“Thank you,” was all I could say, as though she had offered to pass me a basket of rolls at the table.
I then asked her to be my maid of honor.
“Oh, Isla. I am so . . .” She couldn’t finish, her eyes welled, and she held me again. “You are going to make the most beautiful bride.”
I knew that wasn’t the case. She would be the most beautiful bride the world had ever seen, should she ever make that leap. And I wasn’t envious of that. I wanted to set it straight in my head, like a fact in a history book.
“I have so many designer connections. Monique Lhuillier is a friend of mine. And I know the head designer at Amsale. We hit up a few parties together during Paris Fashion Week. Please. Let me help you select your dress,” she chattered.
I nodded, as if agreeing with her, but smiled dryly.
“I don’t know if it’s going to be that kind of wedding, Marlow . . . but that’s very kind of you. We’re going to keep it simple. The wedding is going to be here, probably. Remember that field we used to play in all the time?”
She clasped her hands together. “Yes. Our field. That’s going to be stunning with all the fall colors.”
Was it her field too?
“Right. We might have the ceremony there. It’s going to be small. Close family and friends.”
She suddenly looked exhausted. Like a toddler who needed her afternoon nap.
“You know what this means?” she asked as her eyes looked at me vacantly.
“What?”
“Sawyer is finally going to be my brother. Officially, that is.”
She insisted on celebrating that night. I refused to call it a bachelorette party even though she did.
“We have to have a last hurrah.”
I was somewhat swayed at this point, but I must have looked skeptical.
“After the wedding you will be all Sawyer’s.”
“It’s a marriage. Not an ownership. I’m not a professional sports team,” I smirked.
She tilted her head with solemnity. “No, but you will belong to each other. Just give me this last night.”
I agreed to a dinner and then a night in at my condo. She was reluctant about the tameness but gave in.
She behaved herself at dinner. We ordered a large sushi platter and a cocktail each. The cocktail wasn’t enough for her, and I watched her ask for a vodka neat. And then another. And then another. She paid the bill and left for the bathroom only to return to the table bouncier, more fluid. I told her we didn’t have to keep drinking, but really meant she didn’t have to keep drinking. She ignored me and continued at my place. By then, she was slurring her words and wasn’t even trying to hide the hits she was taking out of her purse.
It was only ten o’clock when she began to vomit. It crept out of the corner of her mouth like seedy mustard, and she struggled to get any water in. I pulled her hair to the side and looked away when she vomited again.
“It’s the withdrawal,” she explained, catching her breath.
“What?”
“I tried to cut back. But I couldn’t . . . not this time. And so using hard again—” She heaved but held her composure this time, holding her hand up.
Jesus, Marlow.
I pinched at my brow, exhaling slowly. “Is there . . . anything I can do to help?”
“Just don’t leave me,” she whispered.
She fell asleep on my couch. When I went to cover her up, she slipped her hand onto my wrist.
“Isla. I’m sorry.”
Her voice was steady. She had sobered up a little by then.
“You don’t have to be sorry.”
I sat next to her on the couch as she remained on her side.
“Yes. I do. I ruined your bachelorette party.”
I tried smiling. “You didn’t ruin it. I didn’t want one to begin with, remember?”
She seemed grateful for my carefully crafted response. But it was the truth. She really hadn’t ruined anything. I stayed with her until she began to drift off. I shifted the couch as I stood up, and she stirred. She turned to me.
“Isla. Everybody has a secret. Right?”
She sounded so young, her voice high and breathy. She was a few blinks from falling asleep, the relaxed dream state before slipping away.
“Yes. Everybody.”
