Chapter 6 Manuela
MANUELA
When I wake up from my nap, the light in the room is golden and low, casting long, dark shadows across the floor. For a moment, I have no idea where I am, because it’s an expansive, white, and blinding room, almost surgical and very different to my bedroom in New York.
Then I remember—the flight, the trains, the boat across the lake, and the absurd golf cart with heated seats. The house.
Everything was quiet when we entered, and I assumed the group was either out doing something or resting in their rooms. Either way, I was drowsy with sleep and headed up to the top floor where my room was waiting—a small note from Elle on the bed welcoming me to the trip of her dreams letting me know they were down by the lake if I wanted to join.
I stretch without moving much, blinking slowly at the wooden beams that crisscross the tall ceiling.
The room is beautiful in a way that feels effortless.
Clean lines, a linen duvet in the softest cream, a single vase of flowers on the sill.
The window’s cracked open just enough for a cool breeze to sneak in.
Beyond, the lake shines wildly, the sun setting behind the peaks like in a movie.
I think I see a pair of swans swimming by the shore, but I can’t confirm they’re there.
It’s nothing like home, that’s for sure.
I didn’t mean to sleep so long. Just meant to rest my eyes, maybe check a few messages and go through the itinerary so that I can be up and ready to go whenever the group is moving.
My phone is still face-down on the nightstand, and for once, I don’t reach for it.
Outside, the world is quiet except for the faintest clatter of plates, the low murmur of voices drifting in from somewhere below.
Dinner, it seems.
I sit up slowly, the sheets soft against my skin, and try not to think about how long it’s been since I felt this still.
Not just tired, but static in that rare way, like your body’s here but your mind hasn’t caught up yet.
It happened a lot in Buenos Aires, when I would go back to Tres Fuegos to visit, and the small-town living consumed me in ways I didn’t expect to love so much after living away from it for a decade.
I should message my mom, let her know I made it safely. But the thought of explaining where I am, of describing this place over voice notes and a series of photos and videos, feels overwhelming right now.
I run my fingers through my hair, twist it up into a messy knot, and pad barefoot to the window.
The terrace is visible from here, two stories below and set back on a platform that juts into the trees.
There are string lights overhead, soft and warm, and a long wooden table being set with mismatched dinnerware and bowls that look like they belong in a food magazine.
Someone uncorks a bottle of wine. Someone oohs and ahhs at the movement.
I can’t see who it is, but I recognize the cadence of the sounds from years of listening to the same chants.
It looks like a scene from a movie I’m not quite in yet. But I’m close.
I slip into the ensuite bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and change into a loose sundress I stuffed into my suitcase last minute.
I don’t think it’s warm enough for me to be wearing too few clothes, but from where I stood by the window, it looked like the outdoor heaters were doing their thing and keeping everyone toasty even in the crisp fall evening.
The air smells like rosemary and soap when I open the door and tiptoe out into the hall.
I don’t run into anyone on my way downstairs, but I do snoop around the house.
All the bedrooms look identical, except for one on the second floor that seems to be Elle’s—it’s almost the entire length of the house and potentially bigger than my whole apartment back home.
There’s no sign of the bride, so I continue making my way down the stairs in search of her and food.
By the time I reach the back terrace, people are already gathering around the table in loose clusters.
Connor is leaning against the railing, his hair slightly mussed from sleep, a bottle of sparkling water (club soda?) in hand. He looks over as I step outside, and the corner of his mouth lifts, lazy and amused. “Good nap?”
I nod. “Didn’t mean to crash that hard.”
He raises the green bottle like a toast. “You and half the house, it seems. I think everyone’s in recovery mode, getting ready for the week.”
A breeze moves through the trees on either side of the house and rustles the string lights overhead. A server is setting down a plate of olives at the table. Someone else is popping open another bottle of wine, this time followed by loud laughter. The conversation around us builds like a soft tide.
Connor nudges his chin toward the seats. “You hungry?”
“Starving.”
“Come on,” he says, tipping his head towards the table.
Elle is standing at the head, naturally, laughing with Hannah, one of her bridesmaids, and her boyfriend, Sterling, who also happens to work with Jack in whatever finance bro thing everyone on this trip does.
They’re part of the tight inner circle, the kind of people I’ve seen at every dinner and weekend gathering since I joined this friend group, though I still mostly hover at the edges.
Right next to her, Jack is deep in conversation with Banks, another one of their college friends, something about rare watches and who still buys them.
“And then the dealer told him it was a 1997 prototype that only went to royal family members, so of course he bought it,” Banks says, not realizing how ridiculous it sounds.
“It was actually a good deal,” Cash, another of the bros, adds. “You can’t find those under six figures anymore.”
Connor snorts into his drink and walks to the other side of the terrace. I head towards my friend, and before I can even utter a word, she’s squealing and trampling me like she hasn’t seen me in a thousand lives. Never mind that she saw me just a few days ago at work.
“Oh my god, you’re here,” she says, squeezing my bicep and admiring me, head to toe.
Almost like I’m a vision and she can’t quite believe I’m here.
“I told Jackie you’d pull out at the last minute,” Elle says, still holding on to my arm.
“With your immigration stuff and all.” She says it low, close to my ear, like it’s a secret, or maybe if she says it too loud, the gods will get angered and revoke my almost permanent resident status.
“I told you I was going to be here,” I say, with a smile on my face.
I would never bail on her wedding, and it never even occurred to me to simply show up for the wedding and then go back to New York.
She’s been talking about this trip for a year at least, and I want to celebrate with her. “It’s beautiful. All of this.”
She follows my gaze across the lake, then down the length of the table, like she’s seeing it all for the first time. “Jack’s parents wanted it to be… I don’t know. Special, I guess. A big send-off for both of us.”
“It’s definitely that,” I say.
She leans closer now, wrapping one arm around my neck, and lowers her voice. “Just wait until you see the boat party next week. Don’t pack anything you’re emotionally attached to. You will get wet.”
“Noted,” I say with a laugh, but there’s a hollow edge to it. I know she means well, but it’s easy for Elle to say things like that when a lot of her problems can be solved by money. Not saying that she throws money at them, but… I digress.
My friend flits away a moment later, called over by another girl from the group, Amelia, waving a bottle of wine, and I’m left standing alone, watching everyone settle into their seats.
Laughter rises and falls like waves. People are already starting to shift into vacation mode—looser posture, louder voices, the kind of easy camaraderie that happens when no one is worrying about alarm clocks or deadlines.
Connor takes a seat at the other end of the table, deep in conversation with Banks, still going on about the watches, while his girlfriend Nicole scrolls on her phone.
Connor’s listening, half-focused, holding a glass of something pale in his hand.
When he looks up and catches my eye, he lifts his brows slightly, like we’re sharing an inside joke neither of us said out loud.
I look away before I smile too wide and find myself sitting next to him, drifting into his orbit like I’ve been doing all day. It’s almost like the universe is conspiring and has decided we are now buddies for this trip, given the coupled status of everyone around.
“You survived the bro corner,” I say under my breath.
“Can you actually believe that people hold entire conversations about watches?”
“I believe it. I mean, I once bought a sandwich that was forty dollars, and I still talk about it to this day.”
Connor laughs loudly, tipping his head back. His whole body shakes, and his eyes are shut so tight in amusement that the only thing I can do is stare in awe at this man who suddenly looks so different here, on vacation, than when we are back in New York.
Not that it should surprise me. I’ve watched him for years from a careful distance—at parties, group dinners, birthdays—always composed. Like there was an invisible line he never let himself cross.
But here… he’s loose. Untethered even on the first day of our group vacation. And I can’t stop looking.
“In my defense,” I add, and a chuckle escapes me, “it had really good pickles. Like, insanely good.”
His smile is crooked, and I stare at him some more, sipping from a drink that magically appeared in front of me while this whole thing was happening.
The night is soft around us as the lake reflects the last light of dusk, and the hum of conversation rises again.
Hannah toasts to the couple, and we all clink glasses together.
“For what it’s worth,” Connor says as he leans in slightly, his shoulder brushing mine—not enough to make a scene, just enough to remind me he’s still here, “I’m glad you came.”
I glance over, watching the profile of his face lit by string lights and ambient lighting, and for a second, I don’t know what to say.
The night settles into a rhythm—courses arriving one after the other, more stories, more references I don’t fully follow. I keep my head down, my smile polite and practiced. Part of me wants to fade into the background completely like I usually do.