Page 6 of Kiss Slay Replay

“Such a stud. Thank you, Wyatt. I appreciate it. Suitcase is in the trunk. I’m sorry in advance—it’s stupid heavy.”

Wyatt plods off. Evan threads his arm through mine and leads me around the side of the building where there’s a series of Adirondack chairs facing the lake—a stunning view. The water is this amazing cobalt blue, the surface glittering in the sun. The distant trees are lush and vibrantly green; they sway gently in the breeze. It’s all so serene and perfect that I can’t stand it. I’m compelled to reach out and touch it, to roll around in the grass, to wade into the lake, to disturb. It’s like when you see a cake on the counter and feel that mad temptation to stick your finger in the frosting. Maybe it’s a me thing—this secret, selfish, nefarious impulse to sully the beauty in the world that I can’t have for myself, that I can’t fully enjoy in the moment because I’m too busy anticipating it slipping through my fingers.

“Sit,” Evan says, sinking into one of the chairs. “I was hoping for some time alone with you before the festivities begin. How are you? And please don’t say you’re too depressed to be a slut again because that was genuinely the most upsetting thing I’ve ever heard.”

Instead of sitting in my own chair, I squeeze in beside him. He groans but lets it happen.

“I’m…managing? Like, I’m alive.”

“When’s the last time you saw Ravi?”

“He came by the house in July to get something. He’d usually time it out to avoid me but no such luck. I mean, you know he’s been living with his parents since the split, right? Helping with his dad’s care.”

“How is his dad?”

“Good days and bad days. I’m still on the extended family email update. I’m not sure if that’s intentional or if his mom just hasn’t realized yet.”

“What were things like when you saw him? Cordial? Icy? Did you speak?”

“Not really. We’ve just been ghosts for months. I think he knows it was the right thing but resents me anyway. Oof. It’s miserable, Ev. Fucking miserable.”

“Mm. You know what’s miserable?” he asks. “You know who else is coming today? You know who else our dear friends Stephanie and Jason thought it was a good idea to invite to their wedding? Vicky Moldando. Did you know this?”

“Why do you hate her so much?”

“It’s not that I hate Vicky. I just hate having to look at Vicky.”

“That’s very kind of you. So sweet.”

“Please. She was artificial before all the fillers, which she didn’t even need, by the way! We both know who she really is. She’s not. That. Innocent.”

“All right, fine. When you’re right, you’re right. Appreciate the subject change.”

“Thought you might. But in all seriousness, I did want to check in on you. Make sure you weren’t going to self-immolate during the ceremony tonight.”

“I’m glad that’s the level of mental stability I’m presenting. Safe from self-immolation.”

He lifts a hip and uses the arm of the chair to push himself to stand, then extends a hand to help me up.

“You’re going to be okay.” Evan would never bullshit me, never tell me something he didn’t sincerely believe for the sake of reassurance, and that makes it so much more painful. Because I want so badly to believe this, to believe him. But I can’t fathom a future free of this existential malaise, and it’s scary to hope for something that I can’t see.

The emotion is too much. I can’t erase it, can’t ignore it, so I mold it into something else. Turn it into a joke. “I’ve been thinking about getting another cat.”

“Stop.”

“I’ve been so lonely. And you never pick up my calls.”

“I fall asleep on the phone. You know this.”

“A convenient excuse. All right. You want to show me this cabin?”

“Right this way.”

3

We walk up the hill to a path that leads to a series of white cabins. They’re bigger than I thought they’d be, each with its own porch. Porch swing. Rocking chairs. Windows with flower boxes brimming with purple impatiens and jolt pink dianthus and red snapdragons. Me five years ago would be horrified that I could identify these flowers, that I’ve become a plant lady.

It’s one of those things that I can’t tell if I actually care about or just feel like I’m supposed to care about. Do I like to garden, or did the need to pull weeds from the lawn teach me how to dissociate with my hands in the dirt?