“This is bad,” I whispered.
“What’s bad?” Abby asked, startling me. “Whoa. Jumpy this morning? What are you staring at? Where’s Shep?” She stretched her neck to look past me at the beach.
“Fuck,” she whispered. “That looks bad. Are you and Shepley fighting?”
I spun around. “No. Shepley went to find out what was wrong with Trav. You’re not? Fighting, I mean?”
Abby shook her head. “No. Pretty sure that’s not what anyone would call what he did to me all night. Wrestling maybe—”
“Did he say anything to you this morning?”
“He left before I woke up.”
“Now, he … he looks like that!” I said, pointing. “What the hell happened?”
“Why are you yelling?”
“I’m not yelling!” I took a breath. “I mean … I’m sorry. Everyone’s mad. I don’t want angry people at this wedding. I want happy people.”
“The wedding is over, Mare,” Abby said, patting my backside, as she passed. She strolled out to the beach.
Marriage had made her confident, calmer, and slower to react when something was amiss. Abby had the security of knowing that if a problem stood before them, they would figure it out and be holding hands on the other side. Travis the Boyfriend had been unpredictable, but Travis the Husband was Abby’s teammate, the only real family she had.
I could almost see triumph in the way she moved as she closed in on him and Shepley. Whatever was wrong, Abby was unafraid. Travis was unbeatable, just like her. They had nothing to fear.
That part of being married was appealing to me, but being married to a Maddox would be work, and I wasn’t sure I was ready for that yet—even if my Maddox was Shepley.
The moment Abby knelt next to Travis, he threw his arms around her and buried his face in the crook of her neck. Shepley stood and took a few steps back, glancing at me for just a moment, before watching Abby work her magic.
“Good morning, sweet pea,” Mom said, touching my shoulder.
I turned to hug her. “Hi. How did you sleep?”
Mom looked around and sighed. The lines on each side of her mouth deepened when she smiled. “This place, America. You did a really good job.”
“Too good,” Dad teased.
“Mark, stop,” Mom said, nudging him with her elbow. “She’s already said she’s not in a hurry. Leave her alone.” She looked at me. “Are we still on for brunch?”
“Yeah,” I said, distracted by Travis hugging Abby on the beach. I chewed on my lip. At least they weren’t fighting—or maybe they were making up.
“What is it?” Dad asked. He looked in the same direction I was, immediately seeing Travis and Abby. “Good God, they’re not arguing, are they?”
“No. Everything is fine,” I assured him.
“Travis didn’t attack some drunken spring breaker for staring at his wife, did he?”
“No.” I chuckled. “Travis is calmer … ish.”
“Abby has the face, Pam,” Dad said.
“No, she doesn’t,” I snapped back, more to myself than to him.
“You’re right,” Mom said. “That is definitely the face.”
They meant Abby’s poker face. Any stranger would think nothing of it, but we all knew what it meant.
I turned to them with a contrived smile. “I reserved a table for six. I think Jack and Deana are already heading that way. I’ll just grab Shepley, and we’ll meet you there.”
Mom batted her eyes and pretended like she didn’t know I was trying to get rid of them, just like all the times when they’d ignored Abby’s poker face when we were getting caught in a lie. My parents weren’t stupid, but they were also nontraditional in the way that, as long as we were safe, they’d allow us to make mistakes. They didn’t know those mistakes had been made in Las Vegas.
“America,” Mom said. Her tone alerted me to something more serious than the scene on the beach. “We have an idea on what this brunch is about.”
“No, you don’t,” I began.
She held up her hand. “Before you make everyone at the table uncomfortable, your dad and I have discussed it, and our feelings haven’t changed.”
My mouth fell open, and my words tripped over my tongue several times before I could form a coherent sentence. “Mom, just please hear us out.”
“You still have two years left,” Mom said.
“It’s a great apartment. It’s close to campus—” I said.
“School has never come easy to you,” Mom interjected.
“Shepley and I study all the time. I’m carrying a three-point-oh.”
“Barely,” Mom said, sadness in her eyes.
She hated telling me no, but she would when she felt it was important, which made it really hard for me to argue.
“Mom—”
“America, the answer is no.” Dad shook his head, holding up his hands, palms out. “We’re not financing an apartment with your boyfriend, and we don’t feel like you could hold satisfactory grades and work enough hours to pay rent, even half the rent. We don’t know how Shepley’s parents feel, but we can’t agree to it. Not yet.”
My shoulders fell. For weeks, Shepley had been preparing a speech with calm rebuttals and sound arguments. He would be devastated—again—just like the last time when we’d announced that we would be moving in together and were shut down.