Chapter 2
“You have sufficient food and water for the next forty-eight hours,” I tell Archimedes, who glares at me from the closet, his eyes glowing neon with disdain. “Your litter box is clean. And I’m leaving. You should be thrilled.”
I almost tell him that I’m going to see his father, but I fear that would only intensify his loathing.
Archie is technically my cat; I adopted him a few months before Ravi and I got together.
They sure took to each other, though. Best buds.
While Ravi was around, Archimedes tolerated me.
I’d get the occasional cuddle. Some charity purrs.
When we split, I offered for Ravi to keep the cat, not wanting to separate them. To cause either of them more hurt.
“He loves you more,” I’d said.
“I’m not taking your cat,” Ravi said. Then shook his head, softened his tone. “He reminds me of you.”
A power drill straight to the heart. I failed to muster up an argument, to insist as I probably should have. Which is how I ended up here, cooing to a creature I adore, who happens to dislike me almost as much as I dislike myself.
My suitcase is packed. The dress for tonight.
A daytime look for tomorrow, a nighttime look for tomorrow.
A backup dress. Comfy pajamas. Multiple pairs of shoes.
A genuinely unsettling amount of makeup.
Travel toothbrush, mini face wash, et cetera.
It’s too early to leave, but I’m not doing anything now except waiting around anxious.
I somehow managed a full day of work before ten a.m., finishing an entire pitch deck for a new client—an actor’s tequila brand, because what the world really needs is another celebrity spirit.
I thought breakups made you useless, inefficient as a result of excessive wallowing.
But I’m incredibly productive. Desperate for distraction.
It’s when I run out of things to do that it all falls apart.
That I begin to look around and wonder if this is it, if this is what I blew up my life for.
It’s a waste not to wonder.
Is it, though? Because I swear, I could go for a lobotomy right about now.
I toss Archie a few treats, make sure none of the faucets are running, that the stove is off, that nothing is plugged in that could possibly catch fire, and drag my suitcase out into the hall. Take a video of myself locking my door.
Ravi used to get impatient with my anxiety.
It exacerbated his own, I guess. We were good at amping each other up, which is to say, we were bad for each other.
He could never talk me off the ledge, I could only ever talk him into joining me up there, and vice versa.
I thought by going our separate ways, we could be released from our mutual catastrophizing.
Maybe he’s better off, but I still expect a pipe to burst and soak everything I own. Now I’m just alone with the worry.
I struggle down the stairs with my suitcase, out to my car. Struggle to lift it into the trunk. It’s embarrassing to be so weak. No one’s around to observe my poor upper-body strength, but that’s almost worse somehow. A solo reckoning with this truth about myself.
My car sputters to a start—a noisy reminder that I need to take it in to get it serviced, another adult thing that I’d rather not deal with, that I hope to put off for as long as possible. I hold my breath until I’m able to successfully pull out onto the road.
It’s about a two-hour drive up north to the Hudson Valley, where Steph and Jason rented out a former summer camp that is now a wedding venue.
The ceremony will be held right on the lake where campers used to paddleboat and swim and pull one another under.
Today, at dusk, they will exchange vows, followed by dinner and dancing.
Tomorrow will be brunch, and nature walks, a field trip to a local distillery, an evening cookout—casual fun.
It’s a gorgeous day today and the forecast for the weekend is all blue skies and sunshine, highs in the seventies, lows in the sixties.
Steph and Jace have been planning and saving for this weekend for years. Their perfect wedding. They deserve it.
I turn on some music. Stupid fun pop with stupid cheery lyrics. I sing along, loud and off-key.
The good thing about a broken heart is it makes you feel more alive.
The bad thing about a broken heart is it makes you feel more alive.
—
I’m humbled by the magnificence of the landscape up here. The river winding through the mountains, the camaraderie of the trees, the big, big sky. It’s so beautiful, so— Shit. Did I just hit a squirrel?
I check the rearview for furry carnage but see none.
I cross myself even though I haven’t been Catholic since I was sixteen.
I’m grateful that Steph and Jace aren’t having their ceremony in a church, that there won’t be a priest or psalms or prayers.
Though maybe it would’ve been nice, to be surrounded by faith.
Maybe I could have taken some for myself.
I put on “Like a Prayer” and sing at the top of my lungs for the short remainder of the journey. When I pull up the dirt road to the Lakeside at Wild Heart Acres, my throat is raw.
The photos on the website don’t do the place justice.
Formerly Camp Serling, it was built in the late seventies as a summer retreat for wealthy city kids, for them to experience true nature—thick grass and tall trees, thirsty ticks and hungry bears and vengeful wasps—while their parents vacationed in Europe.
At some point it transitioned from silver spoon summer camp to dreamy wedding venue.
The property borders a small lake on one side, woods on all others.
Close family and closest friends get the privilege of staying on-site in the refurbished cabins; all other wedding guests will get shuttled back and forth to the nearby Whistlewood Inn and Spa.
Same owners, judging by the cringey whimsicalness of the names.
I anticipate spotting at least one Live Laugh Love sign this weekend. An abundance of embroidered pillows.
There’s a clearing at the top of the hill, and I see the main building, the former mess hall, now reception space.
It’s a long rectangular structure with a low-pitched gable roof.
The back half of the building is on stilts to accommodate the slope down to the lake, and there’s a deck that wraps around, a canopy of string lights for when it gets dark.
It looks enough like a log cabin to maintain some rustic charm, but it’s been painted a chic ivory.
The windows are clearly new, glass clean and gleaming in the midday sun.
There’s a giant stone chimney that climbs up the side of the building and continues high above it.
The dirt road ends in a small gravel lot, and I park beside what I recognize to be my dear friend Evan’s red Honda Civic. I step out to stretch my legs, inhale the sweet scent of the place—wet earth, smoke from campfires past, fresh flowers for the celebration.
“There she is.” Evan stands across the way, on the steps of the reception hall, one hand on his hip, the other giving me a regal wave.
He’s impeccably dressed as per usual. Khakis, button-down, bow tie, brown leather oxfords, brown leather belt, tortoiseshell Ray-Bans.
Wyatt is beside him in flannel. Always flannel.
“Here I am,” I say, skipping over and throwing my arms around Ev. “So good to see you. You smell incredible. What is that?”
“Why would I tell you?” he says. “We’re sharing a cabin. Did you know? You, me, and Cassie. And Luke. And…”
He gestures to Wyatt, who gives a thumbs-up.
He’s a six-foot-five, burly, bearded Minnesotan with a friendly, constantly flushed face and sunny Midwest disposition.
But every once in a while he’ll crack a joke or slip in a comment that’s so cutting, so razor-sharp, it’ll make you wonder what really goes on behind that big aw-shucks grin.
“What do you mean sharing?” I ask, giving Wyatt a hug. He pats me on the back like a proud dad. “Not rooms, right?”
“No. God, no. Imagine? We get our own rooms and bathrooms. But we share a common room.”
“This weekend really will be just like college.”
“So you’re going to be a big slut?”
“I think I’m too depressed,” I say, rolling my neck. “Too world-weary.”
“Wyatt, can you please take this depressed slut’s bag to our cabin?” Evan asks, tipping his sunglasses down to give his husband puppy eyes.
“That’s all right. I can take it,” I say.
Evan shushes me and swipes the fob out of my hands, tosses it to Wyatt.
“I’m happy to,” Wyatt says, catching the key.
“He is,” Ev says. “Any opportunity to show off his brute strength.”
“Such a stud. Thank you, Wyatt. I appreciate it. Suitcase is in the trunk. I’m sorry in advance—it’s stupid heavy.”
Wyatt plods off. Evan threads his arm through mine and leads me around the side of the building where there’s a series of Adirondack chairs facing the lake—a stunning view.
The water is this amazing cobalt blue, the surface glittering in the sun.
The distant trees are lush and vibrantly green; they sway gently in the breeze.
It’s all so serene and perfect that I can’t stand it.
I’m compelled to reach out and touch it, to roll around in the grass, to wade into the lake, to disturb.
It’s like when you see a cake on the counter and feel that mad temptation to stick your finger in the frosting.
Maybe it’s a me thing—this secret, selfish, nefarious impulse to sully the beauty in the world that I can’t have for myself, that I can’t fully enjoy in the moment because I’m too busy anticipating it slipping through my fingers.
“Sit,” Evan says, sinking into one of the chairs. “I was hoping for some time alone with you before the festivities begin. How are you? And please don’t say you’re too depressed to be a slut again because that was genuinely the most upsetting thing I’ve ever heard.”
Instead of sitting in my own chair, I squeeze in beside him. He groans but lets it happen.
“I’m…managing? Like, I’m alive.”
“When’s the last time you saw Ravi?”
“He came by the house in July to get something. He’d usually time it out to avoid me but no such luck. I mean, you know he’s been living with his parents since the split, right? Helping with his dad’s care.”
“How is his dad?”
“Good days and bad days. I’m still on the extended family email update. I’m not sure if that’s intentional or if his mom just hasn’t realized yet.”
“What were things like when you saw him? Cordial? Icy? Did you speak?”
“Not really. We’ve just been ghosts for months. I think he knows it was the right thing but resents me anyway. Oof. It’s miserable, Ev. Fucking miserable.”
“Mm. You know what’s miserable?” he asks. “You know who else is coming today? You know who else our dear friends Stephanie and Jason thought it was a good idea to invite to their wedding? Vicky Moldando. Did you know this?”
“Why do you hate her so much?”
“It’s not that I hate Vicky. I just hate having to look at Vicky.”
“That’s very kind of you. So sweet.”
“Please. She was artificial before all the fillers, which she didn’t even need, by the way! We both know who she really is. She’s not. That. Innocent.”
“All right, fine. When you’re right, you’re right. Appreciate the subject change.”
“Thought you might. But in all seriousness, I did want to check in on you. Make sure you weren’t going to self-immolate during the ceremony tonight.”
“I’m glad that’s the level of mental stability I’m presenting. Safe from self-immolation.”
He lifts a hip and uses the arm of the chair to push himself to stand, then extends a hand to help me up.
“You’re going to be okay.” Evan would never bullshit me, never tell me something he didn’t sincerely believe for the sake of reassurance, and that makes it so much more painful.
Because I want so badly to believe this, to believe him.
But I can’t fathom a future free of this existential malaise, and it’s scary to hope for something that I can’t see.
The emotion is too much. I can’t erase it, can’t ignore it, so I mold it into something else. Turn it into a joke. “I’ve been thinking about getting another cat.”
“Stop.”
“I’ve been so lonely. And you never pick up my calls.”
“I fall asleep on the phone. You know this.”
“A convenient excuse. All right. You want to show me this cabin?”
“Right this way.”