Page 27 of What's in a Kiss?

“Thanks, man,” Glasswell says, sounding fake and tired. “Not everyone is destined for ‘till death do us part.’ ”

“Maybe she dodged a bullet.” This comes out louder than I intended. Masha’s face registers real shock.

“Olivia!” Masha gasps.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “but—”

“You’re sorry... but?” Masha’s amazed.

I open my mouth to explain that yes, there is a “but.” It goes like this: I put my heart into this wedding. I scoured the internetfor weeks to source palo santo scented fire-resistant candles to line the aisle Masha would walk down. I booked the flowers and the music and the catering, planned the bachelorette and this rehearsal dinner. I held space for Masha’s extended family’s robust opinions about the right way to wed time and time again. I stood by Masha’s side every step of the way because I actually fucking care. In this war with Glasswell I may have lost at Life, but I’ve won—I’ll always win—at Best Friend.

Moreover:

“Why isn’t anyone getting onhim?” I demand, pointing at Glasswell. “He thinks he’s so much better than everyone else and goes out of his way to show it. Am I supposed to be so grateful for his presence that I also have to bend over and say—”

“Party people in the place!” Werner exclaims, appearing with Alastair. “Who’s ready to get unglued with gluten-free hush puppies?”

“Way ahead of you, Werner.” I throw down my napkin and rise from the table, unable to meet Masha’s eyes.

What have I done? Why do I let this man get the best of me over and over again? I’m so sick of Glasswell, but I’m disgusted with myself. I’ve lost sight of what matters and scratched the perfect off my best friend’s night.

“Olivia,” Glasswell says, edging past Alastair and Werner to follow me for the second time today. “Wait.”

But I’m already down the stairs, halfway to locking myself in the bathroom. How long can I hide in this stall before anyone cares? A year? A decade?

Long enough for Masha to forget what I just said?

Chapter Eight

Phone to my ear the next morning, I pace the bridal suite at the rustic-chic Santa Monica inn, Shutters on the Beach. On the far side of the room, Masha’s aspiring makeup artist cousin jams to Vagabon, using a soft brush to really push the boundaries of a neutral palette, while Mash watches me in the vanity mirror through a single open eye.

“It’s ringing,” I tell her. She nods.

The frozen shoulder I received upon returning from the bathroom last night has somewhat thawed. This morning’s handwritten card, almond croissants, and chai lattes from the Laurel Canyon Country Store got me within shouting range of Masha’s good graces, but she won’t relax until I apologize to Glasswell.

“Hullo?” His voice, first thing in the morning, stops my pacing. It stops everything in the room. He sounds hazy, almost sweet.

“Glasswell, this is Olivia.”

Ideally, he’ll hang up now, and I can beg the silence for forgiveness.

But a grunt tells me he’s still there.

I sit down on the nautical-shammed window seat, looking out at the broad expanse of sandy beach. A gray marine layerscarfs the sky, making the shore feel close and cold. It always amazes me how something so seemingly dense “burns off” into blue every morning. I tell myself to be like the sky, to let my inner fog dissipate into incandescent wisps, to clear the way for brighter things.

“Olivia who?” Glasswell says, the edge back in his voice.

Okay, so we’re picking up our battle where we left off, but Masha needs to hear us making up.

I glance at the chaos of the suite. Masha’s dress hangs in the closet, fresh from being steamed, but her veil is still a wrinkled mess. Her cousin’s six Caboodles have exploded cosmetic detritus over every surface of the room. In the corner, my mom’s hot glue gun heats up to affix popsicle sticks to programs so they can be used as fans—temps this morning are supposed to be five degrees warmer than expected. I still need to stuff the monogrammed favor bags with the back-ordered-until-this-weekend needlepoint kits Masha is Instagram-obsessed with. Then I have to text the violinist, confirming I found the Acus amplifier she requested. And the caterer, to relay the coordinates where the Santa Monica City Council said he can park his pupusa truck.

If I can’t have dignity on this call with Glasswell, I must insist on efficiency. Masha’s mom and aunts are on the way to the bridal suite, and I need to get through this call before my audience increases in size.

“It’s Olivia Dusk,” I say evenly into the phone. “And I’m calling to”—wow, this is hard to get out—“ap-apol—”

“Are we on speaker?” Glasswell asks.

“That’s big of you to say.” I give Mash a thumbs-up.

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