Chapter 2
How romantic,Liz thought to herself at 5:27 a.m., when she was abruptly awoken by a jarring snore from Cam atop the pillow next to hers. “Is this what every morning of my life will sound like?” she whispered angrily, even though she knew Cam wouldn’t respond. He was deep in a drunken, passed-out slumber.
Liz, on the other hand, had tossed and turned all night.
Cam had said he wouldn’t drink that much. He was the one who’d made that promise. But then he was the one who’d poured rounds and rounds of shots the second the group had gotten back from their evening at the beach. When Liz had suggested slowing down, he said she didn’t trust him.
“Sorry I want to remember our engagement weekend,” she had warned.
“Well, sorry I want to celebrate. To have fun. It’s like you refuse to be happy about this.”
“I am happy,” Liz said.
“So now I’m just another person you lie to?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Liz didn’t want to remember the rest. She massaged her forehead, where a tension headache had appeared. If falling in love was a fairy tale, why did the engagement suddenly feel like a trick, like being trapped in Rapunzel’s tower?
Outside the sun was climbing, a blur of hazy pinks and bright orange hues. She scanned the view and picked a color, playing her favorite grounding tool, a therapist trick she’d picked up and tucked in her pocket like a lucky quarter.
Orange: the sky outside.
Orange: Liz’s mother’s hair. Curly and reckless, always twisted and perched on the tip-top of Nancy’s head. Just like her own.
Liz fell into the memory. Would a sunrise ever not remind her of the way her mom used to knock on Liz’s bedroom door each morning? A gentle maternal wake-up, no need for an alarm. By the time Liz moved into her NYU dorm on University Place, she’d bought herself a proper clock, but there were still some mornings when, before Liz even opened her eyes, she heard a phantom knock, and it sent her right back to her childhood bedroom. Purple curtains and princess costumes. Magic in the mornings with Mom.
Now her morning alarm was Cam’s snoring.
Liz needed coffee. She got up and headed to the kitchen.
It felt strange but special to be back at the Serendipity House, which was larger than Liz remembered. She’d forgotten how the ceiling in the living room was lined with wood beams that made the room feel enormous yet cozy. Or the way the dining table comfortably fit twelve chairs and still left room for twelve pairs of flip-flops by the door to the patio. The way the kitchen sink was deep enough to hide the towers of glasses and stacks of crusted pizza dishes leftover from last night’s antics, all accented by a decorative canvas sign that read “Serendipity by the Sea.”
The bedrooms were tucked upstairs, a series of rooms. Their sleeping arrangements were nearly identical to those of their senior year trip: Liz and Cam once again had the primary suite, and Mac would take the neighboring queen bedroom—but with Robyn this time—when they arrived later that morning. Georgie and PJ were in the “dorm room,” where two sets of bunk beds anchored each wall. Brenna, Quinn, and Maggie occupied the final room, where Brenna and Quinn shared a queen mattress and Maggie had the pull-out trundle. Liz had been dating Cam for so long that she’d never been assigned to the “girls’ room” on friend group overnight trips. She always shared a mattress with her high school sweetheart. Now she wondered what pre-sleep gossip she might have missed last night.
She wondered what Maggie might have told them.
Maggie. Liz couldn’t believe that Maggie was here. That she’d moved home so suddenly. That she had the audacity to crash their trip after surgically removing herself from their friend group. Maggie always had a flair for the dramatic. Some people moved with a noticeable gravity, and Maggie was comfortable being at the center of any crowd. She was never short a story or a punch line or a new adventure to lead the group in search of. They’d all called it her “Hollywood quality,” and yet somehow her departure for Los Angeles had still been shocking.
Maggie’s announcement arrived at the end of their freshman year at NYU. She and Liz were roommates, which had always been their plan. Undergrads together, taking the city by storm. But as spring semester finals rolled around, Maggie sat Liz down and told her she was leaving. She’d given it a lot of thought, but she was struggling in New York, and she needed a change. California was calling, and Maggie was transferring to UCLA. Apologies fell from Maggie’s tongue: so, so, so sorry. She promised to thank Liz and Nancy in her first acceptance speech, as if that would make the abandonment all better.
Liz had trouble listening to the rest of Maggie’s explanation, her excuses. How could she not have told her sooner? Why hadn’t she looped her in? It had been a stressful year for both of them, Liz knew. Maggie had seemed off since the day they moved in, but the majority of Liz’s time was unexpectedly preoccupied by evenings and weekends spent back home on Long Island, with her mom. After that long stretch, things were finally looking better and Liz had started to feel settled, like she could return to campus with her full attention on school and friends. That she could end the year the way she wished she’d started.
Maggie’s transfer news felt worse than pulling the carpet out from under her.
How was Liz supposed to respond?
A part of her wanted to be a loyal friend. Maggie must have had her reasons, and Liz couldn’t hold it against her for pursuing her dreams. Maggie had always loved movies, dreamed of making her own, of interning at studios and talent agencies alike. Growing up, she made them watch reruns of Entourage just to study the assistant lingo, the maneuvering of a mail cart. They’d go to midnight premieres of blockbusters at the Cineplex in Bellmore and in a single viewing, Maggie would somehow memorize all the best lines. During the summer, she’d sneak into the city to look for film sets, to find any production that might be shooting. The buzz of the PAs running for coffee and keeping the streets locked down, the smell of the crafty snack van, the thrill of catching sight of the director or the actors making their way to set—Maggie so clearly adored it all.
Of course she wanted to give making a career out of it all a try. Liz had been surprised that Maggie ever agreed to be prelaw at NYU in the first place. And to be honest, after two semesters spent tiptoeing around the dirty clothes Maggie tended to leave anywhere other than in her hamper, Liz didn’t totally hate the idea of living alone for sophomore year.
But the other part of her, the larger part of her, couldn’t help but feel betrayed. Pushed aside when she needed help the most. And it wasn’t solely Liz, left behind like outgrown clothing. No, she would never forget Mac’s face that summer, when reality had sunk in that Maggie wasn’t coming home.
Liz was struggling, missing her best friend. But her heart broke right open watching Mac’s heart crumble. He didn’t have to say it, but Liz and Cam still knew: Maggie had left him, too.
When Maggie and Mac started dating, Liz had tried to respect their relationship, to give them privacy as they went from friends to more. It wasn’t like there was a rule book for how to behave when your best friend started dating your boyfriend’s twin brother. But she didn’t need Mac’s inner monologue to interpret the utter sadness on his face when he realized she was really gone, that Maggie had ended things with him.
She’d left them all.
Liz wished she’d had the foresight to realize this would be the first of Maggie’s many forsaken promises. So many unanswered calls.
Now she was sleeping upstairs in a trundle bed. It felt annoying. Ironic, though Liz couldn’t quite articulate why. Words were never her forte. A fashion designer, she dreamed in colors, shapes, and sketches.
Well, she used to. Lately, everything had felt mostly gray.
Outside on the patio, Liz sipped her coffee and listened to the birds. The furniture was still slightly wet from last night’s showers, but she never minded feeling close to nature. She kicked her feet up on the picnic table, settled back into an oversize chair. Her eyes fluttered; her mind slowed down. For a moment, peace.
Until a chirp came from her phone.
Liz’s screen showed an email from Roseanne with a hyperlinked article: 10 Things to Do the Day After You Get Engaged! Trust me, it’s true what they say about brides snoozing and consequently losing—let’s get cooking! XOXO! Cam’s mom had typed out below.
Liz groaned. She loved Cam’s mom. She really did. After all they’d been through the past year, Roseanne was there whenever Liz needed her. She was trustworthy and dependable. She was someone who cared. So much so that when Cam and Mac moved into their freshman dorms at UVA, Roseanne transformed her subsequent empty nest into a successful event-planning business, where she continued to fine-tune her caring skills by supervising the orchestration of neighbors’ weddings and baby showers and fortieth birthday parties galore. Famous herself for the annual, all-out Peters Family Back to School parties she’d throw every first day from K–12, Roseanne had been not-so-secretly counting down until the crown jewel of her planning portfolio: her twin boys’ wedding days. Now one was finally happening, and she was clearly excited.
It wasn’t Roseanne’s fault that Liz still felt like she couldn’t be.
What Liz never expected about loss: the lows were painful, but the highs were worse.
She’d deal with Roseanne’s email later. For now, she closed her eyes and counted to ten. When she opened them again, she picked the first color she saw and connected it with a memory.
Green: the leaves poking out above the house’s roof.
Green: the color of Cam’s eyes. Her favorite shade. She thought about how they’d shone with such surprise when she kissed him in the tenth grade. Liz couldn’t help but laugh back then. How hadn’t he seen that coming? It had been a decade of dropping hints, of smiling at all his jokes, of finding a reason to sit by his side. On the bus home, in study hall, in the stands at Mac’s soccer games. Any excuse to brush her knee against his. To hope Cam might respond.
Some of the other girls would tease, saying that Liz had crushes on both Peters boys. That she just flipped a coin and decided which of the twins to “like like” any given year. Someone, usually Maggie, but sometimes also Quinn, would make a quick retort to shut them down, but Liz would just wordlessly blush. Yes, the boys were identical, but how could she explain to a bunch of middle schoolers that there was something special about Cam? He was quieter than Mac, sure, but his brain was so loud. He was brilliant and driven and while maybe objectively Mac was the better athlete and the better conversationalist and perhaps the “better catch” for other girls, for Liz, it had always been Cam.
She liked how Cam got caught in soccer practices staring at the sky. How he was quiet, but once he started talking, he couldn’t stop. How he would spend his free periods drawing maps of fictional cities, just for fun. Liz liked so much about Cam; she was just always too afraid to use her words.
Until the first time they drank vodka—a marshmallow-flavored Smirnoff that still made her stomach swirl at the thought—and she used her lips instead. Liz felt bold and brave and grabbed his face and kissed him before she could chicken out. When Cam kissed her back, his face firm against her own, he tasted sweet, like the fluff sandwiches Liz’s mom would make for dinner whenever she had to work late at the store. It was new yet familiar all at once.
Liz and Cam were inseparable from then on. Boyfriend and girlfriend, 3 hearts in BlackBerry address books, kisses at the locker before he’d walk her to class. Their circles merged. Their friends were furniture being pushed together, Maggie and Liz and Brenna and Quinn joined up with Mac and Cam and Georgie. Their East Meadow friend group officially born.
Green: the color of Cam’s tuxedo jacket at senior prom two years later. Liz had sewn it for him herself. He said it was his favorite thing he’d ever worn. He even brought it to UVA with him, kept it hanging in his closet, assuring Liz that it still smelled like her. Whenever he missed her, he’d hold it close and remember that night. Remember all their dreams and promise to make them come true.
Recently, it seemed like Cam had forgotten everything. Even during their four years of collegiate long distance, New York to Charlottesville, Cam had somehow never felt farther away than he did right now. What had gotten into him? They’d been living together for three years. They were engaged. Now Cam was upstairs in their Serendipity House bedroom, but he may as well have been on Mars.
A noise snapped Liz back to earth. The sound of the screen door creaking open.
Maggie stepped out. Did she hear Liz’s subtle groan?
“Ah, sorry, didn’t realize anyone else was up.” Maggie’s apology cut through the patio, her voice flustered as she turned around to head back inside the house.
“No, no, don’t be silly, I’m sorry,” Liz said, because what else could she really say? She had no more claim to the outside space than Maggie did. “You can sit. I must look strange, staring into the void.” Liz wiped her eyes under her sunglasses and was startled to find them wet.
“Not strange, just…focused,” Maggie said with what sounded like a very forced chuckle. Liz wondered if Maggie was also realizing that this was the first time it had been just the two of them, alone, in years. Liz had purposefully avoided Maggie most of last night, not ready for this moment. Now she had to laugh. Why had she thought preparation would make it feel any more pleasant?
“You never used to be a morning person,” Liz said, mostly to fill the air, but she tasted daggers, sharp on her tongue.
“To be honest, I haven’t slept much this week. Drove as fast as I could from LA, I think my brain doesn’t know what time zone it’s in.”
“Rough.”
An awkward silence plastered the space between them. They never used to have awkward conversations as kids. If words had run empty, the air remained comfortable, pure.
Liz decided to be the bigger person, to keep things easy. She didn’t need to be best friends with Maggie again, but she could try to be nice. For now. For the sake of the weekend. For the sake of her actual friends. The ones who wouldn’t leave her.
“How was the rest of last night?” she asked.
“Fun,” Maggie said. “We didn’t make it to the bars, though. It was raining pretty hard.”
“We’ll make up for it tonight. Forecast looks like sun.”
“Yeah, I’m sure everyone will want to head to the beach early.”
Another pause. Maggie looked anxiously inside, toward the still-empty kitchen.
A light bulb clicked for Liz. “Just ask it,” she said.
“Ask what?”
“You’re wondering where Mac is. When he’ll get here.”
“No, I’m not.” Maggie’s face turned red. She’d always had trouble hiding her emotions.
Liz rolled her eyes. “Nine a.m. ferry. They should be here soon.”
“They?” Maggie’s eyebrows rose.
“Oh my god,” Liz realized. “Did no one tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Mac’s bringing Robyn. His girlfriend.”
Maggie’s jaw dropped. Liz watched her face change a hundred times—surprise, sadness, shock, sadness, followed by a fake laissez-faire coolness—and she immediately felt guilty for not being more delicate with her delivery.
“Wow, um, that’s great. What’s she like?” Maggie stammered at last.
Liz paused. Now it was her turn to get flustered. She knew better than to share her honest feelings about Mac’s latest girlfriend, and she didn’t feel exactly ready to reward Maggie with any Mac-related gossip either. “You’ll see for yourself,” she decided.
“Can’t wait.” Maggie sighed. “Cute cover-up, by the way.”
Liz let out an actual laugh, catching herself by surprise. “Cute topic change. Thank you. I made it, actually.”
“No way!” Maggie leaned in to admire Liz’s creation more closely. It was a mix of different black-and-white printed fabrics in a top-and-miniskirt set. Liz didn’t feel like adding that it was one of the last things she had made outside of work in years. How to explain everything that prevented her from picking up a pattern and slipping into the rhythm of a sewing machine again?
“Whoa, it’s amazing.” Maggie continued, “That reminds me, you still owe me a rainbow dress.”
Liz cackled loudly then, her signature authentic laugh coursing through her body, as if struck by the cupid of comedy. Liz had been known for her laughter, voted Best Laugh of their senior class. Accolades like yearbook superlatives were brought up often when you stayed best friends with your high school cohort. Now Liz quickly covered her mouth with her hands, afraid she’d woken up the entire house, and lowered her voice. “I almost forgot about that!” she whispered.
“Well, I haven’t,” Maggie whispered back. “You made me stand there for ten minutes while you practiced taking measurements. It was exhausting.”
“I’m the one whose fingers bled. Those early days of pinning.” Liz shuddered.
“Let me see your fingers now.” Maggie grabbed her former friend’s hand, inspected her fingertips for signs of fashion-pin-induced bruising. Liz’s nails were always free from any colored polish so that she wouldn’t be distracted while she worked, but her fingers looked free from injuries, too. “Not bad.”
“I told you I’ve gotten better.” Liz grinned, allowing herself to feel the sense of pride. She’d watched her mom make dresses for most of her childhood, but it wasn’t until the tenth grade that she decided to test out the family trade for herself. Like most things, it was a decision she turned to with Maggie, after they’d spied an insanely expensive yet adorable rainbow dress while window-shopping at the Roosevelt Field mall.
Liz suggested she try making something similar herself.
Maggie offered to be her first customer.
Liz and Maggie had always cosigned each other’s dreams.
Now Maggie was holding Liz’s hand again, the way best friends who felt more like family would. But she was staring at Liz’s ring, and her face was morphing into a frown.
“I’m so excited for you and Cam,” Maggie started. “But Liz—”
“Thanks, Mags.” Liz pulled her hand back, fidgeting with the diamond, the band still too loose. All the while, she refused to meet Maggie’s eyes. “Means a lot.”
“Liz, if something’s wrong, you know you can always come to me, right?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“I know.”
“We’re engaged.”
“It’s pretty amazing.”
“I’m happy.”
“I’m not saying that you aren’t—”
“What would you even know about it?”
Maggie swallowed. “Fair enough. But if there’s anything that’s bothering you…anything at all…just know I’m here. I’m home now. I want to be here for you, for Cam, for everyone. I promise.”
Maggie’s words sounded pretty, but to Liz they felt sour. Instead of gratitude, annoyance rushed through her body. This was classic Maggie, she thought. Swooping in, trying to play the hero, the lead. The Hollywood dramatics. Trying to forget the hurt she’d caused to anyone not on the path of her dreams. This time, Liz had the foresight not to bother fighting.
She didn’t feel the need to point out exactly all that Maggie had missed since she moved to California.
She didn’t point out all the crucial moments when Maggie’s support was nowhere in sight.
Instead, Liz stood up, smoothed her outfit, and smiled. “I’m glad you’re home.”
While Maggie had been chasing stardom in LA, Liz had gotten pretty good at lying.