Chapter 1
amy
“I can’t believe this is real,” Charlie says, awe lacing her tone.
My best friend lifts her left hand to display the diamond-clustered sapphire set on a shiny gold band, the green and blue hues catching in the few rays of sunlight England offers today.
She’s asked the question ten times in as many minutes.
“It’s real,” I confirm, slipping my arm through hers as we stroll down the cobbled London street toward the coffee shop we passed yesterday—right after Mateo, Charlie’s now fiancé, proposed to her on top of Charles Darwin’s grave.
Is it how I imagine a proposal for myself? No.
But for her, it was perfect.
A couple with a stroller and a small dog steals the sidewalk space, and she moves in front of me, giving me a split second to allow my mask to fall.
After years of self-doubt and struggling to find her confidence and stride, she’s thriving.
Graduated with her PhD.
Engaged to the love of her life—a man who would do anything for her.
Accepted a postdoc position at an incredible research institute with Mateo.
As her best friend, I couldn’t be prouder.
As plain old Amy, I couldn’t be more jealous.
She’s moving forward.
I’m standing still.
“You picked out the perfect stone,” she tells me while we walk, shifting her hand to catch different rays of light.
Jealousy twists in my gut, and I stamp it out like a heel to a cigarette butt—with force, but the ember still smokes. It’s an unwelcome emotion. One I haven’t been able to shake since Mateo told me his plans. Not when she has everything I’ve ever hoped for but never received.
It’s not her fault I feel this way, which is why I confirm the mask is back in perfect position before I reach her side again.
“Mateo picked it out,” I tell her. “I helped him get to appointments without suspicion and offered advice, but every decision was his own. He loves you as much as you deserve.”
“I got pretty lucky, didn’t I?”
I bump her hip with mine. “I love you, Charles.”
Charlie blushes bright red, the jagged edges of her scar deepening in color. “Love you, too,” she mumbles.
It’s quiet, but I’m pretty confident I heard sniffles, too.
What would my life look like if things had gone differently? If the chips fell into place for me the way they have for her?
I shake away the rogue thought.
A bell dings above the door of the small café, the scent of roasted beans and sweet pastries wafting from behind the counter. The space overflows with plants—tall fiddle-leaf figs stretching to the ceiling, pothos hanging in mirror-ball pots, vines dangling, tiny succulents lining the counters.
Two baristas bust ass to take orders and make drinks, and I scan the display case while we wait in line. Charlie admires her ring, and when we reach the counter, she rattles off an order, musing about what type of pastry Mateo might like.
In the end, she chooses four for them to try together.
She knows my coffee order by heart but hesitates after asking for the chai latte with oat milk, brows furrowed as she faces me. “What do you think Oliver wants?”
My answer is instant. “Black coffee. Largest size they have. Sausage roll.”
I dip my chin to hide how the mention of his name affects me. Spending every day with him while we’re in London is torture enough. Being reminded I know every detail about him is a nail in the coffin where my heart is buried.
“He’s going to meet us at the hotel,” Charlie says, not unkindly but with hesitation.
It’s not her fault I fell in love with Mateo’s best friend.
Nor is it her fault he doesn’t love me back.
“Sounds good.” I force false cheer into my voice, and she examines me with a wariness I’ve seen a hundred times before. “I’m fine,” I reassure her. “We can be in the same room together. We’ve done it before.”
“I know…I just feel bad.”
“You don’t need to.”
I am an adult.
I’ve handled myself around him without incident since our drunken kiss in Australia. Have there been near slipups? Maybe, though in the end, I saved what little dignity I have and didn’t do anything foolish, like kiss him again or sleep with him or tell him I love him and beg him to stay.
An older, bright-eyed version of Amy may have done that, but I am new and improved—as long as he doesn’t push his glasses up on the bridge of his nose while he speaks.
Or roll up the sleeves of his dress shirt.
Or run his fingers through his dusty-blond hair.
Or twirl the signet ring around his thumb while he ponders.
Or let the endearment “love” slip out during a conversation.
Basically, as long as he doesn’t exist around me, I’m good.
Charlie collects the overflowing bag of pastries, and I balance the tray of drinks to follow her out into the sticky summer air once more. She’s contemplative on our walk back to the hotel where she and Mateo booked a room for their PhD graduation trip.
What she didn’t know while boarding the airplane was that Mateo planned to propose, and he invited me to surprise her afterward.
And she most definitely does not know that our other engaged friends, Jett and Sofía, offered to front me the money for the plane and hotel.
I’m still repaying what I borrowed from Jett for a trip to New Zealand two years ago when he made the same offer.
I’m making payments as I can. But between student loan debt, the credit cards my mother maxed out in my name, and having to pay rent on my own now that Charlie and Mateo live together, I’m spread thin, so I’m not reimbursing him as quickly as I’d like.
No matter the price, though, I’d repay Jett a hundred times over to witness the joy on my best friend’s face when Mateo dropped down onto one knee.
“What’s on the agenda today?” I ask, content to change the conversation from my three-year situationship back to what’s important: celebrating my best friend.
She nibbles on her lower lip, the pastry bag crinkling beneath her grip. “Well…Oliver wanted to show us his favorite spots in London,” she says, then blurts out, “but if you don’t want to, we can do something different!”
I skid to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk, a runner having to weave around us as I give her a stern glare. Condensation drips onto my hand, and a car honks as it whizzes past.
“Charlie, I love you, but we’re not changing any plans because I have to spend the day with Oliver. Really, I can handle it. I’m a big girl.”
“Last time he left Rhode Island, you cried for three days.”
Rude of her to bring that up.
She would cry, too, if her ex-situationship who she still loves—two years after he broke her heart—quietly bought and left her incredible and thoughtful gifts for Christmas after a group secret Santa exchange, which dredged up every memory and hypothetical dream until she was forced to grieve a future that will never exist.
I’d like to see her hold it together after ripping away the thick, fancy wrapping paper to find an Easy-Bake Oven—an item on the childhood Christmas list that was never fulfilled.
“And I told you”—I give her a pointed look—“I got hot sauce in my eyes.”
“For three whole days?” Her brow raises, pulling at the edge of her scar.
“It’s the body’s way of working it out.” The smile tilting the edges of my lips is the brightest I can offer her. “So, what’s first on his list?”
After five years of friendship, I know every one of Charlie’s facial expressions, and this one screams, You’re not fooling me. Luckily, time has allowed me to hone my avoidance skills to perfection, and I let the glance slide off my shoulders.
I’m fine.
I can spend the day with Oliver.
I am an adult; I can handle this. Hell, I’ve handled much worse and made it out on the other side.
Charlie picks up speed once the historic, ornate hotel appears. She weaves around couples and families, and the ice in the cups rattles as I attempt to match her brutal pace.
Every piece of furniture in the sprawling lobby is immaculate, dragging the guests back in time to when the royal family of Britain was more than a cultural rule.
Blood-red velvets clash with the gold claw-feet on the couches.
Oil paintings decorate the walls, and I study the strokes and colors of each one.
A portrait of an aristocrat, in desperate need of restoration, hangs forgotten in a corner, backdropped by expensive wallpaper and a detailed bronze frame.
The varnish is cracked and peeling, years of neglect dampening the artist’s skill.
Flakes of paint are missing along the edges, and my mind works through which colors I would mix to match them and fill the gaps.
With a bit of love and time, the painting could come back to life.
I leave the aristocrat behind, shifting focus to Mateo and Oliver, who lounge in a set of chairs beneath an artistic interpretation of a British battle, red coats peppering a torn gray battlefield.
“We’re back,” Charlie cheers, drawing their attention, and my heart seizes behind my ribcage.
The deep breathing and mindfulness techniques I researched on the plane ride over do nothing to quell my body’s reaction to Oliver. The whooshing in my ears intensifies as he and Mateo eat the space between us.
Muscles in his bicep ripple as his hand raises to his face.
Do not push up your glasses, I scream in my mind, forcing the command to be heard.
He does not listen and presses his finger against the bridge of his frames, sliding them up his nose.
I hate how such a simple action melts me like ice cream on a hot New England day.
Charlie waves the bag of pastries in front of Mateo, and Oliver extends to take the drink tray from me. His skin grazes mine, and static electricity crackles along my spine, increasing the erratic pace of my heartbeat.
“What did you get?” Mateo asks before pressing his lips against Charlie’s temple.
She opens the bag for him to peer inside, wearing a soft, content smile when he spares no time digging out a chocolate croissant. Crumbs get caught on his cheeks, and Charlie laughs as she swipes them away, holding the paper sack far away from him when he tries to take another pastry.