At the top, there’s one final surprise: a gold-plated golf cart with cream leather seats and a tiny screen that flashes our names in block letters.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Connor mutters.
The driver, wearing a short-sleeve button-down and aviators, doesn’t bat an eye. “Welcome,” he says in a thick accent. It sounds more Italian than German to me, but what do I know? “We’ll be at the house in three minutes.”
Connor shoots me a look. “This feels extremely on brand for your friend.”
I laugh. “Right? I was expecting fancy, but this is a full-blown lifestyle catalog.”
We bump along a narrow winding road, through a grove of evergreen trees, past what I’m pretty sure is a yoga pavilion. And then we round a curve—and there it is.
The house.
More modern than expected, with floor-to-ceiling windows, sprawling decks, and stone steps that curve into the mountainside. It’s definitely equal parts Bond villain lair and luxury spa retreat in the Alps. I think my jaw actually drops.
Connor whistles low, hands tucked into the pockets of his pants as he turns three-sixty and looks around us. “Okay, so… how do we act like we belong here?”
I snort and catch myself, but he’s already smiling in my direction. “You do belong here.”
He doesn’t smile back right away. “Meh,” he says with one of those shrugs, the sound deliberately disinterested. There’s a flicker of something else beneath it, a small shift in his posture, the way his shoulders go a little rigid, like the comment landed in a place he didn’t expect.
Like maybe he thinks I meantthat kindof belonging. The old-money, trust-fund-boy kind.
The kind that is in such opposition to me, a working-class immigrant who doesn’t belong with this type of crowd.
I almost clarify—almost sayI meant it as a joke—but then he looks over at me again, expression soft as he decides not to take it personally.
“Anyway,” he says, a touch lighter, a polite smile on his lips. “Lead the way.”
6
MANUELA
When I wakeup from my nap, the light in the room is golden and low, casting long, dark shadows across the floor. For a moment, I have no idea where I am, because it’s an expansive, white, and blinding room,almostsurgical and very different to my bedroom in New York.
Then I remember—the flight, the trains, the boat across the lake, and the absurd golf cart with heated seats. The house.
Everything was quiet when we entered, and I assumed the group was either out doing something or resting in their rooms. Either way, I was drowsy with sleep and headed up to the top floor where my room was waiting—a small note from Elle on the bed welcoming me to the trip of her dreams letting me know they were down by the lake if I wanted to join.
I stretch without moving much, blinking slowly at the wooden beams that crisscross the tall ceiling. The room is beautiful in a way that feels effortless. Clean lines, a linen duvet in the softest cream, a single vase of flowers on the sill. The window’s cracked open just enough for a cool breeze to sneak in. Beyond, the lake shines wildly, the sun setting behind the peaks like in a movie. I think I see a pair of swans swimming by theshore, but I can’t confirm they’re there. It’s nothing like home, that’s for sure.
I didn’t mean to sleep so long. Just meant to rest my eyes, maybe check a few messages and go through the itinerary so that I can be up and ready to go whenever the group is moving. My phone is still face-down on the nightstand, and for once, I don’t reach for it. Outside, the world is quiet except for the faintest clatter of plates, the low murmur of voices drifting in from somewhere below.
Dinner, it seems.
I sit up slowly, the sheets soft against my skin, and try not to think about how long it’s been since I felt this still. Not just tired, but static in that rare way, like your body’s here but your mind hasn’t caught up yet. It happened a lot in Buenos Aires, when I would go back to Tres Fuegos to visit, and the small-town living consumed me in ways I didn’t expect to love so much after living away from it for a decade.
I should message my mom, let her know I made it safely. But the thought of explaining where I am, of describing this place over voice notes and a series of photos and videos, feels overwhelming right now.
I run my fingers through my hair, twist it up into a messy knot, and pad barefoot to the window. The terrace is visible from here, two stories below and set back on a platform that juts into the trees. There are string lights overhead, soft and warm, and a long wooden table being set with mismatched dinnerware and bowls that look like they belong in a food magazine. Someone uncorks a bottle of wine. Someoneoohsandahhsat the movement. I can’t see who it is, but I recognize the cadence of the sounds from years of listening to the same chants.
It looks like a scene from a movie I’m not quite in yet. But I’m close.
I slip into the ensuite bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and change into a loose sundress I stuffed into my suitcase last minute. I don’t think it’s warm enough for me to be wearing too few clothes, but from where I stood by the window, it looked like the outdoor heaters were doing their thing and keeping everyone toasty even in the crisp fall evening. The air smells like rosemary and soap when I open the door and tiptoe out into the hall.
I don’t run into anyone on my way downstairs, but I do snoop around the house. All the bedrooms look identical, except for one on the second floor that seems to be Elle’s—it’s almost the entire length of the house and potentially bigger than my whole apartment back home. There’s no sign of the bride, so I continue making my way down the stairs in search of her and food. By the time I reach the back terrace, people are already gathering around the table in loose clusters.
Connor is leaning against the railing, his hair slightly mussed from sleep, a bottle of sparkling water (club soda?) in hand. He looks over as I step outside, and the corner of his mouth lifts, lazy and amused. “Good nap?”
