Chapter 38 Bachelorette Party
BACHELORETTE PARTY
ASHLEY
As much as I want to let go and enjoy the festivities, I can’t shake the worry gnawing at the edge of my thoughts.
It’s a low, relentless hum—like a song on repeat, impossible to tune out.
And I hate that I feel split in two, that even in the midst of laughter and champagne—while everyone’s passing around Tay’s colorful…
prizes, shrieking and giggling like college roommates—part of me is kind of… buffering.
All of me should be here—celebrating my sister, this day, this joy.
After the scavenger hunt, the catered lunch, and the gift-opening chaos, the energy starts fading.
My phone buzzes in my hand. “Hey Miss Maid of Honor, bring the party up to the stage by the pool. I have something special for Luna and her bachelorettes.”
My eyebrows shoot up, curious. But then I hop onto one of the chairs.
“Alright, ladies!” I have to repeat myself a few times. “Finish your bubbly, fluff your sashes, and grab your flip-flops—we’re taking this party to the pool deck! Elise—the cruise director—just texted. She’s got a surprise for Luna!”
The word “surprise” ripples through the group, bright and electric.
Cheers break out. Someone squeals. Champagne sloshes.
My smile lags. Just a half-beat.
Suddenly, everyone’s on their feet—buzzing with curiosity, a little buzzed from champagne, glittering like little girls playing dress-up in their mother’s jewelry.
Tay holds up the last gift bag, and Courtney grins and calls out, “I’ll take two!
Luna, hand yours over. You’ve got the real thing now. ”
For half a second, the room goes still—like everyone’s wondering if this is about to get awkward.
But then Luna barks out a laugh. “Fair enough, Court.” She then turns around, and mimicking the tradition of the bridal toss, throws the package over her shoulder.
Courtney snatches it out of the air like a pro.
The entire suite erupts. Laughter bounces off the walls, someone snorts champagne, Helen fans herself with a napkin like she might faint.
And just like that, I’m smiling. A real one this time.
Across the room, Tay catches my eye, lifting her mimosa with the tiniest nod. There’s something reassuring in her eyes, like she’s saying, you’re here. That’s enough.
And for the first time all day, it feels true.
And since she and I are in charge of this parade, we meet at the door and lead the way.
We’re all in our swimsuits and coverups now, wearing our heart-shaped sunglasses, towels slung over our shoulders, drinks in hand.
Game on.
We cram into the elevator—shoulders pressed, glittering sashes askew—because our motto is clear: leave no woman behind.
It only takes a few seconds to reach the upper deck, but the anticipation buzzes like electricity.
When the doors glide open, we spill into a narrow corridor, push through the last set of glass doors and step into the chaos.
Music pulses through hidden speakers, and colored lights ripple across the surface of the pool like stained glass.
Loungers overflow with sun-kissed bodies, most holding some kind of drink in one hand.
The air smells like coconut sunscreen, chlorine, and just a hint of rum punch.
Elise immediately spots us from where she’s standing on the stage—sparkly sashes and party crowns will do that—and waves us over.
She’s in navy shorts and a crisp white polo, cordless mic in hand, and the devilish grin on her face tells me we’re in for something… memorable.
The woman’s practically the heartbeat of the ship. Cruise director isn’t just some glorified hostess gig—she’s part event producer, part entertainer, and part politician, somehow keeping thousands of people happy at sea.
And right now, she looks very pleased with herself.
“Alright, alright! Time for my favorite part of every cruise.” She paces with practiced flair. “Now, we’ve got an engaged couple on board this week—and tomorrow, while we’re docked in Ensenada, they’ll be tying the knot!” A cheer rises from the sunbathers and swimmers on the deck.
Elise continues. “And because no wedding cruise would be complete without a little light embarrassment and some shameless objectification… I need the bride, her bridesmaids, and the other fabulous bachelorettes celebrating today to make their way up to the front of the pool deck. Yep, right here! Don’t be shy. ”
She winks at us. “Trust me. You’ll be indebted to me for life after this.”
Luna lets out a delighted squeal and grabs me and Tay without hesitation. “Let’s goooo!”
I laugh, stumbling forward in my sandals as we take our places near a roped-off area where a handful of deck chairs are already set up.
“Tell me something, Luna,” Elise says, adjusting the mic. “How would you rate your fiancé’s legs?”
Luna raises a brow. “His legs?”
“His legs,” Elise repeats solemnly.
Luna grins. “I mean… they’re awesome?”
Elise beams. “Excellent answer. Because you and your bridesmaids”—she points to us— “are going to be the judges of the Men’s Best Legs Contest!”
The crowd around us cheers. There are a few whistles.
Tay laughs. “Oh, yeah. This is gonna be amazing.”
I blink. “Men’s Best Legs Contest? How is this a thing?”
“Oh, it’s a thing,” Elise answers.
And then the music starts.
Bass-heavy, a little too sexy for four in the afternoon. Eighties music that makes people scream-laugh, sing along, and raise their margaritas in approval.
And then…
The first contestant struts out from behind the stage.
Oh my God.
It’s Simon.
When he gets to center stage, he pulls the leg of his trunks high on one thigh, does a little twirl and… a kick? He pulls it off out of sheer cuteness.
Rocky struts out next, doing some kind of finger-gun shimmy that has half the crowd howling. He makes a beeline for Tay, gives her a smoldering look, and does a full body roll that lands with a dramatic pelvic thrust right in front of her deck chair.
The sunbathers go wild.
“Oh my God,” Tay mutters, rolling her eyes. “I am too sober for this.”
“Now, make some noise for our Silver Fox: Mr. Whittaker!” Elise calls out.
Ed Whittaker—an older guest from Luna’s bus tour—emerges, towel tied like a cape, knees wobbling with the effort of just existing. He starts shaking his non-existent booty like he’s headlining spring break in Cancun. It’s both horrifying and oddly endearing.
The crowd loses it.
And then—
Beckett.
My husband walks out like he owns the damn deck. Slow. Smooth. Confident.
Beckett doesn’t ham it up like the others. Doesn’t do a goofy dance or flex or fake strip. He just moves.
Our eyes lock.
And I swear, the air shifts.
Because I don’t just see the man in front of me. I see every version of him I’ve ever loved.
The guy who kissed me on my parents’ porch even though he knew my dad was right inside.
The one who whispered “I’ve got you” in the delivery room, even while I was squeezing the life out of his fingers, who stayed calm right up until the moment when they handed the first of the twins to him—at which point he grinned with a warmth and almost giddiness that he rarely showed anywhere else.
The man who held my hand under restaurant tables, even when we were fighting.
From somewhere behind me, Elise hoots into the mic. “Oh-ho! We’ve got a sleeper!!”
But I barely register it.
How many times did I take this for granted?
That easy heat in his eyes. That silent you’re mine he never had to say out loud.
Hip roll. Knee bend.
A slow spin that turns into a side-step that—damn it—should not look that good on a man in swim trunks.
The crowd’s loving it. Luna’s clapping. Tay’s trying to throw dollar bills. And then—
Babs leans in.
Elbows me gently in the ribs and whispers, “If your next one looks anything like the twins and their father, you’re going to have your hands full.”
My heart stutters. God, I’d almost forgotten about that—the pregnancy rumor.
I smile tight.
“Oh, well… you know,” I mumble, trying to sound breezy.
I can’t correct her.
Not without unraveling everything.
Beckett is right in front of my chair now, close enough to touch. But he doesn’t.
He doesn’t need to.
He just winks, like he knows exactly what he's doing, then backs up to rejoin the other guys.
And I just sit there.
Smiling. Pretending.
A wife—a normal wife, one who’s not been on the verge of divorce for the past several months—would be blushing right now, laughing. Not fighting off irrational tears.
“Last but not least, the groom, who, based on the bride’s surely unbiassed assessment, is in possession of—what did she say? ‘Awesome’ legs…?”
The crowd starts to cheer louder, the applause climbing as Elise opens her arms dramatically.
It takes me a minute to come back to earth.
But it’s just in time to see my little sister’s future husband saunter onto the stage, wearing nothing but board shorts and way too much confidence.
Luna lets out a loud whistle, but when her future groom faces her and… gyrates, she turns bright red. A few twerks, a breakdance type of move, and then he winds up his, er, presentation by pulling her out of her chair and dipping her, giving her a dramatic kiss.
Clearly, the bachelor party was drinking rocket fuel while we sipped themed drinks and bubbly.
“Alright! Bridesmaids, it’s your call—who’s taking home the title of Sexiest Legs at Sea?”
We pretend to deliberate for show, whispering and pointing like it’s serious business. Then Luna pops up, grinning.
“Noah!” she shouts. “Obviously.”
The crowd erupts. Noah bows, then pulls Luna up for a spin and another kiss. It’s adorable.
Everyone claps as Elise hands him a certificate—Paradise Empress Best Legs, complete with sparkles and a gold foil seal.
But I’m not watching them.
Not really.
My gaze finds Beckett again.
He’s near the edge of the stage, hands in his pockets, smile easy, but his eyes are on me. Sparkling blue. Intense.
Like I’m the only thing on this ship that matters.
And yeah, he was probably trying to work the crowd for the competition, but I think his little performance just now was primarily an effort to reach… well, me.
Unfortunately—or fortunately, I still don’t know—he may have succeeded.