Most of the time.

  I’m the kind of person who likes to believe things have a way of working out for the best. And the proof is in this moment, right now, sharing a brilliant boat-ride bachelorette with my oldest and best friend.

  “I hope you’re hungry for some galbi.” I go low on the penultimate syllable to sound like Oprah. Mash loves Oprah.

  I kept the ribs warm using the partition in Werner’s luxury cooler, but I dressed the presentation down by tossing two of my mom’s old heating pads on top.

  “You didn’t.” Masha reaches for one of the hot, floppy sacks and gives me a thwack with it. “These bring back so many memories.”

  “PMS Eve,” I say, referring to the once-a-month holiday my mom invented when I got my period. Throughout my teen years, Masha, my mother, and I were all on the same cycle. We were that close.

  “Remember when Lorena used to make us those awful vegan nachos?” Masha says. “She’d insist we lay on the couch in your den with these heating pads over our laps, while she force-fed us the entire John Hughes catalog.”

  “For all our bitching and moaning,” I say, “that was an important cinematic education.”

  “But we didn’t understand any of it.” Masha laughs. “We thought the Valium scene in Sixteen Candles was just what happened when a woman got married.”

  I laugh, then realize Masha’s gone quiet. And a little pale. She slides her pole into one of the holders attached to the stern and pops open a can of PBR. “That’s going to be me two days from now.”

  I feel the window narrowing before Masha wedding-spirals. I’ve got to make her laugh. I slump against her, impersonating Molly Ringwald’s wasted on-screen sister walking down the aisle: “Looovve the teapot.”

  Masha cracks a smile, indulging me, but she’s clearly on her way to the fetal position. Her eyes clamp shut as she hugs her knees. And she’s rocking.

  “What if it’s a disaster? What if my mom makes a scene? What if I fall apart?”

  I put my pole and beer down, take her shoulders gently, and look into her hazel eyes. “Masha. My love. I’ll be at your side. No matter what. You can do this. You and Eli are beautiful together. Your future sparkles with enthusiastic, introverted love.”

  “But what if . . .” She trails off and we gaze at each other.

  “Yeah,” I say quietly. She means the rest of it, the life that comes after I Do.

  Divorce, infidelity, sudden death, unemployment, depression—every wrecking ball in the book found our nuclear families at some point while we were growing up. There’s no use pretending we’ll escape adulthood unscathed. But where Masha can take to her bed on these subjects, I become defiant, like, Life, do your worst. I dare you to flatten me.

  I know a huge portion of my strength comes from having Masha and my mom in my corner. Without them, a flat tire would lay me low. But with their support, I could navigate a four-tire-blowout on the Autobahn, backward and upside down. Lucking into having Lorena as my mother and Masha as my BBS are the great gifts of my life.

  Which is how I know that right now, my job as maid of honor is to dish out every support Masha needs.

  “Do you want to do a visualization?” I ask. Mash and I got in the habit of doing these last year, before our intramural baseball playoffs. Since we won the championship, I know the technique works.

  “Good idea,” Masha says, casting her line again, watching her lure vanish into the sea.

  “Okay.” I close my eyes, feeling a nibble on my line. I jerk the rod, but the fish escapes. I wait for the right visualization to come to mind, and smile when it does. “Imagine: Eli’s in a white studio, alone . . .”

  I pause as the details find me. Masha’s groom-to-be is a ballet dancer with the Los Angeles Ballet. The way the man looks in his tights ought to be illegal.

  “The curve of flesh,” I intone. “The tension in the fabric of his tights—”

  Masha laughs, breaking my focus. “First of all, Eli would die if he heard you right now. Second, you’re doing really well, but I think I need a more immediate visualization. Like, Saturday? The ceremony? Me standing before the altar, not pulling a Runaway Bride?”

  “Yes, I see it!” I close my eyes and reset. “You’re standing at the altar. Your veil rests perfectly on your hair, which isn’t too poufy. The eccentric yogi officiant is fashionably late, enough to give you a thrill. Oh, but look, he’s here now. In the warm Santa Monica sand, Eli stands beside you—”

  “No tights.”

  “Completely tightless,” I say. “His tux looks great, and he’s gazing at you like Kenneth Branagh’s Hamlet looking at his dad.”

  “You’re so weird.”

  “I’m right behind you—”

  “Yes, boo,” she says. “I see you.”

  “I’m holding your bouquet, and I’ve got your back. Always.”

  I feel Masha reach for my hand and squeeze. “Thank you, Liv. This is good. Maybe I can do this.”

  Never one to be left out of group love, Gram Parsons barks and kisses both our hands.

  “You can totally do this,” I say, smiling behind my closed eyes. It is a good vision, and in two days, it’s about to be real. I can see it: Masha’s elated. Eli’s lucky AF and knows it. I’m happy for them.

  And, when I glance across the imaginary aisle of this imaginary ceremony . . . there is Eli’s very real Best Man.

  Damn it. Glasswell strikes again.

  Who let Jake Glasswell into my visualization? I did not order his famous smile or green eyes, and I would like to send them back. I was doing just fine, thank you, right up until he showed up.

  But he won’t leave. He sticks in my mind, because . . . oh right, he just does whatever he wants. He just gets whatever he wants. He probably doesn’t even want half the stuff he gets, he’s just that lucky.

  It’s not that I’m delusional. I know I’m going to have to face this guy at Masha’s wedding, but I intended to put off thinking about him for as long as possible. Like, until tomorrow’s rehearsal dinner, when—glowed-up and dripping in my legtastic mini dress—I’ll feel a tap on my shoulder and I’ll turn, slowly, casually, like whoever’s on the other side can wait.

  And there he’ll be. After all these years. I’ll be ready for him. My tone and body language will be the essence of nonchalant when I say, oh hey, and yeah, I guess it has been a minute.

  But I don’t need to think about Glasswell now.

  As I will my brain to kick him to the curb, the boat rocks, and I realize Masha’s on her feet.

  “Bite!” she shouts. “Big bite!”

  I gasp and see Masha frantically reeling in her line, her pole bent like the Arc de Triomphe. I scramble to grab a net and get my phone out of my pocket. I video the bride-to-be lift a fat halibut from the water.

  “Beautiful!” I say as Masha lowers the wriggling fish into the net.

  I run to my tackle box, find my pliers, and remove the hook from the fish’s lip. Its scales glisten like diamonds.

  “This is a good omen,” Masha says, as she tosses the fish into the tank attached to the deck. Then she gives me a hug that almost casts Glasswell from my mind.

  Chapter Two

  An hour later, our beers are drained, our galbi reduced to bones. Gram Parsons dozes on a cushion at the bow, and I’m fileting the halibut as Snoop raps and Masha steers the boat nice and gentle toward home.

  “I can’t tell you how much I needed today.” She sighs, facing the sea.

  “You really thought I was taking you to a male strip club at eight a.m.,” I say, throwing fish guts overboard.

  “Thanks for knowing me,” she says.

  “I haven’t solved the mystery,” I say, “but I’ve uncovered some clues.”

  “I love you, Liv,” Masha says, gazing into the horizon.

  “I love you, too.” I give our words the space they deserve, then I say, “Is now a good time to discuss some maid of honor logistics?” I’ve got one gloved hand on the fish, the other pulling up the Notes app on my phone. I’m still unsettled by how easily Glasswell slipped into my visualization before and am glad to shift my focus to my many more important tasks.

  “Sock it to me,” Masha says.

  “You have one last dress fitting, tomorrow at two,” I say. “Eli’s tux is being dropped at his studio by noon. You’re confirmed for a manicure at three, then microblading at four.”

  “Can you meet me for the manicure tomorrow?” Masha says. “My treat.”

  “I’d love that, but . . .” I say, glancing at my chewed cuticles, which are presently covered in fish scales. “I can’t. I’ll be at Lorena’s.”

  “Right.” Masha nods. “Of course.”

  During the pandemic, my mom and I started a podcast called The Reader’s Daughter. Lorena is so avid a reader of self-help books that she lectures innocent strangers in the checkout line at Ralph’s. Now, thanks to our project, she has the perfect forum for expressing her zeal to the abyss.

  And I do mean abyss. Our subscriber numbers are lower than the last round of a limbo line. But we love it because it’s fun. And an unexpected way to bond. I do the production and sound editing in the makeshift studio in her garage. We joke about our nonexistent sponsors, but it’s no joke that the pod is how we survived the pandemic. I didn’t think I could get any closer to my mom, but our podcast proved me wrong.

  “Last week’s episode was amazing,” Masha says.

  She truly is a fan. All our listeners’ love is sincere. All four of them.

  “I particularly liked when Lorena called you out for not reading Why We Dream.”

  “We were reading two different editions! Mine might have been . . . abridged.”

  “Classic. Your dynamic with Lorena is gold. You should look into sponsors,” Masha says.

  “Ha.”

  “Olivia. The podcast could be something. Take it more seriously.”

  “I take it seriously.”

  “As seriously as you take messing around with Werner?” Masha knows about my walk-in fridge rendezvous with Werner, and she doesn’t exactly love it.

  “Olivia,” she says. “Werner brought CliffsNotes when he came to see your middle schoolers put on A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  “He’s a chef, not a renaissance scholar! Come on. Werner’s fun. He’s laid-back, no-drama, and even you had that sex dream about him in his chef whites.”

  “Which I swore you to secrecy about!” she reminds me. “Werner’s . . . fine. On a scale of one to deserving you, he’s like a four.”

  “Harsh!”

  “I’m just saying, you have a pattern with guys like him. Very quickly, they bore you to tears. You’re two texts away from throwing your phone at the wall. Which means you’re four hookups away from ending things.”

  I pretend to be offended. “I am not that predictable.”

  “If you don’t believe me,” she says, crossing her arms, “check the top row of your bookshelf.”

  Oh no she didn’t.

  The top row of my bookshelf is where I keep my diaries. There are fifteen of them, one for every year of my life since eighth grade. Color coded in rainbow order.

  “You know I never read those,” I say, though I can’t help suspecting that Masha is right. Not like I’d peruse my past to find out. “Purge and shelf. Purge and shelf.” I mime the act of diary writing, then flinging them away to gather emotional dust.

  “What about Evan, from the mint green edition?” Masha says. “Or Jonah, from your periwinkle pleather book? Or . . . what was his name, that punk rock guy who went down on you in his nasty old truck—”

  “Tristen!” I recall with a smirk. “And that truck was only nasty in the very best sense of the word.”

  “Tristen,” she says. “Teal journal, spiral bound.”

  “Shut up. You don’t actually—”

  “No, Liv, I don’t read your diaries while you’re taking too long to get ready, tempting as it is. It’s just that I’ve been with you on many of the occasions when you’ve been filling those books up—with accounts of attractive, forgettable men you’d never actually want to be with long term.” She nods at me. “And I’m right about the path you’re on with Werner.”

  As I stack halibut filets on the cutting board, I reflect on my recent romantic history. I’d met witty but emotionally unavailable Evan when we were canvassing door-to-door for the last presidential election. That would be the mint green volume. And Jonah taught music—I think—at one of the schools where I taught drama. We’d had a few bland dates the year I was writing in the periwinkle journal, but, if Masha hadn’t remembered his name, I don’t think I would have. Tristen I remember—our chemistry had been worthy of more than a few diary entries. But if I’m honest, our best sex happened via FaceTime when his band was on the road.

  Which is . . . pathetic.

  But so what if my love stories thus far aren’t worthy of a Pulitzer Prize? What Masha’s not giving me credit for is this: each time one of my relationships ended, I’ve survived.

  I know what real heartbreak looks like. I’ve seen it up close and way too personal: my mom after my dad died. I know all the things it can wreck.

  No thanks. I’m good with guys like Werner—here today, whatever tomorrow.

  “Liv, I love you,” Masha says. “You light up my life. And you deserve a bronze statue for how much you’ve boosted your mom’s last decade. You go out of your way to help other people like it’s your job. It’s beautiful. But you know—you do know—that you’re avoiding your own heart?”

  “Can we put a pin in my love life until after we’ve celebrated yours this weekend?”

  “Fine,” Masha says, wagging a finger at me. “But don’t think we’re done with this subject.”

  I ignore her and return to my list. “We need to be at Mount Olympus tomorrow night by seven. The menu’s finally set.” Planning a rehearsal dinner for only five guests may sound easy—and it was certainly simpler than it would have been had Masha’s and Eli’s overbearing families been invited—but adhering to Eli’s dietary restrictions was no small feat. “Everything’s vegan, gluten- and dairy-free.”

  “Bless you,” Masha says. “Eli’s nutritionist won’t kill me. Yet.”

  “And,” I say, proud of this surprise, “I sweet-talked Werner into giving us the Treehouse for our party of five.”

  The food at Mount Olympus is great but simple—Werner’s not winning any Michelin stars. His roof deck, though—it silences the snobbiest of LA haters. Two of whom will be in attendance tomorrow night.

  Not that I care what Glasswell and his over-the-top celebrity girlfriend think. I’m still not entirely sure why she’s even invited.

  “Oh wait, it’s now a table for four,” Masha corrects me. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  I blink. “What?”

  “Jake’s not bringing Aurora.”

  “Oh?” I cough, feeling a tightness at the back of my throat. I suddenly wish I’d packed a few more PBRs. I feel Masha’s gaze on me. Even though I’ve barely said a word.

  “Be nice,” she warns.

  “Since when is Oh a derogatory word?” I use my filet knife to slice too hard into the fish’s spine.

  “You know,” Masha says. “If I’d told sixteen-year-old Olivia that the Aurora Apple was canceling an RSVP, there would be hair-rending on the level of Greek tragedy.”

  It’s true that in my younger days, I was a massive Aurora Apple fan. I internet-deep-dived her enough to know her real name is Allison Applebaum, and she was born two years before me to two schoolteachers in Topeka, where she starred in every musical production her high school put on. When she played Caligula in the teen rom-com Oblivious, her aesthetic took over my vision board for the rest of high school.

  But last year, when Aurora started cohosting Glasswell’s internationally syndicated morning talk show, Everything’s Jake, rumors swirled that the cohosts were in fact a couple. I quit my intrigue with Aurora cold turkey. I started to see her for what she really was. Another fool duped by Glasswell’s phony charm.

  I don’t ask why Aurora is gracing us with her absence tomorrow night, and I can’t know whether having one less snob at dinner is a good thing, or whether a table for four will force me into additional interaction with Glasswell. Either way, none of this is enough to spoil a successful day of friendship and fishing. I drop the ziplocked filets into the cooler and decide not to obsess. It’s that simple. Mind over madder.

  “It’ll be fun,” Masha says as I literally bite my tongue. “I don’t think the four of us have hung out solo since, wow . . . prom?”

  “Has it been that long?” I say, my voice suddenly tight. I start hosing down the boat’s cutting board so I don’t have to meet Masha’s eyes.

  “Liv?” she says. “You okay?”

  “Absolutely!”

  I feel her squinting at me. “You’re not feeling weird about seeing Jake this weekend, are you?”

  “Of course not!” I sputter. “That’d be ridiculous. Why would I feel weird?” We’re near the marina now, so I take the tiller and putter to a slower speed. I wave at a passing boat full of kids and grandparents, hoping Masha doesn’t notice the sudden heat in my cheeks.

  “Hmmm,” she says, because of course she noticed.

  We’ve taken a wrong turn in this conversation, and I need to get us back on track. I am (was) a drama teacher! A professional. Paid to understand the art of acting. If I can’t do this now for the sake of my best friend’s happiness, then what is wrong with me? I meet Masha’s gaze and commit:

  “You’re right. The whole weekend’s going to be a blast.”

  And somehow, just like that, Masha smiles and leans back on her bench, convinced. Hell, maybe I’m convinced, too. Maybe I’ll be fine seeing Glasswell tomorrow night.