Chapter 2
Gwen
The rendering took up most of the wall. Twenty-three acres of glossy, full-color ambition — glass towers, rooftop gardens, sun-drenched promenades where a neighborhood used to be. Gwen studied it from across the room, arms crossed, teeth worrying the inside of her cheek.
Her Denver office was a disaster and not the creative kind. Drafting tools and take-out containers shared space with a half-finished coffee she didn’t remember ordering. She stepped closer to the wall display, tapping at her tablet, adjusting the angle of a shaded overhang by exactly one degree.
Still wrong.
She zoomed in on the drone overlay beneath the rendering — grainy and real.
The neighborhood didn’t look like much from above, but Gwen had taken a liking to it immediately.
Trees that didn’t line up, buildings too stubborn to crumble in a pretty way.
Kids standing outside the laundromat that smelled like lavender detergent.
The taqueria with a mural of a girl with wings and a busted halo.
She’d taken a picture and posted it to her Instagram story earlier that day.
Now it was a dotted parcel on a map. A zone to be cleared. A checkbox between her and the title she’d been chasing for five years.
Principal Architect.
A role that meant prestige. Stability. A stake in the future of the firm. She’d done everything right — nailed timelines, delivered elegant solutions, managed teams without stepping on egos. She was known for clean design, quiet precision. Vision.
But vision didn’t always close the deal. Not like the bold ones did. The architects who schmoozed, who pitched big even when they didn’t have the details. The ones who didn’t flinch at compromise if it meant the numbers looked right.
Gwen didn’t schmooze. She didn’t charm her way into contracts or smooth over city council resistance with glad-handing and thin promises. She cared too much. About history. About context. About the story a place told before she ever touched it.
“Jesus, Gwen,” Melinda said from the door. “Blink twice if the rendering’s holding you hostage.”
Gwen startled slightly, spinning around. “Just refining the ingress flow on the south pedestrian axis.”
Melinda raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got ingress coming out your ears.”
Melinda, with her glossy waves and sharp blazers, always looked like she’d stepped out of a style editorial.
She had a polished charm, quiet but commanding, and a smile that made people agree with her even before she said anything.
As the firm’s Design Director, she was both mentor and gatekeeper, the person whose praise meant something, and whose silence meant more.
“I’m fine,” Gwen said, brushing past her to grab a different stylus from the cup on her desk. She hated when her voice sounded that clipped.
“I know it’s hard to be out of the Austin office for so long, but you skipped lunch again?”
“I wasn’t hungry.” Gwen tapped her pen against the edge of her tablet, adjusting the site flow again, even though it didn’t need it.
“Is it the pitch? Or the politics?” Melinda’s tone softened. “Because if it’s the project, you should say something. No one wants this to wreck you.”
“It’s not wrecking me,” Gwen said, too fast.
Melinda stepped inside now, crossing the office with her usual quiet confidence. She had that uncanny ability to read people like specs — systematically, patiently, until something gave way.
“You’ve been here every morning before seven. I don’t think I’ve seen you take a full lunch break all week. You answered a client email at two a.m.”
“No, I didn’t.” Damn. She thought she’d scheduled that for seven.
Melinda raised her eyebrows. “Gwen.”
Gwen exhaled, looking down at her tablet. “I just want it to be good.”
“It is good. That’s not the issue. The issue is whether you’re going to run yourself absolutely ragged and then be of no use to me,” Melinda said, though her expression carried warmth.
Gwen’s phone buzzed, distracting her. A text popped up from Izzy.
Izzy
Hey, are you in town?! I just saw your IG story.
Gwen nearly flinched.
Another message appeared before she could swipe it away.
Izzy
Come meet us at happy hour this afternoon!
Melinda’s eyebrows rose. “I’m firing you.”
Gwen’s entire body went stock-still. “Wh-what?”
“Just for the afternoon. Go away. Get out of my sight,” Melinda said. “Go to happy hour with your friends.”
“Oh, they’re actually just my wife’s friends,” Gwen said, cheeks heating with relief and embarrassment.
“Go. Or I really will fire you,” Melinda said, pushing Gwen’s phone toward her with perfectly manicured nails. “And I want a picture for proof or I’m putting you on a PIP.”
Gwen rolled her eyes. “You can’t do that. That’s a workplace lawsuit waiting to happen.”
Melinda quirked an eyebrow. “I can, and I will.”
And judging by Melinda’s tone, Gwen didn’t want to push further.
Gwen pulled up to the brewery wearing the wrong outfit — tailored trousers, a button-up, and the wrong shoes for gravel.
The late-afternoon sun was still warm despite the crispness in the air.
Denver in late summer: blue skies, brown grass, and a patio full of people sweating in flannel while pretending to enjoy IPAs.
She spotted them immediately at a long picnic table under a yellow umbrella.
Izzy waved, already halfway through a pint, her laptop still open next to Pete’s.
Kiera sipped something in a plastic cup and looked pleasantly exhausted, hair pulled into a loose bun and a lanyard still around her neck.
Danica arrived just after Gwen, still in scrubs, pulling her hospital badge off her top.
The group seemed already mid-conversation, laptops pushed aside for now. Gwen gave a nervous wave.
“Look what the wind blew in,” Izzy said, standing to give Gwen a one-armed hug. “You clean up nice.”
“I came from work.”
“What a nice surprise,” Kiera said, next in line for a hug.
Izzy smirked. “Your aura is very ‘competent lesbian in charge of zoning laws.’”
“Close enough,” Gwen said, sitting down at the end of the bench. Her back tensed automatically — these weren’t really her people. They were Maggie’s.
Danica leaned in to give her shoulder a squeeze. “I’m so happy we stalked you victoriously.”
“Want a beer?” Pete asked, standing from the table.
“I’ll take anything normal,” Gwen said with a tight smile.
“Define normal,” Danica said.
“Nothing sour, pink, or bitter.”
“Wise words to live by,” Izzy joked, nodding. “Grab her the honey wheat.”
“Sounds perfect,” Gwen confirmed.
“Wait, wait, you can’t leave us hanging. What was the culprit of the weird smell in your car?” Izzy asked, turning back to Pete.
“A fermented juice box,” Pete said with a frown. “I think it must have been Quinn’s.”
Gwen cringed. “One time I found Rosie’s bottle of milk under the front seat way too late. I swear it was sentient and begging for death.”
Kiera shook her head. “That is a smell that really stays with you.”
Pete and Danica took everyone’s beer orders and went inside.
Kiera leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. “Okay. We need to talk bachelorette plans.”
Izzy groaned. “Can we not do this sober?”
“You’re on your second beer,” Kiera pointed out.
“Exactly.”
Gwen shrugged, feeling instantly awkward. Maggie had mentioned the trip, but Gwen knew Maggie had been keeping their separation quiet from the group while Pete and Danica were wedding planning.
“I’m sure you’ll all find increasingly hilarious ways to torture Pete and Danica,” Gwen said with a forced smile. She just had to make it through one beer and then she could leave. She wondered how long was a polite amount of time before she could ask the group for a selfie to send to Melinda.
Izzy tilted her head. “Why do you say that like you’re not coming?”
Gwen blinked. She opened her mouth, then closed it, not sure what to say.
“We explicitly told Maggie you were coming this time,” Kiera said, her tone sliding into her authoritative teacher voice.
Gwen’s pulse lurched, adrenaline spiking like she’d missed a step on a staircase.
She kept her face carefully blank, but her fingers curled around the edge of the bench.
Heat bloomed behind her ears, spreading down her neck in a slow flush.
She stared at the condensation on Izzy’s glass, weighing her options.
Lie? Deflect? Laugh it off? The silence stretched a beat too long.
The hum of the patio and the clink of glasses grew unbearably loud.
“I’m so sorry, not this time. Someone’s got to wrangle the Terror Trio at home,” she finally said, shrugging.
Izzy’s eyebrows knit as she studied Gwen’s face.
“Maggie mentioned your mom was watching the kids?” Kiera asked. “Do you want me to call her?”
Gwen’s panic flickered visibly before Kiera smiled sweetly.
“I’m kidding,” Kiera said. “Mostly. But really, I will call her.”
“Who are we calling?” Danica asked, sitting back down beside Kiera. Pete took the seat next to Gwen, passing her a very normal-looking beer.
“Gwen can’t come to the bach party,” Kiera said.
Four sets of eyes locked on Gwen. Especially Izzy’s — sharp, unblinking. Gwen had always avoided being on the receiving end of that stare. Now she felt sweat prickle at her hairline. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “Kids, you know?”
Izzy gasped. “No, no. You have to come. You’re half the reason we even believe in love.”
Danica added, “Seriously, we’ll figure out childcare. Or bring them, I don’t care. I’ll make a spreadsheet. Please say yes.”
Pete leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Gwen. Come on. You’re the most stable person we know. This party needs grounding energy.”
Gwen hesitated, heart thudding. They didn’t know. About the separation. About Maggie.
And Maggie didn’t know she was at this happy hour.
Pete cleared her throat. “I think we’d better get the boss on the case,” she said, already pulling out her phone.
Gwen panicked. “Wait, who is—”
An old picture of a silly, nineteen-year-old Maggie popped up on the screen, eyeliner smudged and wrapped in a blanket scarf.
It must have been a college photo. Gwen’s chest squeezed at the image, at the memory of what Maggie had been like at twenty-three, when they’d met in grad school.
So vibrant, like the sun glowed directly out of her skin.
When Maggie answered the video call, her expression was distracted, like she’d picked up without checking who was calling. Her eyes flicked over the screen and landed on Gwen — then widened slightly.
She looked completely different. Pale, drained, tired. Still stunning, just different now. Her lips parted in surprise. Gwen wasn’t supposed to be here. Not like this.
“Maggie,” Pete crowed. “Guess who just agreed to come to Vegas?”
Maggie blinked. “I — what?”
“I did not say that,” Gwen said, holding up her hands like she was under siege.
“She’s in,” Kiera said triumphantly.
“Oh. Great,” Maggie said, her voice catching before she smiled too quickly. “That’s great.”
Gwen’s cheeks burned. “Guys. No. I have to watch—”
“Maggie, who’s watching the kids while you’re both in Vegas with us?” Danica asked the phone screen, shooting a mischievous grin toward Gwen.
Izzy’s gaze never wavered. Gwen resisted the urge to kick her under the table.
“Uh, I don’t know. Gwen, your… mom, I assume?” Maggie asked, and Pete turned the screen toward Gwen in time for her to see Maggie take a massive gulp of wine.
Gwen’s eyes widened in a desperate plea for understanding, but Maggie kept a forced smile. “I want it on the record that this was not—”
Pete whipped the phone back toward herself. “I’m so excited to have both of you at our bachelorette party. It really means so much to have you there, given you’re our favorite married couple and we really look up to your relationship.”
Maggie stuttered, and Gwen glared down into her drink. Pete was laying it on thick, and Gwen’s cheeks burned with frustration and shame.
Maggie made a quick excuse to end the call, and as soon as Pete hit the red button, she and Danica high-fived.
“You’re coming,” Pete announced triumphantly. “Confirmed!”
“I knew we’d figure out a way,” Danica said, practically bouncing. “We need a room with a hot tub.”
“We need three rooms in the suite. And matching silk robes. And Gwen, you’re doing pole dancing lessons with us. Nonnegotiable,” Kiera added.
“Gwen, what’s your karaoke song?” Danica asked.
“Y’all,” Gwen said weakly, trying to interrupt the tidal wave of enthusiasm. “I still haven’t said yes.”
“You didn’t say no,” Izzy replied, voice sharp with amusement.
Gwen’s mouth opened and closed. She glanced down at her drink like the beer might offer an escape hatch. All of them were smiling. All of them wanted her there.
She didn’t know if she wanted to go. She didn’t know if she could.
But watching their joy — seeing Maggie’s tired face on the video screen, listening to the way they already counted her in the plans — something cracked open in her chest.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll try to figure out things with my mom, but I make absolutely no promises.”
There was still a way to backtrack, to change her mind quietly before flights were booked and deposits locked in. She hadn’t actually committed. Not really. She could still find an excuse, she told herself. Something believable. Something that wouldn’t make Maggie hate her.
But even as she thought it, she knew the damage had already been done.