19. Sophie
SOPHIE
The lighting is brutal in the Nantucket Country Club, or maybe it’s just the people within the walls that make me feel like I’m melting at the edges.
My dress pinches at the ribs and immediately starts a silent war with my lungs. What looked elegant at home now feels like an overambitious tourniquet, and I’m struggling to breathe.
Noah is beside me, hair styled, clean-shaven, the very picture of a man who can survive anywhere. He leans in, as if bracing in solidarity, his hand light at my back. But I only have eyes for the disaster-in-waiting at the refreshment table.
Trent and Danny, debutants in rental tuxedos, have colonized a patch of space nearest the non-alcoholic punch.
They’re meant to look like young men, but they’re still so boyish.
I don’t even care that Danny’s jacket sleeves nearly swallow his knuckles; I’m just praying they stay out of trouble while we’re here.
I school my face into what I hope is composed and not petrified. This place makes me anxious, regardless of the reason I’m here or how I’m dressed. If this weren’t an annual thing to wave off the wealthy who keep our little town afloat through tourist season, I wouldn’t be here.
Noah’s hand is steady, but I can feel his pulse. He’s not immune to the pressure. “You okay?”
If I answer honestly, I’ll run for the exit. So, I snort. “I’ve only dropped my phone once and haven’t fainted, so I’m grading on a curve.”
He grins and pulls me closer. “You look incredible. Like, they-should-make-a-movie-about-you incredible. If anyone here is staring, it’s because they’re jealous.”
The words land like heat along my skin, and for a split second, I believe him.
But then I spot the boys, whispering to each other over little plates of cheese. Trent’s expression is textbook stoicism, but his ears have gone pink. Danny’s already mid-joke, eyebrows dancing, and I wonder what kind of mischief they’re considering.
It’s not even six minutes in, and already, I’m parenting at a distance. I try to telegraph “behave” with a glare; Trent pretends not to notice, but Danny gives me a thumbs-up behind his Sprite.
“You want to herd the wolves, or should I?” Noah deadpans, following my gaze.
“Let ’em be. It’ll only make it worse if I helicopter.”
He laughs, warm and genuine. “They’ll be fine. You raised a good one. And Danny—well, Danny’s missing the gene for public shame.”
He’s not wrong.
We step farther into the ballroom. My shoes slide gracefully over the wood floor. Noah shifts with me, the hand at my back quietly reminding me I’m not alone.
Nantucket’s elite watch every entrance like it’s opening night at the Met. There are glasses everywhere, glinting and dangerous. I half expect someone to offer us a menu of pre-approved topics, just to keep the riffraff at bay.
But Noah just stalks the perimeter like he owns it. His chin is high, and his posture is loose. It’s the kind of attitude one can only have when they’ve spent their entire life being the talk of the town…and not in a good way.
I try to copy the vibe, even as anxiety comes in hummingbird bursts.
He leans in again, and his lips brush my ear. “If you’re nervous, just let them see it. Vulnerability’s sexy.”
I almost laugh, and something inside me untwists.
We pause near the edge of the dance floor. There’s a wall of mirrors here, reflecting every movement, doubling the drama. In the glass, I catch our reflection—his arm around me, my dress shimmering in the light, the faintest blush at my collarbone. We look like a couple who belong here.
Maybe this is how you fake confidence—one borrowed inch at a time.
Across the room, Caroline notices us. She gives a little nod, not quite welcoming but not dismissive, either. Maybe even impressed.
I finally exhale.
We turn to check on the boys. Trent and Danny are still at the refreshments, now engaged in what looks like a serious debate over shrimp cocktails. They’re not making trouble—just holding space.
I glance at Noah, ready to make a crack about who’s chaperoning who, when he catches my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. He lifts it, just for a second, and kisses my knuckles.
Before I can say something wild or brave, he tips his head toward the string quartet. “Dance with me later?”
It’s not a question. It’s a promise.
“Only if you don’t step on my feet.”
He grins, a full-wattage smile that makes me feel like the only person in the room. The air gets a little softer. Or maybe it’s me, finally letting the armor drop. For the first time tonight, I let go of the checklist in my brain. I let myself just…be.
And then, of course, the universe strikes, because nothing can ever be simple, much less calm.
There’s a commotion near the entrance, but it’s not the old-money kind. It’s kinetic. Off-beat. And totally June.
Disheveled is putting it mildly, but it’s the wild look in her eyes that scares me.
I barely have time to let the worry bloom before she’s at my elbow.
“Have you seen Ashton? I lost track of him. He was supposed to meet me by the terrace, but he’s not there, and he’s not answering his phone.”
I blink, fighting the urge to laugh or bolt. Even this—June in crisis—feels like home.
Noah straightens up. “You want me to help look? Maybe he ducked out to the parking lot for a call.”
But June’s fixated on me, and her hands are clamped to my arm in a death grip. The wildness in her face isn’t just nerves—it’s fear, the real kind. “Will you come with me? Please?”
“Yeah. Let’s go. We’ll find him.”
We speed-walk through the ballroom, dodging servers with silver trays and clusters of town royalty. Behind us, I feel eyes tracking our every step—not out of concern, but out of good old Nantucket curiosity, the kind that doubles as ammunition at the next club brunch.
June’s grip on my elbow is vice-grade by now. Her words are lower, more frantic. “He wouldn’t just leave. Not tonight. Not after everything?—”
“Maybe he’s in the men’s room or stepped outside,” I suggest, trying to keep it sane. No part of me believes he would bail on her, not after everything they’ve been through. If he had wanted out, he didn’t have to come back. And he certainly wouldn’t have bought her a freaking lighthouse.
We cut through the edge of the dance floor, past a pair of council wives mid-gossip. I scan every alcove. Nothing.
We try another suite—this one thick with cigar smoke, a pair of old men arguing about tennis scores. No Ashton. Next is a darkened lounge, but the only things in there are a slumped-up dog statue and the remains of a forgotten cheese tray.
At the far end of the corridor, I finally hear voices. They’re hushed and angry. A glimmer of light spills from beneath a door marked “Private—Staff Only,” but this is Nantucket; nothing is really private here.
I shoot June a look, and she jerks a nod.
We don’t knock. We just push.
The door swings in.
Meredith and Ashton are inside, standing too close for comfort. Meredith’s arms are crossed, body braced like she’s holding back a hurricane, but her face is shock-white. Ashton’s back is to us, but when he twists around, I see it—his entire hand clamped around something.
June lets loose. “What are you doing in here?” It’s accusation, terror, everything at once.
Ashton doesn’t even blink; he just tenses, pulling his fist tighter to his chest. “We’re having a conversation. Meredith needed?—”
“We’re not finished,” Meredith interrupts, her voice trembling but precise.
The air in here is filled with so much static I could light the next decade off it.
I step in front of June, ready to referee, but I don’t even make it two steps before the sound of heavy feet on hardwood floors echoes behind me.
Noah’s arrival finally shifts the grid. He’s there, suddenly, in the doorway, and now, Eddie’s at his side. I have no idea what they’ve been up to, but their appearance makes me wonder what we’ve all stumbled into.
Amid all this, Ashton fumbles whatever he’s holding. The small object slips, bounces off the fanned edge of a chair, slides across the floor, and lands at Noah’s feet.
He bends, scoops it up, and freezes.
A stick. Plastic. Pink-capped.
My brain is slow to catch up, but the plus sign is clear, screaming off the tiny window.
Noah turns it over in his palm, confusion giving way to a kind of awe. “Is this?—?”
My eyes are locked on the impossible—the test, the secrets, the mess that’s about to detonate. I reach for June, hands shaking a little. It’s all about to burst.
For a second, the only sound is the throb of the air conditioning. Even the walls seem to lean in. Noah is still bent, hand out, the plastic stick cupped between his fingers. The little plus sign glows blue—a beacon, a curse.
Ashton makes a grab for it, but he’s too late. We all see it.
June’s gasp is a ripped seam. Meredith’s lips are white. Eddie’s face—usually so easy, so reliable—contorts.
Eddie wheels on Meredith since it’s clear she was in here first, and the rest of us followed. “Is it true?” It’s not clear if he’s hoping it’s true or praying it’s not. “Are you pregnant?”
Her eyes are huge. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She shakes her head, a fraction, but it’s not conviction. It’s terror, but I can’t figure out why. Eddie would relish a baby with her, unless it’s her who doesn’t want kids.
Ashton stands, frozen, watching the test in Noah’s hand like it might explode. His eyes flick from Meredith to June, then—I realize—to me. For a beat, suspicion hangs. Maybe it never crossed his mind. Maybe it always did. If it’s June’s, it’s not Ashton’s baby, and I’m sure he’s done that math.
For a second, nobody breathes. The room holds, strung tight as piano wire.
Eddie is still fixed on Meredith, his hope so bright you could navigate a ship in the dark by it. “Are you pregnant?”
Behind her armor, Meredith finally musters a sound. “No,” she rasps. “I—no. I’m not—it’s not—” But the certainty isn’t there.
Ashton, shattered, sinks into a chair. His hands shake as he wipes his face. “Whose is it?”
Noah tosses the test onto the table. And for a heartbeat, the world is just the little blue plus sign, the curve of the test, the proof that none of us know anything about the people we love. It sits there, radiant and hideous, in the center of the storm.
Meredith stands, shell-shocked. Her hands hover—wanting to reach for Eddie, or maybe just steady herself. The effort it takes to stay upright is visible in every line of her posture.
I want to do something—say anything—but my own feet are welded to the carpet.
June pulls me closer, arms finally around my waist, a net to keep me from collapsing.
Noah’s chest heaves, eyes fixed on the test, then on me. He shakes his head, helpless. “What’s going on?”
Nobody answers. We’re all staring at the test on the table just a few feet away.
There’s a slow, horrible inevitability to it; the knowledge that this is only the beginning.
Ashton finally picks up the test, holding it like radioactive evidence. “We need to talk. All of us,” he says, voice gone.
I nod, even though I want to scream.
Noah finds my hand, while June still clings to my other side. He holds it tightly enough to bruise, as if that could bring order back. But the truth is…nothing will, not now.