Page 1 of Groomsman to Groom

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Snog on the Beach

BRIELLE

I’m still wearing glitter in my hair from last night’s destination beach wedding, and it’s not a fashion choice so much as a resigned acceptance. Glitter abides by theFirst Law of Thermodynamics—it transforms and/or moves but can never be destroyed.

The wedding party left this morning in a convoy of rideshares and rental cars, heading back to their real lives, but I stayed one more night. One more night of pretending I belong in this five-star resort where the staff calls me “Ms. Wilson” and the ocean is the exact color of a blue raspberry slushie. One more night before I go back to my apartment in Atlanta, where the closestthing to waves is the sound of my neighbor’s washing machine during the spin cycle.

Needing to talk to Skye, my new Mom-figure friend from the wedding, I tap on her hotel room door, careful not to chip my freshly manicured nails—another wedding perk I’m milking for all it’s worth. When she doesn’t answer, I knock harder.

“It’s open, darling Brielle!” Her voice floats through the door.

Okay, so she knows it’s me—that’s creepy. Shedoesclaim to be clairvoyant, although that’s been scientifically disproved numerous times. I push on the door, and it opens because tape’s covering the lock. White lotus and sandalwood incenses flood my nostrils, and with curtains drawn, the room’s mostly dark despite it being seven in the evening. “Skye?”

“Over here, under the light of universal healing.”

I follow her voice to find her cross-legged on the floor, hands in meditation pose, sitting directly under what appears to be a two-foot pop-up pyramid with LED lights flashing inside it at erratic intervals.

“What’s with the blinking?” I squint at the show.

“It opens my third eye,” she says, her palms raised. “And after all that booze and cake I need my chakras cleansed. They’re utterly constipated.”

“That’s... descriptive.”

She opens a regular eye. “You’re radiating uncertainty. You need to talk. Is it about the hot photographer you’ve been eye-banging all week?”

“I havenotbeen eye-banging anyone.” I choke on my ball of lies.

“Darling, if looks could impregnate, you’d be carrying his triplets.” She unfolds her legs with surprising grace for a woman with constipated chakras. “Sit. Tell Mama Skye everything.”

I collapse onto the edge of the bed. “Okay, Ihavebeen watching Hayes all weekend. He’s artsy, and his photos areamazing, and he’s a brainiac. We talked a bit at the rehearsal dinner.”

“Ohhh, Hero Hayes.” Skye claps her hands together. “The peeing savior of the old man with a jellyfish sting. The internet said his blurred-out junk was impressive.”

“Don’t remind me.” It wasreallylong… and tempting. I run my hands through my hair, dislodging more glitter that falls like confetti onto the duvet. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He lives in Chicago. I live in Atlanta. He has a kid. I have massive screenplay deadlines.”

“Details, details.” Skye waves a dismissive hand. “The real question is: did you feel the zing?”

“The what?”

“The zing! The electric current. The soul recognition.”

“Maybe? A little. But it doesn’t matter because—”

“—because you’re scared.” She stands up, abandoning her pyramid. “Come, we need ocean energy for this conversation. Bring wine.”

I grab the open bottle of Pinot Grigio and a couple of glasses from her minibar and follow her onto the balcony. The ocean spreads before us, vast and glittering as the sun descends toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. Skye settles into one of the wicker chairs and gestures for me to take the other.

“So you felt something with this man, but you’re going to let geography stop you?”

I pour us each a glass. “Um, I’m gonna say, ‘Yeah.’ Because, well, math. Also, reality.”

“Reality’s overrated.” She sips her wine and looks at me over the rim of her glass. “Did you know that Hayes is my ex-stepson?”

I choke again, this time on my wine. “Um, no. That’s kind of a major detail you left out.”

“Yeah, well—his father and I were only married for a hot minute, twenty-five years ago, when Hayes was only seven, but still. Hayes and I reconnected at this wedding.”

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