Chapter 10
Gwen
Gwen felt like she’d wandered into a fever dream.
It wasn’t just a pool — it was a full production.
A giant Buddha statue loomed at one end, half in shade, haloed by palm trees.
The water glittered a perfect turquoise.
House music pulsed from gigantic speakers over a raised stage off to one side, vibrating through the space with surprising volume.
The air smelled like sunscreen, salt, and prosecco.
It was barely eleven in the morning, but the place was already buzzing.
Packs of women in neon bikinis clutching sloshing cocktails, shirtless guys dancing like they’d been at it since dawn, waitresses weaving through with trays of shots balanced in increasingly concerning quantities.
Gwen hadn’t been to a pool party since… ever.
And she was fairly sure none of them had looked like this.
They approached the host stand to claim their reserved table, but luck — or perhaps some god chaos — was on their side. A manager in a crisp polo appeared, effusive about an “upgrade” and leading them through the crowd to a private cabana tucked along one side of the pool
The cabana was absurd, complete with a cushioned U-shaped couch, its own plunge pool out front, and a flat-screen TV bolted to the wall even though no one was going to watch it.
And then the bottle service girl arrived, striding in with the confidence that Gwen imagined was necessary to walk in skyscraper heels poolside. She carried a tray of menus and an expression that suggested she’d seen everything.
“Holy shit,” Maggie muttered, already collapsing onto the couch. She draped an arm over her eyes, the picture of a fainting Victorian.
The rest of the group, by contrast, came alive. Izzy and Kiera dove into the menus like they were treasure maps, already debating Bloody Mary spice levels. Danica flagged the waitress down with her bright, type-A efficiency, while Pete groaned in gratitude.
“Thank god,” Pete announced, plopping onto the couch. “I love the private pool. Because you know people are definitely fucking in that one.” She jabbed toward the main pool, where two strangers were indeed suspiciously entangled beneath an umbrella
Kiera gagged. Izzy cackled.
Gwen sat down carefully on the edge of the couch across from Maggie, who didn’t move. Gwen was trying not to gape at everything, the sensory overload at odds with the strange comfort of sitting this close to her wife, even if Maggie was sprawled dramatically as if she’d already died of Vegas.
Maggie wasn’t just lying down. She was sprawled in a full starfish position.
One leg bent, the other dangling off the edge of the couch, her cover-up bunched around her thighs, sunglasses askew on her face even though they hadn’t been outside long enough for anyone’s retinas to fry.
She’d draped an arm over her eyes like she was auditioning for a tragic heroine role — Saint of the Pool Hangover.
And Gwen… God help her, Gwen couldn’t look away.
In the middle of all this spectacle — the DJ, the women in rhinestoned bikinis, Pete already heckling the waitress about “maximum garnish” on her Bloody Mary — her gaze kept circling back to Maggie.
The wild hair, the bare skin, the absolute refusal to sit upright like a normal person.
Dramatic, impossible Maggie, radiating heat and exhaustion and a kind of raw presence that had always knocked Gwen a little off-balance.
She told herself to look away, to focus on anything else. The Buddha statue. The champagne buckets sweating onto the table. Izzy, beaming at Kiera.
Maggie let out another sigh — long, theatrical, and completely unnecessary — and Gwen’s chest tightened, sharp and uninvited.
The urge to touch Maggie flared, ridiculous and dangerous.
To push her sunglasses back up her nose, smooth her tangled hair, slide a palm over the sharp line of her shin where the sunlight hit.
Instead, Gwen folded her hands in her lap, posture straight, expression neutral, like she wasn’t teetering on the edge of something that hadn’t belonged to her in a long time.
The distraction arrived on silver trays — literally.
The bottle service woman swept back in with two busboys trailing behind her, each balancing platters piled high with eggs, bacon, fruit, something suspiciously labeled “hangover fries,” and an architectural stack of pancakes that looked like it had been engineered for Instagram.
“Praise be,” Pete muttered, attempting a completely incorrect and backward sign of the cross before snatching a strip of bacon straight off the platter.
Danica swatted at her hand. “At least wait until the food hits the table—”
“Too late,” Pete said, mouth already full.
Izzy leaned over the Bloody Mary cart the waitress rolled in, eyes wide. “Is that… shrimp? There’s shrimp on the skewers. And bacon. Oh my god, is that a slider?”
“It’s basically lunch in a glass,” Kiera said approvingly, plucking a celery stick and crunching into it.
Maggie finally cracked an eye open from her fainting-couch pose. “If one of those comes near me, I’m suing.”
Danica, ever the hostess, was divvying up fruit skewers like she was feeding children at summer camp. “Okay, someone please eat some melon before everyone devours nothing but meat and cheese.”
“Melon’s just crunchy water,” Pete argued, piling a plate like she was preparing for the apocalypse. “Why waste valuable stomach space?”
“It’s hydration,” Danica insisted.
“Gatorade is hydration. This is sadness on a stick.”
Gwen found herself laughing before she could stop it, the sound slipping out quieter than the others’ but still real. For a moment, surrounded by plates and snark and sunlight pouring through the cabana curtains, the ache in her chest loosened.
Beside her, Maggie let out a soft huff of amusement too — eyes still closed, but a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth like she’d been listening the whole time.
The table turned into a free-for-all within minutes, all hands reaching and plates clinking.
Pete began narrating every choice like she was commentating a sporting event.
“Danica’s going safe with the melon — classic rookie mistake,” Pete intoned, spearing three sausage links for herself.
“Izzy’s building a Bloody Mary tower. Mad respect.
And Gwen… what do we have here? Gwen’s going balanced, classic defensive play, fruit and carbs. She’s in it for the long haul.”
“Pete,” Danica groaned. “Please just eat.”
“I am eating,” Pete said through a mouthful of pancake.
Gwen let their noise wash over her as she fixed a plate — some fruit, a folded pancake, a few of those ridiculous hangover fries piled with cheese and bacon. She slid it onto the low table next to Maggie, who still hadn’t budged from her horizontal sprawl.
“Eat something,” Gwen murmured, quiet enough that it got swallowed by Pete’s next monologue.
Maggie cracked one eye open, suspicious. “Is this… bribery?”
“Just breakfast,” Gwen said simply.
For a beat, Maggie just looked at her, then let out a sigh that sounded almost like surrender. She propped herself up on one elbow and snagged a fry from the plate, biting into it with a noise that was entirely inappropriate for polite company.
“God,” she muttered. “Okay, fine. Worth living another day for.”
By midafternoon, the cabana had emptied itself into the plunge pool.
Izzy and Kiera were attempting some half-choreographed twirl routine to whatever EDM remix was pounding through the speakers, Pete was attempting to do handstands, which she had explicitly been banned from doing, and Danica was still trying to keep her hair dry.
Gwen stayed back, perched on the edge of the couch, watching the chaos. She could feel the thump of bass in her ribs, hear Pete yelling, “Ten out of ten, Olympic form” after surfacing again.
Beside her, Maggie had melted deeper into the cushions, sunglasses slipping low, the curve of her shoulder pink from the sun. She looked exhausted and adorable.
Gwen poured a glass of water from the sweating pitcher and nudged it toward her. “Drink,” she said softly.
Maggie huffed but took it, tilting it back in slow sips. When she set it down, Gwen couldn’t help herself — she reached out, brushing a strand of hair off Maggie’s damp forehead, fingers grazing warm skin.
Maggie stilled, then tipped her head just slightly into the touch. And for a moment they just looked at each other, Gwen’s hand hovering, Maggie’s lips parting like she wanted to say something but couldn’t.
“Thanks,” Maggie whispered, her voice rough, meant for no one else.
The sound went straight through Gwen, sharp and unsteady.
And then, thanks to the chaos muppets Maggie called friends, the chorus rose from the pool, loud and merciless:
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
Izzy led the chant, Kiera howling beside her, Pete smacking the water in rhythm like a drum. Even Danica, blushing, had her hands cupped around her mouth, adding her voice to the racket.
Gwen froze, hand still half in Maggie’s hair. Maggie’s mouth curved — somewhere between a smile and a dare.
And suddenly the whole cabana was vibrating with the sound of their friends, demanding the one thing Gwen had promised herself she wouldn’t give.
Gwen lifted her free hand, waving toward the pool like she could shoo them off. “Enough,” she called, trying for stern but landing somewhere closer to flustered schoolteacher.
Of course, that was when Lillian appeared, cutting through the chaos like a knife. She strode up to the cabana in a sleek black one-piece that made Gwen want to do a double take, golden skin gleaming, sunglasses perched low on her nose.
“Hey,” she said, casual as ever, and Gwen dipped her chin in acknowledgment.
The group only got louder. Izzy had abandoned chanting in favor of wolf-whistling. Pete slapped the water again, chanting, “Cowards! Cowards!” in a terrible British accent.
Gwen felt her face flame. She opened her mouth, fumbling for something — anything — to defuse this mess before Lillian could read too much into it.
And then Maggie’s hand was on her cheek.
She turned Gwen’s face toward her and pressed her mouth to hers. The kiss was firm, unapologetic, the kind of kiss that left no room for argument.
The cabana erupted in cheering and whooping and Lillian’s nearby laugh.
Gwen’s heart stuttered. She hadn’t tasted Maggie’s lips in months, but her body knew exactly how to respond: a sharp pull low in her stomach, the urge to lean in, to let it last.
She didn’t. Couldn’t.
When Maggie pulled back, Gwen blinked, pulse hammering. Maggie just smirked faintly, as if to say See? No big deal.
Across the way, Lillian arched one perfect brow, amusement glinting behind her shades.
Gwen was caught between her wife’s mouth, their friends’ chaos, and Lillian’s cool gaze, feeling like she might actually combust.
Maggie was on her feet before Gwen could even recalibrate from the kiss. She tugged off her cover-up in one impatient sweep, dropped it onto the couch, and snatched a glass of champagne from the table.
“God help us,” Gwen muttered, but her voice was lost under the shrieks from the pool.
Maggie raised her glass in mock salute, then sauntered to the edge of the water, hips already swaying to the beat.
Gwen’s chest went hot, traitorous. Because of course Maggie looked incandescent with her bare skin gleaming in the sunlight, hair wild, grin loose and easy in a way Gwen hadn’t seen in months. She hated how magnetic it was. Hated how impossible it was to look anywhere else.
A commotion of cheers and whistles rose from the cabana next to them, and when Gwen turned, she saw two bottle girls in matching bikinis pop the tops off massive champagne bottles, spraying twin arcs of fizz over the heads of two men who pumped their fists in triumph.
“Oh hell yes,” Pete said, practically vibrating, already half out of her chair.
Danica pressed a palm to her chest like she could physically hold Pete back. “No. Don’t even think about it.”
But Pete’s eyes had gone glassy with desire, locked on the foamy spray. “That could be me.”
“Exactly,” Danica said firmly.
Gwen’s gaze drifted back to the pool. Maggie was dancing and laughing with her head tilted back, champagne flute lifted in salute to the wild scene next to them.
For a moment, Gwen let herself forget the distance between them, the sharp edges of the last year.
For a moment, all she saw was the woman she’d married, sunlight burning across her shoulders, joy spilling out of her like it belonged to Gwen too.
And god, Gwen missed her. Missed her in a way that was marrow deep.
Missed her so much it almost felt like drowning — sitting there, dry and steady, while Maggie was just out of reach.