Mistakes We Never Made

3 Thursday Morning

(Two days before the wedding)

AS USUAL, I WAKEup before Sybil. Even on vacation I can’t stop my body clock from snapping to life at a quarter to six. While I brush my teeth, I rattle through my makeup bag looking for a bottle of Advil. After her crying jag last night, there’s no way Sybs isn’t waking up with a stuffed-up face and headache. I finish my morning routine, then fill up a glass with water and pad across the living room of our suite, double-checking that Sybil’s dress is safe and sound in the closet.

Sure enough, the garment bag is right where it should be. No evidence of last night’s episode to be found. I close the closet door and head to Sybil’s room. Urgh. I’ve no sooner stepped inside when Sybil’s slimy stick-on bra attaches itself to my foot. Sybil’s tolerance for mess is unmatched. Don’t get me wrong, I know chaos. Growing up, our house was always a topsy-turvy, cluttered mess. But while I’ve spent two decades learning how to rein in the madness enough to give the appearance of someone with their shit together, Sybil seems to just lean into the whirlwind. I’ve never understood how someone could live in such squalor and walk out into the world looking so gorgeous.

Though, to be fair, Sybil does not look gorgeous right now. One of her fake eyelashes partially detached overnight, and it looks like she’s crying fuzzy black caterpillar tears out of her left eye. My heart clenches with familiar fondness. Seeing Sybil like this always endears her to me even more. It’s like a peek behind the curtain. A reminder that even this effervescent goddess is human and not immune to the effects of forgetting to take your eye makeup off before bed.

I put the cup of water and the bottle of Advil right beside Sybil’s phone on the bedside table so she can’t miss it. Then I drape her bra, sticky side up, on the back of the desk chair by the closet and close her bedroom door behind me, breathing a sigh of relief as I return to the tidy and orderly world that is our suite’s living room. I glance at my phone. There’s a bunch of work emails that I’ll have to deal with eventually, but for now I throw on my sneakers and slip from the room, careful not to let the door slam behind me.

THE EARLY MORNING SUNgives the trails behind the resort a gentle glow. I’m used to running on a treadmill, but the mountains looked so beautiful, and I never can resist a challenge—even one that threatens to leave me with shin splints and a stitch in my side. A few minutes into my run, I hear footsteps behind me. I guess I shouldn’t have expected the trails all to myself. It’s the perfect morning to be outside. The sun hasn’t been out long enough to burn off the morning fog, and the air is cool against my skin even as I start to sweat. I try to focus on my breathing and the music pulsing through my earbuds, but the footsteps are gaining on me, and their ever-encroaching presence is causing a major distraction.

I’m weighing how likely it is that I’ll end up the subject of a future true crime podcast if I turn around and tell this jerk to get off my ass, when suddenly a deep voice rises up from behind me.

“Good morning.”

Finn frickin’ Hughes. Of course.

I hold in my groan, largely because I can’t spare the oxygen, and give him a brief wave assuming that he’ll continue past me at his nearly inhuman pace and leave me in peace. The word rugged edges into my mind, and I stomp it down. Finn Hughes is not rugged. But here on the trail, looking all sweaty with one night’s growth of stubble, he doesn’t look unrugged. Instead of passing me, he slows down to match my speed.

I’m a good runner—or I thought I was a good runner, but I’m breathing heavily, while Finn is totally unaffected by what feels like an eighty-nine-degree incline. I consider just dropping into a walk, but there’s no way that I’m going to let Finn Hughes beat me. Especially when it doesn’t seem to make a difference to him whether we’re going up a hill or down a hill. He keeps an even pace with me as we run another mile or so.

I’m dying. I am dead. I’ve died.

“How… are you… doing this?”

“There are a lot of hills in SF,” he says and shrugs. “Don’t worry, I grabbed a copy of the trail map before I headed out. There should be a little rest stop with water after the next switchback.”

Nerd. It’s not like we’re hiking in the untamed wilderness—this trail is just a loop that goes right back to the hotel. But secretly I’m glad to know salvation lies just up ahead. Sure enough, after the next turn, there’s a bench and a small shed. I collapse on the bench, while Finn ducks inside the shed and returns with two water bottles with the hotel’s logo printed along the label. He hands me one, but I shake my head and wave him away. I’m still struggling to get oxygen back into my body. Water is more than I can handle right now. He places it beside me on the bench and looks out on the view. It’s obvious why the hotel set up a rest stop here; the view from the mountains down to the ocean is stunning. If Finn weren’t here to ruin it, it would’ve been absolutely worth the effort to get up here.

We sit there, basking in the fresh air—well he’s basking, I’m struggling to return my breathing to normal—when Finn’s phone pings. He pulls it out of his armband while I pretend to study the crop of wildflowers growing on the edge of the trail. He shields his eyes to read the message, and I subtly arch my back, trying to catch a glimpse of his screen. Yes, it’s totally nosy of me, but I’m curious. It’s barely six thirty. Who would be texting him so early? Work… or a girl? Maybe he’s already swiping through the women of Southern California in hopes of landing a hookup or two while he’s in fresh territory. He types away a response on his phone, each letter audibly clacking as he goes.

“Ah yes, I love the sound of technology in the morning. Really helps me commune with nature.”

I can’t help myself. And seriously, who doesn’t keep their phone on silent mode these days anyway?

Finn shoots me a look, then scrolls up a bit and hands the phone to me.

I have no idea what to expect, but what I see there on the screen is probably the very last thing I could have come up with: there are at least three dozen photos of baby otters. One of a baby curled up asleep on its mama’s belly. Another of a pile of four babies tumbled all over each other. And one where a baby otter has bared its teeth, clearly trying to look menacing, but only succeeding in looking totally adorable. I don’t even try to stop the smile that breaks through. “That one reminds me a little bit of you,” he says, and a warm feeling washes over me, snuffing out that spark of competition.

I turn my grin to him. “So what is this? A secret fetish?”

“My mom—”

“Your mom is your secret fetish?” I interrupt with glee. We may be having a friendly-ish moment here, but come on, I can’t let that pitch go by without a swing.

“My mom,” he barrels on, ignoring my outburst, “sends me these. She has it stuck in her head that otters are my favorite animal, so whenever she comes across a picture of them, she sends it to me.”

Okay, even I have to admit that’s possibly the cutest thing I’ve ever heard. Maybe even cuter than the picture of the otter wearing overalls. It’s close.

I’ve scrolled to the end of the otter photos, and my eye catches a screenshot of a foyer covered floor to ceiling in a midnight-garden-patterned wallpaper. Not just any floral, but a hand-drawn original made by a Brooklyn artisan who has recently gone global. The exact original wallpaper, in fact, I used in a design six years ago. “Is that—”

He takes the phone back from me quickly, and I finish my question. “My foyer?”

It’s the entryway I designed for Nikki’s older sister, Jacqueline, when I first moved to New York. It’s by far my most successful piece of design work, and the room that got me hired at my current firm. It’s the first image that comes up on Pinterest if you type in my name. It’s also one of the last times that I felt like I really nailed what my client wanted while still staying true to myself as a designer. The last few years at work have seemed like compromise after compromise. But working with Jacqueline, I was able to get her to take a bit of a risk while still making sure she loved the room when we finished.

Raising the water bottle to his mouth again, Finn tries to take a sip, but has forgotten to unscrew the cap. I’m surprised at how flustered he seems. He gets the cap off and takes a long swig before replying, as if he’s deciding whether or not to deny it.

“I try to keep up with all my old schoolmates.” My mouth quirks at schoolmates—a vastly inadequate term to describe our complicated history. A small whirlpool has formed around the warm feeling in my rib cage. All the feedback I’ve gotten from work recently has been negative. It’s nice to know that maybe there are people out there who appreciate my aesthetic. “Sybil sent me the link to an article with some of your work. She knows I might need some help with a remodel down the road.”

Ah, so back to Sybil. I’ve always wondered if Finn carries a bit of torch for her, if maybe she’s the one girl he couldn’t catch. Sybil was never one of Finn’s romantic conquests (thank god), but while she and I drifted apart senior year, he seemed to take her in like a lost puppy—or more like they were two lost puppies leading each other straight into traffic. While I was busy cramming, the two of them were poster children for senioritis, hopping from back house to back house getting drunk on Coke and vanilla vodka and smoking pot.

Sybil and I eventually found our way back to each other thanks to a European backpacking trip the summer after freshman year of college—a trip that sparked the creation of the Core Four, with Nikki, Sybil, Willow, and me all traveling together for the first time. Still, it wasn’t until after college when we both moved to New York that Sybil and I got back to the level of friendship we’d had for most of high school. For three years, we were as close as sisters, living in a tiny two-bedroom in the East Village. But eventually the West Coast called for Sybil once more, and she moved back to LA. Now, with a full continent between us, I can feel her slipping away again. I’d written it off as normal adulthood stuff. I mean, she’s marrying Jamie. He’s going to be her person. That’s how it should be. But I can’t help but feel the slightest bit abandoned—and more than slightly territorial. Especially after last night’s stupid game, when Finn seemed to be flaunting that he knows more about Sybil than I do.

So, I do what I always do: go on the offensive. “That foyer seems like it might be more color than you’re up for.” I raise an eyebrow at his black shorts and a slate-gray top. Clearly this man cannot handle bold design choices. “Aren’t entrepreneurs supposed to wear the same black turtleneck every day? Are you suddenly big into florals now?”

“I could be.” Finn shifts his entire focus to me, and the warm whirlpool in my chest sinks lower in my body.

I’m about to toss back another taunt, but I swallow it down. Maybe it’s my worry about losing Sybil again, or maybe the lack of oxygen has left me without my full mental capabilities, but something makes me extend an olive branch. “We used to be a great team. If you do decide you want to work with a designer, you should give me a call.”

He gives me a surprised look, and I’m equally surprised by how much I mean it. We were a great team. Finn never misses anything, and he’s incredibly thorough. For debate prep, he would research all contingencies, all perspectives. The only downside was that he could spend too much time in the weeds. He wouldn’t go in for the kill. That’s where I would come in. I could follow my instincts, because I always knew that he’d be there to follow through with the research. It was one of the only times in my life where I knew I could depend on someone to be there for me when I was completely myself. I could go out on whatever limb I needed to because I knew Finn would be there to catch me. Until one day he didn’t.

“Well, I’m going to head back down for breakfast.” I stand, leaving my untouched water bottle abandoned on the bench.

“I think I’ll keep heading up,” Finn says. “Catch you at the welcome party tonight?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you then.”

I TAKE IT SLOWLY back down the mountain. When I make it to the patio for breakfast, the only people I recognize are Sybil’s parents. Mrs. Rain waves me over to sit with them.

“I don’t want to make you sit next to me while I’m all sweaty.”

“Oh, sweetie, don’t worry about it.” She pulls out the chair beside Mr. Rain.

“Yes, we’ll just put you downwind!” Mr. Rain quips.

I’ve always loved Sybil’s dad.

Mrs. Rain, while perfectly pleasant, always seemed less accessible. She was a different kind of mother than the one I grew up with. Playgroups, PTA fundraisers, garden club. There’s no world in which my mom would’ve had time for any of that. Even before my dad left, she worked part-time as a real estate agent, and then after he was gone, she usually had at least two jobs going. Between gigs at the dental office and the day care at the Y, Mom would still list houses on the side. Instead of ballet class or soccer, I spent nearly every Sunday in middle school trying to keep my little sister Liz occupied while my mother talked to strangers about ceiling heights and original hardwoods. Meanwhile, Willow and Sybil drove out to Lake Athens to ride Jet Skis and build bonfires and eat Mrs. Rain’s perfectly baked chocolate peanut butter cookies.

Mr. Rain puts down his coffee and turns to me. “Did you see that Porsche parked out front? It’s a 964 reimagined by Singer.” He is very into cars, and I think has always had a soft spot for me, since I am too.

“Really? That body style is one of my favorites.” I reach for a menu and make a mental note to swing through the parking lot on our way to the spa. “I’ve never seen a Singer in person. Is it one of the wedding guests?”

“I assume it’s one of Jamie’s friends. He tends to run with a flashy crowd, doesn’t he? Californians. You know,” Mr. Rain finishes, as if that explains everything. And it kind of does. Sybil’s family is well-to-do in Dallas, but the difference between being rich in Dallas and rich in LA is $50 million and a private jet. “I’d try to hunt down the owner right now, but we’re off to play a round of golf after this.”

He’s about to continue, but the waiter stops at our table. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Could I have a Bloody Mary?” I ask. “And could you make it very spicy? Maybe not the-surface-of-the-sun hot, but very-close-to-getting-vaporized hot.”

The waiter gives me a long look, and asks, “So, you want it warmed up?”

“I—no.” I have to remember that not everyone is ready for banter at seven thirty in the morning. “I just want it spicy. Thanks.”

The waiter nods and heads back to the kitchen, and I know that I’ll be getting slightly salty tomato juice.

Mr. Rain shoots me a knowing look. “Californians.”

I smile. “You know, Sybil is technically a Californian these days.”

He presses his lips together and gives a reluctant half nod, as if he’s not quite willing to accept that fact.

The waiter returns and sets my Bloody Mary beside me, but before I take a drink, Mrs. Rain asks, “Are you ready for your speech on Saturday, dear?” I nod, though in reality my maid-of-honor speech is still a bit theoretical at the moment. Snippets of stories and favorite anecdotes swim in my brain alongside an inspirational quote or two. It feels like such a big responsibility, I’ve been avoiding putting pen to paper. People assume because of my debate team days that I’m comfortable speaking in front of a crowd, but I actually hate giving toasts. They completely stress me out for some reason. Just last year at my mom’s birthday I tried to say a few words about how much she means to me and ended up getting so flustered I just mumbled out “Hook ’em!” and threw up the horns hand sign—which would usually be enough to win over any Austin crowd, except for the fact that my mom doesn’t even like football. Needless to say, the thought of giving a speech in Sybil’s honor two days from now has me slightly freaked.

“He’s been practicing his in the shower,” Mrs. Rain says over her orange juice glass, nodding to her husband.

“Of course I need to practice. This is important. This is my baby.” Mr. Rain clears his throat. “She made me a dad, you know.”

He says it so matter-of-factly. As if all fathers take one look at their baby girl and are instantly and irrevocably wrapped around their finger, when I know that some fathers take one look at their baby girl and then, eight years later, they pick up and move to Arizona with Kimberly from marketing. Mr. Rain’s speech is just one of many classic father-of-the-bride moments I’ll have to witness this weekend. I can’t let them get to me. I take a long sip of my drink so that I have a moment to compose myself. But unlike last night’s tequila snob, this bartender clearly has no problem with directions. I let out a gasp.

The cayenne from the Bloody Mary has vaporized up my throat and into my sinuses, and I blink back tears. Perfect. I chug back a few more gulps, then my phone buzzes with one of the many reminder alarms I’ve set for today.

“Our first spa appointment is at eight thirty,” I say, and grab a muffin for the road. “I’m going to find Sybil.”

I make my goodbyes and head back to the cottage.

Sybil’s bedroom door is closed when I arrive, and I don’t hear any signs of life coming from inside. “Sybs! You gotta get up! It’s time for phase one of Sybil’s Ultimate Pamper Sesh.” Nothing. I roll my eyes and head for my own room to take a lightning-fast shower. Afterward, I put on a clean pair of running shorts and a white tank top with tiny black flowers.

Are you suddenly big into florals now?

I could be.

I shake my head, roughly towel drying my hair.

Stop it, Emma. You are not going down that road again.

Meanwhile, Sybil’s door is still closed. “Come on, sleeping beauty,” I say letting myself in. “Time to rise and sh—aghhh!” I trip over a fuchsia stiletto and barely catch myself on the pencil-reed credenza to the right of the door. The blast radius from Sybil’s suitcase has extended out another six feet since last night.

But wait a minute.

Her suitcase. It’s gone.

And all that remains of Sybil is one false eyelash, winking up at me from the empty bed.