Everything was perfect—planned with the same attention to detail I give to all important things in my life, from clients’ tax returns to Clara’s schedule to my own retirement plan. I know, because I had a spreadsheet. Several spreadsheets, in fact, where I checked and double-checked all the components of my sister’s bachelorette party: the location (an uber-cool whiskey bar just outside of Hope Gap); the music (a playlist curated from all of Marceline’s favorites); even the accessories (custom sunglasses with “bride to be” on one temple and a violin on the other, which I will insist Marceline wears for at least one photo.)
So a reasonable person would forgive me now, as I’m standing outside of said whiskey bar, for slipping toward the edge of a nervous breakdown.
“Double-booked?” I repeat. “You’re telling me we’re double-booked?”
The hostess, for her part, is brave enough to fix on an apologetic smile.
“I am so sorry for the mix-up, Ms. Freeze. We’ll be getting to the bottom of this, I assure you, but unfortunately, we are double-booked. The other party has already begun setting up.” She nods at the banner unfurled above the bar entrance: Happy Birthday, Mildred! The Big 8-0! “We can discuss rescheduling, or…”
The hostess stops cold, eyes widening at the space just behind me, and I feel my sister’s arrival like a long, very famous shadow.
“Marceline,” the hostess marvels.
My sister is radiant in a white slip dress and the old combat boots I wouldn’t be surprised to see her wearing down the aisle next month. Behind her clusters the rest of the bridal party: Marceline’s assistant André, her eyebrow stylist Sania, and a gaggle of other stylish New York friends who flew in for the occasion. Also tagging along are the Hope Gap brigade: our mother, Mrs. Caputo, Mr. Lockwood, and Tater—notably the only canine attendant. I would have argued against bringing a dog to the function, but he does look impeccable in a sequined bow tie (matching Mr. Lockwood’s, of course.)
“The very same,” I tell the hostess before the pop star in question can respond. “And this just so happens to be her bachelorette party.”
It lands like the loud pop of a balloon.
“Marceline,” the hostess repeats, an invocation, “You’ll have to forgive us. I’m such a big fan. I can always ask the other party to—”
“No need.” My sister grabs my arm before I can tell the hostess to boot granny and her entourage. “We can share the space, if that’s alright with them?”
I bite my tongue. To be honest, I’m still in favor of asking them to leave—there’s no way Mildred booked the space before I did, which was the same day Marceline made me her Maid of Honor.
But the hostess smiles. “Yes, of course. I’ll check in with the other group, but please, come in.”
Marceline is already following the hostess inside when I block her path.
“I thought you wanted something private,” I hiss, irritated at how, well, irritated I am by this change of plans. “What if someone posts a photo of you here, and the masses descend?”
“We’ll ask for discretion. I trust them.”
“Oh of course, you trust them,” I say, dripping sarcasm. “Your best friends, nameless hostess and Mildred.”
“Who?”
“Exactly!” I throw up my hands.
She gives my arm a reassuring squeeze. “Eloise, it’s okay. Really.”
I sigh. I love my sister, and I adore her and Lucas together, but it mystifies me how much more relaxed she’s become since they got together.
“Okay,” I relent. “Let me just—”
“Omigod, Marceline?”
She stands on the sidewalk behind us, the bug-eyed girl I know neither one of us recognizes: a rabid fan.
“You guys, it’s Marceline!”
One thing I’ve learned about fans is that, like cockroaches, they multiply. Sure enough, the girl’s call is answered by a chorus of excited squeals, five more fans descending at lightning speed.
“Marceline, I love you!”
“Where’s Lucas?”
“When’s the wedding?”
“Wait, oh my god, is it now?”
There’s at least ten stopped on the sidewalk now. Cameras flash. Phones press close to our faces. Like always, their target is my famous sister. I’m merely collateral, a footnote—and right now, I’m grateful for that. Because no one sees me take off my jacket, throw it over Marceline’s head, and then yank her down the sidewalk.
Instantly, the bridal party is at our heels, forming a barrier around me and the fleeing pop star. Even Tater yaps from Mr. Lockwood’s arms, his best attempt at guard dog duty. But the fans are fast. Hungry. At least one of them is livestreaming on TikTok. And I know, with the painful certainty of knowing you’re about to be sick, that Marceline’s bachelorette party is ruined.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt, breath labored from running. “This is my fault. I should have checked with the bar again this morning. Or picked somewhere in Hope Gap, where people actually respect your privacy.”
“It’s okay, El,” Marceline tries, but I know she’s only placating me. She’s even thrown on the bride-to-be sunglasses—but maybe that’s more about stealth than making me feel better. Either way, they’re not working. The fans are closing in. Soon, the headlines will be everywhere: Marceline makes wild escape from adoring fans, escorted by frumpy older sister who definitely hasn’t kept up with her cardio.
And then, like a beacon, headlights. A white van pulls onto the street, the driver laying on the horn.
Great. Now we’re probably going to be kidnapped, too.
But then the van skids to stop, and I notice the familiar dent on the bumper. The “ironic” This driver is directed by David Lynch sticker slapped beside it.
“No,” I mutter. “Absolutely not.”
The window rolls down, and Kirby Grizzler grins at us from the driver’s seat.
“No party like a Freeze party,” he teases, and my neck goes hot. “Need a ride?”
It’s bad enough that my ex-husband arrived in his eyesore of a car to save the day.
It’s even worse that, when the full party squeezes into Kirby’s van, I’m forced to sit on his lap.
“This is illegal,” I snap, thighs burning from trying to keep myself from leaning into him. “You’re going to get us arrested.”
Kirby snorts. “Thank you, Officer Freeze. We’re driving, like, ten minutes.”
“It’s twenty back to M’s Place. And you’re already driving a kidnapper’s van.”
Kirby grins. “You sound like Clara.”
And you could be her twin, I think, noticing our daughter’s matching dimple on his cheek. It steals my breath sometimes, how much she looks like him. How, despite my best efforts, I like seeing him in her face.
“Then I’ve taught her well,” I say instead, pulling down my skirt to keep it from riding up. I turn back to Marceline in the back seat, who’s laughing at something with André so hard they’re both teary. Another constant, wonderful surprise: the way my sister’s joy has grown in the past year, climbing past the confines of her once-high walls.
“You’re sure you’re okay with this?” I ask her. “Joining the bachelor party at M’s Place? Doing exactlywhat you and Lucas do every time you’re back in town?”
“It’s perfect,” Marceline says, eyes shining. “Really.”
I can’t fight the sting of that comment, even though I know it’s not what she intended. All this effort, all those spreadsheets, and Marceline’s dream bachelorette party wasn’t what I’d planned at all.
Instead, it’s what Kirby Grizzler threw together in probably five minutes.
“Why are you out, anyway?” I ask him now. “I’m pretty sure it’s bad form for the best man to be late, even for you.”
The car hits a pothole, and instinctively, I grab Kirby’s arm. He’s already tightened it around my waist, protective. We both exhale as the road smooths, and I feel his cool breath on my neck, the smell of the cinnamon mints he loves. It’s the scent of so much of my life: the first time he kissed me, when we snuck away from the annual Freeze Christmas party to watch In Bruges. The way he pushed a mint around his mouth, dead-silent and unbearably unreadable, when I told him I was pregnant. Sleepless nights with Clara, when he’d nuzzle me to his chest and tell me I was the best mother, even though I was sure I’d screw everything up.
The smell lingering after all the times we broke up, a mint tin in the nightstand drawer like a promise or a taunt: I’ll be back.
A crooked smile tips one corner of Kirby’s lips, like he can read my thoughts.
“Forgot the ice,” he says.
I roll my eyes, my shoulders relaxing the slightest bit toward his chest. “Of course you did.”
M’s Place is alight. The fireplace crackles, string lights glimmering like fireflies in the dark. A record spins on the player, crooning a sultry song I can’t remember the name of but recognize as one of Marceline’s and Lucas’s favorites. Delicious smells hang in the warm, cozy air: baked pastry, citrus, and the undertone of coffee and smoke that always fills the café. Around the candlelit tables, the groomsmen eat decadent appetizers and sip drinks, their voices and laughter a pleasant hum beneath the music.
This isn’t a drunken bachelor party. It’s a soiree—exactly the kind of thing I’d plan for Lucas.
The kind of thing Kirby—father of my child, forgetter of ice—would never have the wherewithal to put together. There’s even themed décor, adorable pictures of Marceline and Lucas stuck to the walls or framed on the tables.
“Look what I picked up from the side of the road,” Kirby booms as we enter. “Found ‘em running for their lives from a horde of fans. Can you boys find it in your heart to take in a stray pop star and her entourage?”
Of course they can. Marceline and Lucas are already running into each other’s arms—and then, once Lucas ensures she’s okay, making out in the middle of the room like teenagers.
“Young love,” Kirby muses, materializing at my side like a ghost. “Remember when we used to be like that?”
“We never kissed like that in public.”
“You’d never let me.”
When I turn to give him a withering look, there’s a strange flash in his eyes—nostalgia, but something a little deeper. It reaches under my skin, makes me itch, so I focus instead on the closest framed photo. It’s Marceline and Lucas on their second official Christmas together, snow on their lashes and big grins on their faces.
“Did you do all this?” I gesture at the room around us. “It’s actually sort of…”
Perfect. The word flickers through my head like a candle flame.
“Tasteful,” I say instead.
Kirby shrugs, but I can tell he’s fighting a goofy smile. “I might’ve had some help.”
“From Lucas?”
He makes a serious face. “A professional never reveals his secrets.”
There’s something in his voice, a playfulness that reminds me of how we used to talk when things were good—when we weren’t arguing about money or parenting or toilet seats left up, when we just had fun together.
It stirs up a tender ache that unsettles me, makes me sharpen my voice to account for it.
“Where’s that ice you supposedly drove twenty minutes to get, by the way?”
“About that.” Kirby smirks. “Follow me. I need your help.”
“Ominous.”
Kirby shoots me a mischievous, self-satisfied look that makes him look seventeen again, about to show me a movie he knows will change my life.
When we stop in the kitchen, I gasp.
“Kirby Grizzler. Is that…?”
He lifts up the karaoke machine. “Knew you’d like it.”
Kirby has always despised karaoke—to him, it’s as grievous a sin as pop music itself—but no one can deny that the machine is a hit. Mr. Lockwood brings the house down with his rendition of “Defying Gravity,” Tater providing backup howls as the Glinda to his Elphaba. Mrs. Caputo unlocks her old punk alter ego with Patti Smith’s “Gloria.” Even Lucas joins in with an almost nauseatingly adorable Death Cab for Cutie serenade for Marceline.
True, a part of me is still seething that this was Kirby’s idea, but when Marceline asks me to join her onstage for “Happy Days Are Here Again,” my chest fizzes with a champagne-pop buzz I haven’t felt since the last time we sang together. For the first time, I’m not thinking about how royally tonight’s plan went awry—only the harmony of our voices, Marceline proudly wearing her “bride-to-be” sunglasses, our smiles so big they hurt.
Maybe that’s why, when Kirby heckles us a little too loudly, I snatch the mic and declare that the next song is dedicated to him. I cue up “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” and perform each line like a wink or a weapon, torture perfectly crafted for Kirby by two of his favorite nemeses: me and Taylor Swift. Torture I can create only because, despite everything, I know him better than anyone.
When I finish, the party’s whoops and applause roaring in my ears, Kirby’s gaze sears into mine. He does a little bow, lips curling into a smile that heats every part of my skin. I tell myself it’s just the high of performing, the whiskey sours we’ve been sipping all night.
But when the party’s over—when Marceline and Lucas have already absconded, tipsy and love-drunk, to the apartment upstairs, and Kirby and I convince everyone else to leave us the cleaning—the feeling doesn’t fade. My whole body tingles with awareness of the space between us. The fact that we’re alone together, and it’s not to talk about parenting or logistics.
“Good party,” I say, just to fill the silence. I’ve already collected all the photos, and Kirby is wiping down the bar with the lazy swipes that used to make me so angry when we lived together. Now, though, it strikes me as almost comforting. Familiar.
“Minus the entertainment,” Kirby teases, that same playful smile on his lips.
My cheeks heat—indignation or something else, I’m not sure. I reach for one of the photos, buff the squeaky-clean frame.
“I can’t believe Kirby Grizzler bought a karaoke machine. For a bachelor party.”
“Believe me, it was painful.” Kirby sets down his rag and fixes me with a look I can’t quite read. “But I knew those two couldn’t spend a night away from each other. And when the bachelor and bachelorette parties inevitably combined, I figured we’d need an activity for the masses.” He looks down, running a hand through his hair. “Plus, I kind of missed you and Marceline singing together.”
My jaw actually drops. Whatever retort I would have given him is drowned out by a sudden tide of deep, unnamable feeling.
“Shit.” Kirby comes out from behind the bar. “El…”
It’s only then that I realize tears have sprung to my eyes.
“Goddammit.” I rub them away. “It’s just…I can’t believe you planned a better party for Marceline than I ever could have. I mean, of course this was always what she wanted. It was cozy and thoughtful and perfect, and I was too distracted by my own elaborate plans to even realize how wrong they were.”
“As much as I’d relish the opportunity to one-up you,” Kirby says, surprisingly gentle, “I don’t think that’s fair.”
“It is! I overthink. I’m too high-strung. And if you hadn’t brought out the fucking karaoke machine, I would have spent this whole party moping about the fact that it wasn’t what I planned.”
Sometime in the space of those words, he’s gotten closer—close enough for me to smell his cinnamon mints. He doesn’t say anything, only watches me carefully, the way he’d watch one of his favorite films, and it suddenly infuriates me.
“What?” I snap. “You’re not leaping at the chance to agree?”
It’s what we always fought about. I take everything too seriously, and Kirby doesn’t take things seriously enough, except for the wrong things: pretentious art, counterculture, winning an argument.
But now, Kirby doesn’t argue. He doesn’t take the bait.
Instead, he says, “You know, I used one of your spreadsheets.”
“What?” The word lingers in the breath between us.
He takes a slow step closer, leaning down from his ridiculous height so his mouth is closer to mine.
“To plan the party,” he says. “I downloaded one of your spreadsheet templates. It kind of saved my life.”
Sue me, it’s the hottest sentence I’ve ever heard.
We crash together like the drunken teenagers we used to be, his mouth as warm and inviting on mine as the fire still crackling beside us. His fingers travel down to my waist, where they brace firmly, possessively, as mine tangle in his hair. I’ve always loved his hair, from the embarrassing bowl cut he sported for most of his adolescence to the much more grown-up style he wears now.
He takes me by the thighs and lifts me up onto one of the freshly-cleaned tables, and I laugh, leaning into him.
“What?” he murmurs—playful, indignant, and the tiniest bit insecure, the Kirby he’s always been.
I linger for a moment, studying the face I know as well as my own, as our daughter’s. We’ve been down this road so many times, and it always ends the same way: chaos. Heartbreak.
But maybe there’s something beautiful in that, like a mint tin left in the drawer, a promise: I’m here, always. I know you, for better or worse.
“Nothing,” I say. “It’s just…we already cleaned this table.”
Kirby laughs. “I think we can handle another mess.”
And then he kisses me again.
