off the map of this event. We’re in no-man’s-land.
Vivian speaks through gritted teeth. “When?”
“I want you to know, I never meant for any of it to get this far.” I’m speaking quickly, hands raised as if to ward off an attack. “I never meant to lie to you.”
“When,” she asks, “did it start?”
My heart is racing. I’m sweating.
“For fuck’s sake, Lacey, just tell me how long you’ve been fucking Elan Behzadi!”
I work to steady my voice. “March,” I say. “We started sleeping together in March. But it’s over now, it’s been over for months.”
Air drains out of her. She looks at me as if she has no idea who I am.
I babble an explanation, partly timeline, partly excuse: Thought I’d be judged— Never meant to be serious— To save the company— Fell in love.
“Hold up,” she says. “You’re in love with him?”
“I thought I was,” I say. “But now I know that the way he treated me isn’t the way you treat someone you love.”
“How did he— Wait, no, I don’t care. I don’t want to know.” She refocuses on me. “So Elan bailing on Clean Clothes. Is that to do with your relationship?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lacey,” she snaps. “Grow a pair.”
“Okay, yes,” I say. “I don’t know for sure, but yes, probably. But he only got involved because of me, too. I brought him in.”
“You should’ve told me that! That was something I needed to know!” Her body contracts, as if she’d been punched in the stomach. She crumples to her hands and knees.
I rush to her. “Viv!”
She pushes me away. “Last chance,” she says hoarsely, her hands planted on the tiles. “That was our last chance. And you fucked it. You fucked it, and you fucked me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I might cry. “Viv, I’m so sorry.”
Her words are directed at the floor. “You’re rotten, Lacey. You think you’re a good person, but you’re not.”
She’s right.
I’m rotten.
My eyes fill with tears.
Vivian inhales deeply and rises to her feet, refusing to take the hand I offer her. She straightens her dress, smooths her hair, and opens the laundry room door.
“Vivian.” I trail her. “Wait.”
“Why?” She doesn’t stop. “We’re not friends anymore.” She says it like it’s a fact.
* * * *
Everything around me is smoking rubble. My life is a bomb site. It’s only as I approach the clusters of wedding guests outside, all shouting over the band, dancing, drinking, do I realize I cannot be here. I need to leave. Get back to Brooklyn. How?
I spot Luna in the far corner of the patio, surreptitiously trying to get my attention. I hurry over, careful not to make eye contact with anyone. I’m sure my makeup is a sad smeary disaster.
“I found Steph; kept her in one place with a dozen mini quiches,” Luna says. “But we should leave. I have a car.”
“Oh, thank God,” I moan, resisting the urge to collapse in her arms and have her carry me away, action-hero-style.
Luna blinks at me. “Are you ready to go?”
I can’t even answer this question: it’s like asking if I like being alive. YES. “Where is she?”
“Here.” Luna steps back and points. At an empty chair by the door. “Fuck. She was right here.”
I spin around. “She can’t have gone far—”
We both see her at the same time. Walking unsteadily up to the koi pond. Peering inside it. Dangerously close to the edge.
Luna and I start moving for her. We haven’t even covered half the distance when Steph whips her hand to cover her mouth. As if taking a final bow after a particularly well-received performance, she doubles over at the waist and loudly vomits a dozen mini quiches into the koi pool.
Guests shuffle back, their faces a mix of pity, disgust, and amusement. I lock eyes with Eloise, standing six feet away. On seeing me and making the connection that yes, the puking drunk girl is my friend, her expression settles into: Of. Course.
I take Steph’s arm. “Come on, babe. Time to go.”
Steph takes a step, eyes glassy and unsure. Then she pulls away and vomits into the pond again.
“Good God.” It’s Eloise, her voice as cold and crisp as a glacier. “Can someone call security?”
I roll my eyes and shoot her a dirty look. “Come on, Steph . . .”
Steph plops down on the ground. “Just a sec.”
“She can’t stay there.” Eloise steps away from her group, addressing me directly. “You both need to leave.”
“That’s what we’re trying to do,” I say, wanting her to shut the hell up. Everyone’s staring.
“Now,” Eloise says, even louder. “This is a wedding.”
Steph moans softly and places her cheek on the stone edge of the pond, curling into a ball. It’s such an accidentally insolent move, so directly defying Queen Eloise, I almost laugh. I look right at Eloise, and shrug. “Guess we’re staying here.”
I figure Eloise will roll her eyes and stalk off. But to my surprise, it infuriates her. An ugly anger I’ve never seen in her explodes across her face. She strides toward me so fast I think she’s going to hit me. Her eyes are burning. “You are being incredibly rude.”
I scorch with rage. Everything in me wants to slap her. “Fuck. Off.”
“Lacey, leave,” she snaps. She raises an arm, pointing at the exit. Her voice is shaking. “I strongly suggest you leave.”
“No you leave.” I raise my hands, pretending I’m about to shove her, just to make her flinch. Startled, she takes a full step back. Her heel catches on the edge of the pond. For one amazing second, she wobbles, arms spinning like helicopter blades, before she slowly tips backward and she falls.
A shallow splash. Eloise Cunningham-Bell is on her ass in the koi pond, surrounded by Steph’s floating vomit.
There’s a full second of silence before she unhinges her jaw and screams, a bloodcurdling, glass-shattering scream. A dozen bodies rush to her assistance. My mind is static with shock, the full horror of what just happened beginning to edge into full consciousness. Dumbly, I look back around at the crowd.
Patricia stands alone on the lawn watching me with grim dispassion. Her arms are folded. One eyebrow is hooked all the way up.
Her expression says everything.
I’m done.