But Phoebe pulls out her phone. She doesn’t want to leave him alone. The man was just dumped. Right now, he should not be alone if he doesn’t want to be. He should at least have the option.

You should know that the family is telling stories about you right now, she texts Gary.

Her phone dings right away. But it’s just her ex-husband, texting to say he has made it back to St. Louis alive. She wonders when he will stop texting her proof of life. Perhaps that will be the true end of the marriage, when they no longer need to know: Are you still alive?

IN THE LOBBY, new wedding people are arriving with their titanium-strength suitcases, looking for places to store them while their rooms are cleaned, and it reminds Phoebe that she needs luggage.

“Custom Canvas is on Thames,” Pauline suggests.

“Is there like, a Marshalls or something?” Phoebe asks, and Pauline writes down an address. Then Pauline goes to put up a new sign in the lobby: WELCOME TO THE WEDDING OF SOPHIA AND STEPHEN.

She is glad that Lila is not here to see it. Awful for the bride to watch another bride take her place—even if she is not really the bride anymore. She is just a woman who is eating poutine in Canada with her mother.

My mother keeps hitting on our waiter solely because he is getting a master’s in pre-Raphaelite art, Lila texts.

The early birds mill around, some already holding little white welcome bags. Half the room is saying hello, half is saying goodbye. They are exchanging numbers, saying, Stay in touch, let’s get together in a year, and she wonders if they will. She hopes they will but suspects they won’t. Perhaps this week is just a special moment in time. All of them together here, in this lobby, never to be so again.

“So how long is too long to wait before we call them?” Jim asks.

Phoebe smiles. “I’m sure Lila will explain that to you in detail when you call.”

“Well, Phoebe, I do hope we’re not done with each other just yet,” Jim says.

Phoebe hopes for that, too. So she does what feels like the most ridiculous thing to her: She gives him her number, hugs him, and says, “Let’s be friends.”

It makes her feel five years old in the best way.

“As long as you don’t use me for my weed hookup,” he says. “I’m never getting high with you again.”

“Two weeds, please,” she says.

Jim laughs. Phoebe watches him get in his Uber. He steps into the dark hole, just a person in jeans and a T-shirt. No longer the best man. An engineer on his way to Pawtucket, where there are apparently no more socks.

She wonders if this transformation has already happened to Gary. She wonders where and when he shed his tuxedo. She wonders if he is somewhere still wearing it.

IN MARSHALLS, SHE stands in a long line of other people buying things when she gets his text.

Is it the story about hiding the statue of David when I threw a party in high school? Gary asks.

Yes. And also the one about you lighting the house on fire.

So predictable.

Why did you hide your mother’s statue of David?

This was pre-Wendy. I couldn’t see art yet, remember? All I saw was a naked man sitting on my mother’s console.

You definitely didn’t use the word console then.

No, I just found out about the word, actually. I can’t stop using it. Hey, where are you?

In Marshalls trying to decide what suitcase to buy.

What are the options?

Is this something you really want to know right now?

Anything helps.

Either a hard-backed case that could survive space travel or a soft shell that can somehow charge my cell phone.

Guess it depends. Are you going to the moon?

St. Louis.

She doesn’t realize it until she types it. But she needs to go back before she moves into the mansion. She needs to say goodbye to Harry. She needs to clean the crumbs off the counter. Turn off the water. Pack up her things. Get it ready to sell. Set herself up for the next part of her life. She feels strong enough now to face it.

Oh, Gary writes. That moon.

Not forever, she writes. Where are you?

In the hot tub.

Don’t move.

SHE TAKES A cab back, but there is so much traffic, she decides near the end that it will be quicker to run. But running with a giant suitcase is difficult, and she is tired and sweating by the time she makes it back to the hotel.

In the lobby, everything is so still and serene, she slows down. This is one of those really great moments, she thinks. This is everything she loves about life. She wants to savor it. She leaves the suitcase with Pauline. She trails her fingers on the wall like she is already the winter keeper, checking for dirt. She admires the trim along the bookcase. Flips a book around, then nods at the new wedding people. Pours herself a glass of the spa water, which she knows is just regular water with cucumbers in it. It’s not magic water. But everything feels like magic inside of her.

Outside, there is Marla, two legs in the tub. Juice, submerged up to her ears. The clouds, protecting them all from the vast, unknowable void. And there, underneath it, the groom.

THE GROOM IS no longer a groom. Now he is just a man in a hot tub, wearing an orange bathing suit so bright Phoebe can see it glow through the water.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been here this whole time?” Phoebe asks Gary.

“It’s become medically unsafe,” Gary says.

“Dad’s having a spa day,” Juice says.

They laugh.

“He deserves it,” Marla says.

“It’s no Bourbon Bubbler,” Gary says. “But it’ll do.”

Juice stands up. Her face is flushed. “I need to get in the pool.”

“You should get out, too, Gary,” Marla orders.