“Hudson?”

I spun right around at the sound of Mirabelle’s voice. “Uh, yeah?” Even though she couldn’t have any idea what I was up to, I felt guilty all the same. Thankfully, it was dark enough here that she couldn’t see the bulge in my pants.

She stood just at the edge of the stage. “Where are you going?”

“Just stepping away for a bit of a breather.”

“The fuck you are.”

If I didn’t catch that she was angry from her swearing—Mirabelle rarely said anything coarser than asshole—then I’d surely be able to tell from the bright fury sparking from her eyes. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“Like hell you don’t. I’ve been watching you. I saw you talking to Melissa. And I know you’ve been with her before. Then she goes off, and you get all whispery with Tim? This is my wedding weekend, Hudson. I can’t even look at you right now.”

She knew, she had to. There was no other reason for her to be outraged. Honestly, attempting to play her friend was shitty on my part. But, like any addict, I continued to deny. “Mirabelle, I really don’t have any idea what this is about.”

“You know what? Fuck you.” Her small frame shook as she crossed her arms in front of her. “Fuck you, and I don’t want you here anymore right now. I want you to leave.”

The pool house counted as leaving, right?

“But so help me God, if you fuck with my friends tonight or tomorrow or during any of my wedding stuff, I will never be able to forgive you.”

“Seriously? I—”

“Yes, seriously!” Her voice cracked. “I don’t want you here right now. Go.”

I wanted to argue more, but what exactly could I say? She’d pegged me correctly. And it wasn’t my intention to ruin Mirabelle’s rehearsal. “Fine. I’ll go.”

She kept her eyes on me, so heading to the pool house now was out of the question. I pushed past her instead and snagged a bottle of Scotch from the bartender before storming toward the house. I didn’t allow myself to think. Not until I got far enough away that I didn’t do anything I’d regret.

Getting off the premises, however, proved problematic. The driveway was too packed to get my car out, so it looked like I was on foot. There was nowhere for me to go if I went toward the highway. So taking a path on the side of the house opposite from the party, I crept down to the gazebo at the edge of our land. Though it had a nice view over the ocean, it was rarely used. Too far from the convenience of household help, I supposed. Mirabelle and I had used it a lot growing up though. It had made a nice escape when Sophia grew too difficult—or drunk—to tolerate.

It seemed fitting that I ended up there.

The stairs creaked as I climbed in the rotunda. I settled on the wood bench and undid my tie. The breeze came in and out like the waves of the ocean below. I nursed my Scotch and let the shit settle in my mind.

God, Melissa with her double G’s and tight pussy. Right about now, she was probably pissed and about ready to throw her clothes back on. Then Timothy would show up. They’d likely think I set it up that way, for them to find each other and fuck each other’s brains out. I’d never thought I’d be jealous of that prick of a guy.

But disappointment and irritation at the forced end of my fun didn’t last long. Their disappearance left space for a heavier emotion—shame. I felt certain that Mirabelle wasn’t aware of the extent of my games, that she thought she’d just caught me fucking around with an engaged woman. It wasn’t really the biggest of deals. Except I’d let her down. I’d hurt her. That realization was not one I wanted to dwell on. It was too raw, too uncomfortable. Like an ice-cold wind slicing across my skin, stinging and chafing.

I let the Scotch burn through the chill and searched for something else to occupy my mind. Soon I found my thoughts returning to the disclosure from my mother earlier. It was strange to think about what her life had been like once before. That she’d been a happier woman. That she’d believed in her future with my father. Was it so simple to say that her entire life had been ruined because her father had wanted her betrothed to prove himself? That, in turn, Jack—out of love for his new bride—threw himself into doing just that? That the time apart the work caused led to the estranged relationship, the drinking, the cheating?

And if events had been different, if they’d managed to find the balance in their worlds and maintained a healthier relationship, would I have still been the way I was?

It was pointless to dwell on it. There would never be an answer.

Likely, my parents would still have been fucked up even if he’d stayed for the whole honeymoon. And I would still be exactly like I was. Why was I complaining, anyway? It was my superpower, wasn’t it? Not feeling.

Lately, though, it didn’t seem like a superpower. It was more like a distraction. A constant whirring in my head that begged for explanation. Pushed me to examine and study and scheme. Drove me crazy. Or was I already crazy to begin with?

Wasn’t that the question of the century?

“Hudson?” Mirabelle’s soft call startled me out of my spiraling speculation. I didn’t answer, but she continued toward me anyway, climbing up the stairs and then leaning against the arch of the entry. “Here you are.”

“Here I am.” Though her demeanor was calmer than it had been, I wasn’t happy to have been found. It surely meant there’d be talking. Fuck, how I hated that. I couldn’t exactly send her away though. And it had been my actions that led to this. Consequences.

The light was out in the gazebo, and Mirabelle blocked the moon behind her, so I couldn’t make out the expression on her face. Was she still mad? Hurt? Or did she come to apologize?

Finally, she tucked a stray curl behind her ear and said, “Mother’s drunk.”

Huh. Not even focused on me, then. “Are you surprised?”

“No. I was hopeful, though. She’d had a good day.” Her tone was melancholy, and I knew if I could see her eyes, they’d be sad.

I didn’t understand sad. But I didn’t like it when Mirabelle was. I tried to be consoling. “Parties are the easiest time for her to drink without anyone noticing. Everyone’s drinking.”

“True.”

She stepped forward and sat on the bench next to me. That meant she was staying. It didn’t leave much chance of escaping more reprimand from the earlier incident.

“You should be with your guests.” I took a sip from the bottle of Scotch and tried to appear nonchalant about my suggestion to leave.

She wasn’t biting. “You’re my guest.”

“You have more important guests than me.”

“I don’t think so.” She mirrored my posture, looking out over the ocean. “Besides, we need to talk.”

I pretended not to know what topic she thought should be discussed. “If you need last-minute marriage advice, you know what I’ll say—don’t get married.”

“You’re an ass. And no. I’d never come to you for marriage advice. You’ll come to me, though. I’m calling that now.” She swung her foot in a rhythmic sway that seemed in time with the ocean waves.

“Uh-huh.” The hell I was ever getting married. Though marriage seemed more likely than falling in love. Telling that to Mirabelle would be another impossible conversation. Really, any way I looked at it, there was an uncomfortable discussion about to take place.

I decided to dive in and get it over with. “Look, we don’t need to talk about earlier. Lapse in judgment. That’s all.”

It was so quiet I could hear her swallow. “No. We don’t need to talk about earlier,” she agreed quietly, much to my surprise. “But there’s something else.”

Well, that had been easy. With her soft disposition and her somber mood, I had a pretty good guess at what she wanted to say instead. The typical, I love you, you’re a good brother even though you tried to drown me when I was seven and screw my bridesmaid at my wedding rehearsal, all the bullshit things that sweet, naïve sisters say to their siblings on the eve of superficially important occasions like their weddings.