Page 13 of Untruly With You

“Oh!” It all clicks. “You’re in fashion, right? Don’t you write forAtelier Today?”

Ophelia beams. “I used to, yes! But Adam here,”—she pauses to wrap her arm even tighter around him—“started an independent magazine,Wonderings, and I joined the team.”

“What are your plans now that you’ve graduated?” Adam asks.

I wince. “Good question. I majored in journalism, but I’m still looking for the right job.”

Ophelia and Adam exchange a knowing look before she looks back at me. “Have you written anything before?”

“I worked at NYU’s student newspaper, but that’s it.” I shrug.

“Do you have any articles I can read?” Ophelia asks.

“Um, sure...” I grab my phone and pull up the website fortheWashington Square News, navigating to my most recent article.

Ophelia holds her hands out eagerly. “May I?”

As Ophelia reads, I ask Adam about their magazine.

“It’s all about culture,” he explains. “Travel, food, art, and—thanks to Ophelia—fashion. We have seasonal issues every three months, plus online articles in between. Our team is small right now. Everyone works from home. But it’s fun.”

“Your writing is unique—in a good way,” Ophelia interjects, handing my phone back. “It feels so natural.” Her lips curl. “Have you ever thought about freelancing?”

As always, when I think about my career, or lack thereof, my skin crawls. “I haven’t—not yet, at least,” I admit. I slump down a bit, leaning my elbows on the bar. “To be honest, I’m still figuring this out.”

“I get that,” Ophelia says, taking a sip of her drink. Behind her, Adam nods.

“Really?” I say in an exhale. “You felt directionless after graduating? Like…there are so many options out there you don’t know which route to take?”

Ophelia tilts her head a bit. “Well, no. I’ve always known I wanted to write about fashion. But it took me a while to get there. And during that time, it felt like my life was at a standstill.” She drums her fingers on the bar, pursing her lips. “Freelancing can be a nice way to make some extra money while you search for something more permanent.”

“Thatdoessound nice,” I say, sneaking a peek outside to Sutton. He’s still on the phone, his free hand balled into a fist.

“We like to work with a lot of freelancers,” she says. “And the ones who are a good fit sometimes end up joining our team on a permanent basis. If you ever decide you want to give it a try, email me.” She hands me a white linen-textured business card:Ophelia Brooks, President of Wonderings Magazine.

“Really?” I ask again, feeling like my heart might fly out of my chest. My face stretches into a wide smile as I imagine Sutton’s face, my parents’ faces, when I tell them the good news.

“With you writing likethat,”—Ophelia points at my phone—“yes, really. You’ll just need to find something worth writing about.”

7

SUTTON

“Wells is gettingmarried?”I ask for the fifth time.

Frankie’s shallow breaths sound as distorted as they always do when she’s calling from the ranch. But even spotty reception didn’t warrant this news to be broken over text.

Frankie has filled me in on all the basic details aside from one. I know the date (twenty-two days from now), location (the Davis family ranch), the groom (my brother), and my role (best man, for some who-knows reason). What Frankie has conveniently left out is the detail of the bride. Her omission is all I need to know, however.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” I ask, my chest tightening with each syllable that I force through gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry, Sutton,” Frankie murmurs.

For the first time in years, I allow myself to think back to Cassidy Clark. Her curly red hair. Her full face of freckles. Her doe-like, emerald eyes. Her lips, perfectly symmetrical between the top and bottom, which seemed to always be in a pout.

Like most of the kids in West River, Cassidy and I both lived there from the time we were babies. With only thirty-five students in our entire grade, we were in the same classes every year from kindergarten on. In third grade, we were married under the big oak tree at recess with dandelion rings. In eighth grade, we had our first kiss. And then, just after my first year at NYU—

“You okay?” Frankie asks, pulling me from my runaway thoughts.

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