Chapter 5 Noah Today
These days, I never drink heavily. It’s not worth the three-day hangover.
But tonight I’m tempted to skip the glass and stick my head under a wine barrel’s faucet instead, so I can mainline the stuff more quickly.
Not because the wine is good—though it is.
And not because I’m psyched for my friends and a much-needed vacation—which I was.
But because I am desperate to get out of my fucking head.
Oaky. Full-bodied. Notes of cherry and tobacco. I don’t give a shit. I just want to numb out.
It’s never fun to hang out around someone you have beef with, but this is more than that.
It’s… shit I don’t even want to consider.
What’s going on inside my brain right now is some kind of twisted mental time travel.
It’s like I’m falling down a black hole into that tempestuous period when I was eighteen, with as little perspective as I had in that actual moment.
It’s like my hindsight has evaporated.
To make matters worse, Ben and Cara are loyal, dedicated. So many of the guests at this gathering will be people they befriended back in the day, people I’ve also known for years. It’s all making the past feel more present.
If it was possible to shake myself and remind myself that I’m an adult, even a functional semi-happy one, I’d slap some sense into my stupid ass. But that’s not a thing.
So… alcohol.
When Nell emerges, I’m into my second glass of some local pinot noir, but it does nothing to quell the strumming that riots through me at the sight of her.
After the harrowing discovery that we’re going to be roomies, we managed to avoid each other.
In the afternoon, I spent more time than made sense scanning “Cara & Ben’s Un-Wedding Itinerary”—printed and placed at my bedside—as I grasped for a foothold in reality.
Mostly, it included detailed attire suggestions and QR codes that linked to songs representing each of the six days’ themes.
(Day 1: Arrival! Song: “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns N’ Roses.)
Welcome to the jungle, we take it day by day
If you want it, you’re gonna bleed, but it’s the price you pay
Seemed about right.
This evening, I slipped out first—and I swear I heard Nell cry out in pain through the wall when I crept toward our suite’s main door.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I eavesdropping on this woman? I am a goddamn adult. I need to act like one.
Now, Damien tracks Nell’s movement across the patio with his eyes, raises his brows at me. This is his first time catching a glimpse of her since we arrived.
I turn my back to her. Act like I don’t see. Like I don’t know what he’s suggesting with his look. Like I can’t feel her there, behind me, like a live wire.
He smirks. Like please.
He’s not going to let me pretend I don’t give a shit. Of course not. He’s Damien. He loves me, but he also loves to torture me. My asshole brother from another mother.
I am a collector of people. That’s what my older sister, Henrietta, always says. Only she uses less flattering words like hoarder. She groans every time I mention Damien’s name or tell some admittedly shameful story about another one of my aging high school boys—other than Ben, who she loves.
“You need to spring-clean,” Henny groaned during a recent call. “Make space. Set them free in their natural habitat to roam… to custodial court or a seedy bar at eleven a.m.”
But dissing those guys outright, even the shadiest of them, feels disloyal. Like denying a part of myself. So, I try not to judge. I keep in touch.
They—Damien especially—have been good friends to me in their way. They stuck by me in tough times. Not everyone did.
Nell didn’t, though I can see it was more complicated than that now.
So, I take their calls. I hang out when I’m back in New York. I do them favors, here and there.
“She still looks tight,” Damien says now, assessing Nellie from afar.
And I don’t like the way he’s looking at her.
I’ve never liked the way he looks at her, I let myself admit.
I know what he’s seeing without turning my head.
Because, whether I wanted to or not, I memorized everything about her the instant she walked into the party—her jeans that fit her ass like a glove, a satiny tank top that dips low, and a white cable-knit cardigan in case she wants to wrap herself in a protective hug. Classic Nell.
“I guess she looks okay,” I allow. I swig from my glass. ’Cause that’s how you’re supposed to drink wine, right? Chug it in giant gulps? All classy?
“You guess?” He is disbelieving.
I shrug. Roll my eyes. “Of course she looks good, D. Doesn’t make her any more pleasant to be around.”
Damien looks past me again. I watch him catch her eye over my shoulder. Nod and wink in greeting. “I beg to differ,” he says, his gaze still on her. “I think it makes her plenty pleasant.”
I shrug again. Suit yourself.
I am a shrugging machine.
“You think you guys will hook up?” he asks, still distracted by Nell. His eyes remain not on me.
“Hard pass,” I say. And mean it.
Now, he’s the one who shrugs. Like more for me. Like he might have a chance with her. Like he might try. I know he wouldn’t dare, which is why I don’t dignify the gesture with a response. And even though I feel like throttling him, I have zero legs to stand on.
I sigh and try to surrender to the surroundings.
Ben and Cara have asked us all to gather on the slatted deck outside the estate’s restaurant for this first official event.
D and I are hanging toward the edges as daylight begins its retreat.
The air smells like fresh ferns, like a forest after a rain. Like something fertile and real.
Like there might be hobbits nearby.
Damien leans back against the wooden railing.
Not a care in the world. The dress code was described as casual.
And I followed instructions in my favorite denim button-down and army-green slacks.
But he’s wearing one of his signature looks—like some kind of Boyz II Men throwback in baggy chinos and a vest. Like maybe he and Travis Kelce share a stylist. I have never understood his taste, but he does him.
And women don’t seem to mind. I’ll give him that.
“Dude. This is a trip,” he says, eyeing the crowd. Ben and Cara have not invited family since this is not actually their wedding. I sort of hoped they might as a buffer. I’ve always liked Ben’s parents and sister.
“No way, man,” Ben told me over the phone last week when I asked. “We’re hoping to actually enjoy this trip.”
Instead, they have convened a group of close friends.
Some I recognize from other events throughout the years, ones that Nell missed since there was an unspoken rule that only one of us attended (usually based on whether it was more of a Ben or a Cara thing).
Ben’s college buddies, his work friends.
Some people who I assume belong to Cara in the same capacity.
I imagine there’s a parent friend or two—couples they met on the playground or at preschool pickup.
But I figure I’ll spend most of this trip chilling with D.
We talk occasionally, text off and on, but I don’t get to see him that often since he still lives in New York. So hanging with him sounds just fine.
Or it did. Before he started ogling Nell like a hot fudge sundae with all the toppings—except nuts. Nobody wants nuts.
His eyes bulge suddenly, and I finally can’t help but turn around to follow his gaze. But it’s not Nell he’s looking at now. It’s Lydia. Fucking Lydia. Walking up the steps and onto the deck, her red hair as ablaze as ever, and instantly I know this situation has gone from bad to worse.
“Fuck,” I mumble under my breath, whipping back around to face the trees. Maybe if I stand really still, she won’t notice me. I glance around for somewhere to hide—behind a giant redwood or, better yet, back in my room.
Nope. My room is not a safe space either.
Damn. I’m not used to stressing like this. It’s not how I roll.
Damien grins. He lives for this shit. The ultimate drama queen.
If I make it through this trip alive, I will count myself lucky. I rub a hand over my hair, gulp down more wine.
And then Damien is waving and gesturing someone over and I can’t even bring myself to turn and see who it is because it can only be bad news.
“Hey! Whattup guys?” Cara says, landing beside me. And I heave a sigh of relief as I open our circle to include her… and, dammit, Nell too. Relief null and void.
Nell glances up at me, nods curtly. I guess this is her trying for Cara.
I am instantly buzzing from head to toe, as I try to ignore the effect her closeness has on me.
“Not much,” Damien says, waving his hand to reference the surroundings. “Except this place is fucking next level. So dope.”
“It is, right?” Cara agrees. She’s beaming and it’s a little contagious, even to me, mid–stress spiral. She seems so happy, her eyes shining. “I’m so glad this is finally really happening! It feels like we’ve been planning forever—and now we’re really all together!”
Cara throws an arm over Nell’s shoulder and squeezes, and I watch Nell wince, even as she shoots her best friend a pained smile. Her shoulder hurts. And it’s obvious.
Is that why I heard cries from her room earlier?
“We are!” says Nell, toasting the air with her full glass in the other hand. “We are definitely together!”
I can’t tell if she’s doing a poor performance of happy or if I just still know her well enough to see she’s actually peak miserable.
Maybe like recognizes like.
Damien focuses his gaze on her—again. Tips his chin up. I know this look. It’s his Ryan Gosling special. “Hey, Nellie,” he says, his tone smooth and velvety. “It’s been too long.”
“It has!” she says, as they exchange kisses hello on the cheek. “It’s good to see you.”
A wave of irrational jealousy crashes over me. On what planet is she sweet to Damien and a fucking demon to me?
He gets a peck and I get a middle finger.