“Your mother? Total nightmare. You’re like a rag doll around her. And your friends are fucking miscreants.”
Iris’s posture snapped straight. “Damn right we are, you shit sock.”
“Don’t you dare talk about my friends,” Astrid said.
“I did you a favor, buying that house in Seattle,” Spencer went on. “You’re content to be nothing in Bright Falls, Astrid. I’m just trying to get you to see that.”
“Holy shit,” Iris said.
“He . . . bought a house in Seattle?” Claire asked. Her stomach splashed to her feet, Spencer’s proclamations rolling through her like a bulldozer. “I thought they weren’t leaving for another year.”
“By the looks of it, I think Astrid thought the same thing,” Iris said.
Astrid didn’t say anything. She just picked up a pin-striped suit jacket and launched it onto the grass.
“That’s Armani!” Spencer shrieked, jogging down the steps and collecting the garment.
“That doesn’t belong in my house anymore,” Astrid said, pointing at him. “And neither do you. Enjoy your new house in Seattle.”
“What are you going to do, cancel our whole wedding? Our whole life?” Spencer said, spreading his arms. “We’re getting married in three days. You wouldn’t dare.”
Astrid’s face sobered, and her chin started to wobble. Claire opened the car door, ready to intervene, but Astrid didn’t give her a chance. She simply turned on her heel and went inside, slamming her front door behind her.
Spencer stared after her for a second, then snatched up the last of his clothes and thundered toward his shiny Mercedes, which was parked on the curb. He glanced at Claire and Iris in the car, flicked them off over a pile of dress shirts like the classy guy he was, then got in his sedan and drove away.
The two women sat in silence for a second before Iris finally spoke.
“I think . . . I think they just broke up?” she said.
Claire blew out a breath. “I think they did.”
“That’s what we wanted.”
Claire nodded, but she felt terrible. Not guilty—Spencer dug his own grave, no doubt about it—but it was hard seeing a friend hurting. Plus . . .
“Isabel’s going to kill her,” she said.
“Yeah,” Iris said with a sigh. “I think she just might.”
“No reason for her to die alone, then,” Claire said.
Iris squeezed her hand and smiled at her. “One for all, bitches.”
They got out of the car and started up the sidewalk, Claire’s heart pounding the entire time. Iris rang the bell but then pushed the front door open and stepped inside. Astrid’s house, as always, was a vision of modern design and style. Cool gray walls, ecru sofas filled with throw pillows in various shades of blue, distressed wooden console tables, white quartz countertops, and stainless steel appliances. The living area, kitchen, and dining room were one huge space, and windows lined the entire back wall, revealing a small patio and a view of the river in the distance.
“Astrid?” Claire called. “Honey?”
No answer. She glanced at Iris before they both headed for the hall that led to the bedrooms.
Inside her room, Astrid sat on her queen-size bed facing the window, her back to the door. Evening light streamed in through the glass, turning all the grays in the room to lavender.
“Sweetie?” Iris said, walking inside slowly. “We’re here.”
Astrid didn’t move. Her shoulders were rounded, her posture very un-Astrid-like.
“Honey?” Claire said. She moved around Iris so she could sit next to Astrid. The bed dipped, and her friend’s shoulder pressed into hers. She moved her arm and wrapped it around Astrid, holding her tight. Iris settled on her other side.
Astrid wasn’t crying, but her eyes looked a little red rimmed as she stared vacantly out the window. Claire caught Iris’s gaze over Astrid’s blond head, a what do we do? look passing between them. They didn’t know. Finally, Iris’s arm came around Astrid’s shoulder as well, so that the three of them were locked together, just like they’d always been.
Astrid took a deep breath. She opened her mouth a few times, but it took several tries before she actually spoke.
“I don’t love him.”
Iris and Claire widened their eyes at each other.
“And I should love the person I’m going to marry,” Astrid went on without looking at either one of them. “Shouldn’t I?”
“Yes,” Claire said softly. Iris smoothed a hand down Astrid’s hair.
“I should trust him, be excited about marrying him.”
“Also yes,” Iris said.
“And I don’t. I’m not.”
Claire leaned her head against Astrid’s.
“He bought a house,” Astrid said. “An entire house without telling me. Asking me. He just . . . did it, like I didn’t even exist.”
“Well, that’s a shitty thing to do,” Iris said.
“Do you . . . do you remember when my mother signed me up for tennis when I was thirteen?”
Claire caught Iris’s eye again, both their mouths pressed flat. Of course they remembered. Astrid hated tennis. She always had, ever since her gym teacher had done a unit on it in fourth grade and a ball hit her square in the nose. But Isabel didn’t think track—which had been Astrid’s preferred sport since middle school—was a very ladylike activity. It wasn’t . . . posh enough. So she’d signed her up for tennis at the Bright River Club, private lessons, crisp white pleated skirts, the whole nine yards.
And Astrid did it for a year before it was clear she was terrible. Only then, when Isabel’s reputation for having a clumsy-on-the-court daughter was on the line, did she relent and let Astrid return to track and cross country.
“Yeah,” Claire said. “We remember.”
Astrid sighed. “She never asked me if I wanted to play. Never even thought about asking me, if I had to guess.”
Claire rubbed circles on her back.
“She never asked me about French lessons or what color dress I wanted to wear to all of her events. Never asked me what kind of cake I wanted for my birthday. She just always bought angel food.”
“God, I always hated your birthday cakes,” Iris said.
“Iris,” Claire hissed, but Astrid just laughed.
“No, she’s right,” Astrid said. “Angel food cake is the worst. But it was what my mother wanted, just like everything else, like taking over Lindy Westbrook’s business, like—”