Chapter 5 Don’t Be. Do. #2
Ethan will never believe it—he has a soft spot for well-meaning disasters—but Laurel and Petey are doomed.
This is the same woman who dumped a guy for being “suspiciously handsome” and who disappeared on more than one professional magician.
But with Petey, she’s even worse. She’s never been able to take a measured, cautious approach.
Each time they get back together always ends with her in a ball on her bathroom floor.
This time, if they get married, someone will be left holding the bag when it all falls apart.
I can’t bear for that person to be headstrong, audacious Laurel.
I don’t want her to end up as disillusioned as I am.
I do a full ninety-degree turn in my bucket seat to face him, because I’m only going to ask this once. “What’s it gonna be, Powell? Are you with me or not?”
“I’m driving you, aren’t I?”
I shake my head. “Not the same, and you know it. Are you with me?”
He sighs the sigh of an Ethan who disagrees wholeheartedly but doesn’t have the strength to fight me on it. I know it well. “What are you planning?”
Victoriously, I flip the visor down and uncap my lip balm. “Why do you assume everything I do is part of some sinister plan?”
“You know you’re insanely easy to read, right?” His eyes flash between me and the road. My face gets hot. “Are you waiting until the officiant asks for objections or are you creating some kind of a diversion?”
“If whichever random they coaxed from a peyote circle to officiate this mess is taking objections…”
“Beekman, no,” he protests, tapping his signal to change lanes. “As the de facto best man, I can’t be an accomplice to ruining their wedding.”
The words “best man” still chafe after the way our friendship fell apart when he was supposed to be my “best man.” I trade my lip balm for a Gatorade and take a hard gulp.
I’m desperate to quash the nausea and accompanying ache.
“I’m gonna talk to her. That’s all. You of all people should understand the necessity of that. ”
He squints as though debating whether to take me at my word. “Just talking? The normal kind? No legal tricks or cross-examination?”
I consider the question but opt not to answer. I know I can’t tie a grown woman down and keep her from doing anything she wants to do, but I’d prefer not to make any promises I’m not 100 percent sure I can keep. “I won’t make a scene. Just a simple, sisterly chat,” I assure him.
He smiles like I’m ridiculous. “You think Laurel Miriam Beekman will be receptive to you accosting her—”
“Gently. It’ll be a gentle accost,” I say, correcting him.
“—at her own wedding? Or Petey, the guy with a tattoo of your sister’s face on his left triceps, with the words ‘My Khaleesi’?”
“That tattoo did not age well.”
He ignores my commentary. “You need to trust that they’re making the right decisions for them , Chuck. You can’t control everything.”
“Agree to disagree,” I say, but when he glances sidelong from the driver’s seat yet again, I give in the tiniest bit. “I won’t have to say anything if they break up by the time we get there.”
“I think they’re going to surprise you…” He sputters out a declarative sigh— I’ve said what I’ve said , it announces. “But consider me in.”
“Really?” I squeak with delight.
“Mostly because I’m genuinely worried you might die alone in the woods if I opt out, but your ‘gentle’ ambush is all on you. After that, if they still want to get married, you are letting them get married, got it?”
“I’m not going to kidnap her,” I promise, popping open the kettle chips.
He holds out his hand in a Pavlovian response to the sound of a bag splitting apart. I place a pile of potato chips into his cupped palm. “You’re capable of almost anything. It’s terrifying,” he says around a full mouth.
I tilt my head. “You love it.”
“Yeah.” Giddy relief uncoils my muscles and cancels out any remaining nerves. Ethan’s on my team. All’s right with the world. “This is not at all how I saw this weekend going, by the way.” He passes me his phone. “Put some music on, will you?”
“Road trip DJ? Me?” I gasp theatrically. “This is so much power. You’re not a little worried I’m going to let it go straight to my head and put on nonstop sea shanties? You must really trust me.” I swipe around for his music app.
“No. I know you’ve never been interested in listening to men sing.”
I scrunch my nose. “That’s not true. I listen to you .”
“Not according to your Spotify Wrapped,” he says accusatorily, and now my gasp is real. “It’s all Maggie Rogers, Lana Del Rey, Florence and the Machine, Beyoncé—”
“Ethan Powell! You are not allowed to comment on someone’s Spotify Wrapped! It’s the most vulnerable.”
“You listened to an alarming amount of Phoebe Bridgers in 2024. I’m not supposed to remark on that?”
“I was getting divorced! Can you allow me one year for my sad-girl era? As though you’re listening to anything more interesting.” My finger jabs at his phone. “Jesus, Powell. Why is there a playlist called ‘THE END OF THE WORLD’?”
“Oh yeah. Put that one on,” he instructs, immune to my judgment.
I comply, tapping open the playlist. “I’m already so stressed about whatever’s going to be on this.”
To my surprise, I’m satisfied by its contents.
It’s a solid mix of artists I like and people I’ve never heard of.
I put it on shuffle and toss his phone back into the perfectly sized compartment just below the A/C controls.
I’m immediately put at ease by the hazy, ethereal female vocals.
My eyes are closed as I vibe to the music, picturing us inside a movie montage.
The ping on my phone shoves me back to reality.
I groan at the email preview on my screen reading: URGENT! RESPOND ASAP!!!1! My eyes scan the body of the email. Then I unbuckle my seat belt and climb into the cabin. “Sorry, I need to handle this.”
“Beekman!” He micro-swerves, elbowing my butt out of his eye line. “What the hell? I’m on the highway!”
“Huh?” I blurt unconsciously, stalling to close some mental browser tabs before I can begin to process language.
“Oh, uh, Bob forgot a filing deadline, but he’s ‘on the boat,’ which means he’s already drunk, and I need to drop everything and e-sign a petition to revive a patent application.
And I’m guessing that’s what Stacy’s spamming me on Teams about, but I can’t open the app on my stupid phone. ”
He taps the brakes, sending me sideways into a mini Target haul, barefoot toe shoes, and a bulky camera bag. I recover quickly and steady myself on Ethan’s headrest so I can grab my laptop.
“Seriously, Charley. Sit down. I’m not kidding. You can’t wander around the place while I’m driving. Jesus.”
“Okay. Okay.” I sit back down.
“You’re going to give me a heart attack.” He clenches the wheel. “Why are you working? It’s the weekend.”
“Weekends and vacations aren’t really a thing for me.” I open my laptop and connect to the van hot spot.
“Don’t throw up,” he demands.
“I don’t do that anymore…in cars,” I add, because I did throw up this morning from alcohol. Completely different.
“I have a hard time believing you’ve cured yourself of your crippling motion sickness. Please wait fifteen minutes until I can get off the highway.”
“I swear I’m fine.”
But when I open Teams, the message waiting for me momentarily halts the flow of blood through my body.
Stacy Arroyo: Did you see Paul’s Insta Story? He was at Rich’s surprise engagement party last night. You didn’t tell me Rich was already ENGAGED. I would’ve given you more than an expired gift card.
Stacy Arroyo: The party game was guessing how much bitcoin the ring cost. *vomit emoji* Was Rich always so douchey? No wonder he and Paul hit it off.
Stacy Arroyo: Okay, now I’m looking at his sister’s stories. I’ve viewed this party from every angle. I’m addicted.
I want to grab something, anything, so I clench the laptop that’s already in my hands.
“You good?” Ethan asks, his normal crinkly-eyed resting happy expression sliding off his face.
I nod, frozen, adjusting to the reality that while I am a divorcée, Rich…
isn’t. There was comfort in the way his leaving me saddled him with the same fate.
We were both failures. We’d both smugly announced to the world that we were ending the search for partnership only to take it back a year later.
But he isn’t divorced anymore. Not in the way I am.
It’s no longer his most current relationship status.
He’s some woman’s fiancé . He left me and has already found someone better.
The shame hits me in the chest like a hot brick, and a familiar self-loathing burns into my skin.
Of course he left , it says. How could you delude yourself into thinking he would stay?
Rich couldn’t even stay divorced with me.
He had to fully excise me from every corner of his life.
It’s almost like being left all over again.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ethan asks again.
I don’t look up. “Mm-hm.”
“You seem like you’re lying.”
“I’m not,” I respond through gritted teeth as Ethan’s fondness for saying the quiet part out loud grates against me.
But the longer I stare at Stacy’s screenshots of my ex’s engagement party, the more my insides sway, the images on my laptop shake, and copper-flavored nausea swims up my throat, settling behind my eye sockets.
Oh god.
“Ethan,” I eke out through clenched teeth.
His head swings toward me. My stomach launches its rebellion.
“Pull over?” I ask.
But it’s too late.