I laugh.
Ninety seconds left.
My stomach twists again.
I close my eyes.
Start counting my breaths.
One. Two. Three?—
“Bollocks,” Nova interjects. “That cake looks like utter shite.”
Another second passes.
I tap the floor with my heel.
Try to remember what day I last got my period. Everything blurs together—moving, work, Turner kissing me in the pool.
Thirty seconds.
I close my eyes again. “I can’t look.”
“Dammit. I knew I should have insisted on going home with you.”
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The timer buzzes.
My heart stutters.
Time to look…
turner
. . .
There’s a half-empty margarita glass sweating on the table between us, and my sister’s mascara is halfway down her cheeks like war paint. She’s doing that thing where she cries and tries to pretend she’snotcrying, which isn’t a good look for her.
Red nose.
Bloodshot eyes.
Sniffles.
At least it looks and sounds like she has a cold.
“I swear,” Georgia says, stabbing her chip into the dip. “If one more person tells me this is ‘for the best,’ or everything happens for a reason, I’m going to throw this queso in their face.” She sighs. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”
I drag my own chip through the soupy mess in the middle of the table and grunt. “Do it. I’ll back you up.”
My sister rolls her eyes. “You always say that.”
