1️⃣6️⃣

LINGLING

"We got Miss Maisie-ed," Orm says.

"We... what?"

I know she explained who Miss Maisie was earlier, but I don't quite understand how the silver-haired woman's name has been turned into a verb.

"Don't worry about it. It doesn't matter."

"But—"

"Listen, Ling, I should probably go check to make sure Josie and Elijah's getaway car is ready to go."

The night isn't even close to over yet, and we both know it. It's not a real excuse, just something to get her out of this moment—out of this. But I know Orm well enough to understand that when she starts running, there's usually a good reason. She has a thousand things she could be doing right now, and staying here with me clearly feels like something she shouldn't allow herself to do.

But I can't let her leave. Not yet.

She turned away from me once, twelve years ago, and we've been running in opposite directions ever since. But now we're here, pulled together by fate—or maybe by Miss Maisie—and I can't let her slip away again without saying something.

I have to tell her.

I have to tell her that if I could go back to that night in Cabin B, I wouldn't have let my panic win. I wouldn't have stayed pressed against the corner of that tiny closet like she was something dangerous, something to avoid. I wouldn't have wasted so much energy pretending I didn't notice her when she walked into a room, pretending I didn't care when she laughed a little too loud, or when she smiled at someone else.

I would have kissed her. Not because of the game, but because I wanted to.

I would have asked for her number at the end of camp. I would have stayed in touch. Maybe we would have stayed up late texting, sending each other inside jokes and talking about the weird little details of our lives. Maybe there's a version of us in some alternate reality where everything unfolded differently. A version where we didn't waste years pretending not to care.

But we're not in that reality. We're here. Right now. And for some reason, the universe—or Miss Maisie—has seen fit to give me another chance.

I want to tell her that I'm thinking about Stacy's job offer—that I'm seriously considering moving to San Francisco. That I could be just an hour away from her instead of thousands of miles.

I want to tell her that if Eric isn't someone she wants, then maybe—maybe—there's room for me to be someone she does want.

"Orm," I begin, my voice tight with everything I want to say but don't know how to.

"Come on, Maidzilla!" shouts one of the blonde twins—Amy, I think—her voice cutting through the electric tension. "Josie's about to throw the bouquet!"

Orm turns to me, her lips pressed together in something close to regret, before offering me a soft, apologetic smile. Then, with an almost imperceptible hesitation, she lets Amy grab her arm and pull her away into the crowd gathering around Josie.

The ballroom shifts focus as the spotlight lands on the bride. Josie stands in the center of the floor, her bouquet of creamy roses and baby's breath raised high above her head. A group of women surrounds her, all laughing and nudging each other, their faces lit with playful excitement.

I find myself drifting toward a group of guys lingering on the edges of the dance floor. Harry is among them, grinning as he nurses a glass of whiskey.

"You ready for this?" Josie calls out, her voice playful but commanding. The crowd of women roars in response.

She turns her back to them, lifting her bouquet even higher. The room holds its collective breath as she flings the flowers into the air. The bouquet arcs beautifully, petals catching in the ballroom lights before gravity pulls it down in a spiral.

It feels like time slows down as the bouquet falls, flipping once, twice—and then lands squarely in the hands of a very startled-looking redhead. Mabel.

She blinks at the bouquet in her hands, her mouth slightly open, cheeks flushing as the crowd bursts into laughter and applause. Orm's laugh rings above the others, bright and carefree, and for a moment, all I can do is watch her. She's radiant, glowing in the soft lights, her blue gown flowing around her like she's stepped out of a dream.

But then someone taps my arm.

I turn and find Eric standing there. His usual easygoing smile is replaced with something sharper, something edged with frustration.

"Ling, right?"

I nod cautiously. "Yeah. Hi."

Eric runs a hand through his hair, looking vaguely uncomfortable but determined. "Can I ask you something?"

I glance around, hoping Harry might still be nearby, but he's already been pulled into another conversation. I'm stuck with Eric.

"Sure."

"What's the deal with you and Orm?"

I stiffen slightly. "Excuse me?"

"Come on, you know what I mean. You cut in when I was talking to her. You asked her to dance—right in the middle of our conversation."

His voice is low, but there's a sharp edge to it. I raise an eyebrow. This is not the same laid-back guy I've seen casually joking around over the past couple of days.

"If you wanted to dance with her, you should've asked," I reply evenly. "The night isn't over. You've still got time."

Eric scoffs. "Don't play dumb, Ling. I like her. We have history, alright? And I feel like this weekend's my chance to rebuild something we lost."

"The 'history' where you gave her mono and then disappeared for over a decade?"

I know I shouldn't have said it, but the words are out before I can stop them. Eric flinches slightly, and his expression darkens. He's trying to make himself look taller, shoulders squared and chest puffed out, but it's not doing him any favors.

"Look, I get it. She told you that story, and now you think you've got some sort of edge over me. Like you know her better than I do or something. But you don't, alright?"

His voice has lost some of its bravado now, and there's something vulnerable beneath the anger. But it's fleeting, and he quickly covers it with another snort.

"If she likes you so much, why don't you go ask her out instead of standing here trying to intimidate me?"

"You think you're something special, don't you?" Eric retorts, his voice low and sharp.

For some reason, that makes me laugh. Special is the last word I'd ever use to describe myself.

"Oh, yeah," Eric continues, nodding like he's cracked some secret code. "I asked around about you. Hotshot from LA, Caltech grad, probably rolling in cash from some app or whatever. Strutting around here in your expensive suit—"

"It's Thom Browne, actually."

"—thinking you can just swoop in and get whatever you want. Including her."

His gaze flicks briefly toward Orm across the room, and my stomach twists.

"Listen," he continues, his voice dropping into a quieter, more venomous tone. "First of all Orm has no interest in girls. Orm isn't the kind of girl you can just impress with money and charm. She's a small-town girl, grounded, genuine. She needs someone who understands her, someone who belongs here. Not someone who's going to breeze in, steal her attention for a weekend, and then vanish back to California without a second thought."

For a moment, all I can do is stare at him, caught somewhere between disbelief and anger.

First of all, who does this guy think he is? Second, where did he get the idea that Orm is some prize to be claimed or a trophy to be won? And lastly, how dare he reduce her to some idealized "small-town girl" trope as if she doesn't have complexities, dreams, and depth of her own?

Eric is a walking red flag. All the charming smiles and easy conversation were just surface-level. Underneath it all is this ugly, possessive streak, and it's making my blood boil.

"Listen," I say, my voice low but firm, "you've got me all wrong. I'm not here to whisk Orm away to some glamorous Hollywood life, and I'm definitely not here to 'win' her like she's some kind of prize. She's a person, Eric. And the way you're talking about her right now? It's disgusting."

Eric takes a step closer, his jaw tightening as his voice drops. "You think you're some kind of smartass, don't you? Playing the noble and high mighty, saying all the right things. But I saw you last night, out in the woods with her. She looked relieved when I showed up."

His words hit a weak spot, sharp and precise. For a split second, doubt creeps in. Was she relieved? Did I misread everything about that moment under the trees? Was the closeness, the tension, the almost-kiss... just in my head?

No. I don't believe that. I won't believe that.

"You've got no idea what you're talking about," I say tightly.

Eric smirks, sensing the hesitation in my voice. "See? You know I'm right. Orm doesn't swing like that. Orm doesn't need someone like you. She needs someone like me. Orm is mine. So why don't you back off and—"

"I am not yours."

The voice cuts through the space like a whip crack. Both Eric and I freeze, turning to find Orm standing a few feet away, hands clenched into fists at her sides. Her amber eyes blaze with fury, her shoulders squared, her chin tilted up in defiance.

For the first time, she doesn't look like sunlight. She looks like a storm.

Eric stiffens, but then tries to plaster that easygoing smile back onto his face. "Orm, hey—listen, that's not what I—"

"Stop." Her voice is sharp, slicing through his excuses before they can even begin. "I don't belong to anyone, Eric. Not you, not Lingling, not anyone. And the fact that you think you can stand here and argue over me like I'm some kind of trophy is—honestly—pathetic."

Eric's smile falters, and the crowd around us grows quieter. People are definitely listening now, though most are pretending not to.

"I'm not some object you can fight over," Orm continues, her voice shaking with restrained anger. "You've shown me exactly who you are tonight, Eric, and it's not someone I want in my life. So do me a favor—go back to whatever corner of this wedding you crawled out of, paste that fake smile back on your face, and stay far away from me for the rest of the night. Because if Elijah finds out how you've been behaving, I doubt he'll be so thrilled about having you around."

The silence that follows is deafening.

Eric's jaw tightens, and for a moment, it looks like he might argue. But instead, he scoffs, mutters something under his breath, and turns sharply on his heel, stalking toward the open bar.

The tension slowly begins to dissipate, the low hum of chatter picking back up. But Orm doesn't linger. She glances briefly at me, her expression unreadable, and then she turns and walks away.

For a moment, I'm frozen. But then, without thinking twice, I follow her.