1. Double Booked #3
It was just for the weekend. It was for her oldest friend.
Four days of shared space with this woman who smiled with her entire body and baked wedding cakes and called herself aggressively friendly.
Four days of Sophie's wedding festivities, of being social and warm and all the things that used to come easily, back before she'd traded every soft part of herself for a corner office and a partnership plaque.
Margot picked up her binder and retreated to the sitting room.
She had a welcome dinner to prepare for and a roommate to survive.
Thirty-three minutes later, Becca emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and the same vanilla-cinnamon scent.
She'd changed into a new dress, this one soft coral with a neckline that drew attention to her annoyingly lovely collarbones, and her curls were a little damp but not wet, tamed into something approaching intentional.
"Ready!" She grabbed a small clutch from her suitcase debris pile. "God, this venue is gorgeous. The light alone. I was thinking about the cake display earlier, and if they set it up near the west windows during golden hour, it's going to photograph beautifully."
Margot stood, smoothing her own dress: navy silk, understated, appropriate. "You've given this a lot of thought."
"It's my cake. Of course I have." Becca grinned.
"I've been dreaming about this thing for months.
Five tiers, vanilla bean with lemon curd filling, covered in fondant with hand-piped lace that matches Sophie's dress.
The peonies on top are tinted to match the bridesmaid dresses.
Which—" She gestured at her light coral dress.
"I loved the color of our dresses so much, I found this dress in the same shade for the welcome dinner tonight! "
"That's… thorough." Margot hadn't considered the color of their bridesmaid dresses beyond 'does it make me look dead?' and when the answer was 'no' she filed that information under the 'who cares' tab of her binder. That one was eighth.
"Details matter, you of all people know that! Otherwise, you'd only have one tab in that whole binder, right?"
They walked out of the cottage together, gravel crunching under their feet.
The evening air was warm, carrying the scent of the vineyard: earth and sun and something almost sweet.
Becca chattered as they walked, pointing out details of the landscape, asking Margot questions about the schedule, filling silences that Margot hadn't realized needed filling.
It should have been exhausting. Becca's energy was relentless, a constant bright pressure.
But it was almost relaxing, being around someone who didn't expect Margot to carry the conversation.
Someone who was content to do the heavy lifting of human interaction while Margot simply existed beside her, quiet except for the occasional vague noise of agreement or hum of acknowledgement.
They reached the main building and Becca paused at the entrance, one hand on the door.
"Hey," she said. "I know we don't know each other.
And I know Sophie probably orchestrated this whole room thing because she thinks we need to be friends or whatever.
But I'm not—I'm not trying to bother you, or like, do anything you don't want.
If you need alone-time, tell me. I can be quiet. I can give you space."
She looked at Margot then, with an attention that felt like being seen. Her eyes were brown, warm, framed by lashes that didn't need mascara but had a swipe or two anyway. That, plus her slightly crooked winged eyeliner that made Margot twitch every time she caught sight of it.
Holding herself back from giving Becca makeup advice was definitely why Margot kept looking back, why Becca was so arresting she couldn't tear her attention away from the bubbly brunette.
"I just wanted you to know that," Becca added. "Before we go in there and have to be all perfect maid of honor and non-disaster bridesmaid all weekend. I'm not going to make this harder than it has to be."
Margot didn't know what to say.
That wasn't a new problem, of course. When people were kind, when they offered her grace she hadn't asked for, she froze.
She had scripts for confrontation, for negotiation, for the complex dance of corporate politics.
She did not have scripts for a woman with asymmetric eyeliner in a coral dress telling her to just… ask for space.
Telling her, without telling her, that Margot's asking for something she needed was okay.
"Thank you," she managed. "I appreciate that."
Becca smiled. Not the full-body sunshine smile from before. Something smaller, more careful, yet still just as authentic.
"Come on," she said. "Let's go celebrate Sophie's last days of freedom."
She pulled open the door, and the sound of the welcome dinner spilled out into the evening: voices and laughter and the clink of glasses. Becca walked in, holding the door and looking back over her shoulder, bright smile rising like the sun.
Margot braced herself and followed her in.