Page 67 of A Pack for the Wedding
Then he pulls back. His forehead rests against mine, his breathing uneven, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
"Beth," he says. His voice is rough. "Things are already complicated right now."
"I know," I say.
"So maybe we just..." He exhales. "Maybe we just sit with it for a while. You don't know if you're staying. So I'd rather not push into something that could wreck us both."
I nod. He's right, which is exactly why it fucking stings. I swallow hard against the tight ache in my throat, trying to ignore the way my blood is still humming from his kiss.
"Okay," I say.
"Okay," he echoes.
We sit there, leaning in until our heads come to rest against each other, admiring the view.
21
Beth
"Explain to me again why we're doing this here," Luna says. She kicks off her sandals, carefully side-stepping a massive pair of size-twelve work boots in the entryway. "I just bought a eucalyptus diffuser for my place. We could be having a spa experience."
"Because my apartment is huge," I say, leading them to the living room. "Especially since the guys are out tonight, doing alpha things. Also, I lit a new candle. Smell that? That's ambiance."
"It does smell good," Maren says.
She finds the wine opener on the table next to the glasses I set out and uncorks the rosé Luna brought. Luna unzips her tote bag, lifts out a fully assembled charcuterie board and sets it on the table.
"Is that a fig," I say.
"It's a date." Luna arranges the board, nudging a cluster of grapes a centimeter to the left.
"On the charcuterie board?" I ask.
"Dates are a legitimate charcuterie component these days." She straightens a row of crackers. "I looked it up."
Maren pours three glasses, hands one to Luna, another to me. Lifts hers. "To Harper."
We clink glasses.
The rosé goes down dangerously easy. Luna eats three dates and declares them a permanent charcuterie staple. Maren connects my phone to the speaker, and for a few minutes we're just drinking and talking over each other about nothing—Maren's coworker who microwaves fish at eleven in the morning, Luna's upstairs neighbor who plays trumpet before sunrise, whether the dates are actually better than figs would've been. Luna insists yes. Nobody agrees with her.
"Okay." Luna pulls a notebook from her bag with a floral cover. "Bachelorette. Harper wants—what did she say exactly?"
"'Wine and board games,'" Maren says.
"Right. So... do we ignore that completely?" Luna asks.
"We don'tignoreit," I say. "We just... expand on it."
"Lakehouse." Maren swipes through her phone, turning it to show me a listing. "I found one on the east side. There's a deck, a hot tub, and it's available the Saturday after next."
"Hot tub is essential," Luna says, writing it down with a pen she's produced from the notebook's spine.
"Oh—and I'll handle food," Maren adds, setting her phone face-down and picking up her wine. "Grazing table, those brie bites Harper loves, my Black Forest cake—"
"Oh yes—you make the most killer cakes," I cut in.
Luna's phone buzzes. She glances at it, picks it up, types something. Sets it back down.
