Beautiful

by Christina Lauren

  But before quiet, we had wild. At least that’s how Ziggy pitched the next stop.

  It was part of an organized tour of activities, with ten of us in total. Meaning four others would be joining us along the way. Niall gave us a playful lecture—with a lingering look at Pippa—on The Things We Share, and the Things We Don’t.

  “For example,” he said from the front seat, where he sat beside Ruby as she drove, “we don’t talk about how itchy our bras are at the end of the day.”

  “We don’t?” Ziggy asked, pretending to pout.

  “And we don’t talk about our ‘wanker ex-boyfriends’ and their ‘thrusting bums,’ ” he said, and Pippa groaned playfully.

  “Daaaad,” she whined.

  “Everyone must remember there are new friends joining us.” He turned back around, and Ruby glanced over, shaking her head at him. “Let us try to be on our best—albeit drunken—behavior.”

  “So, what’s the itinerary again, Hanna?” Ruby asked.

  “We have a brewery tour at Willimantic at three. Tomorrow is a winery tour, and Thursday we have a wine and chocolate pairing, followed by a clambake.”

  Will looked over his shoulder at me from the second row of seats, and I knew exactly what he was thinking: What a vacation. It sounded awesome—don’t get me wrong—but for a group of hyperambitious people, this wasn’t reading on the beach or floating lazily on a river with a beer in a foam cozy. This was my sister’s version of downtime.

  But then he said, “Bet you’re relieved you’re not expected to sit still, eh?” And I registered that . . . okay, this was also my version of downtime.

  Willimantic Brewing Company was a Colonial-looking building that couldn’t be more New England if it tried—and I grew up in Boston, so that was saying something. Willimantic, Connecticut—just beside where we would eventually stay in Windham—was driving distance to several major cities but felt oddly rural and quaint.

  Pippa mirrored my thoughts. “I don’t feel like I’ve seen a city yet,” she whispered, staring out the window as we parked. “Why do I always assume your East Coast is built up and entirely urban?”

  As a worldwide expert on urban planning, Niall opened his mouth to answer, but Ruby turned off the engine, saying a quick “No, my adorable one. We don’t have time to hear your dissertation now.” Pointing with a smile out the window, she added, “I think there’s our contact for Eastern Stumbles.”

  “ ‘Eastern Stumbles’?” Will and I repeated in unison.

  My sister waved her folder over her head as she slid open the side door. “The name of the group that organizes this. They’re pretty clear about what we’re here for: drinking, eating, and stumbling back.”

  I reached over the backseat for my laptop bag and my sunglasses while Ziggy and Will jumped out to check in with our contact. Niall and Ruby got out to stretch their legs, Pippa following them onto the sidewalk.

  My phone buzzed and I pulled it out, reading an email from Natalie.

  “You coming?” Pippa asked, leaning in from the sidewalk.

  “Don’t tell on me,” I said, typing out a quick reply. “I just have to send this real quick.”

  Laughing, she ducked back out as I finished up my email and hit send. Bending to stand, I nearly ran into my sister.

  She was blocking my exit. “I think we have a change of plans. Will wants to improvise and head a bit north.”

  I looked up. Her face was flushed, eyes a little wild.

  “Are you sure?” I tried to see past her. “Is this place shady or something? Drinking, eating, and stumbling sounds pretty great.”

  She shook her head. “No, we’re just not feeling the vibe.”

  I turned to glance out the window.

  “Jensen!” Ziggy yelled, grabbing my attention back.

  Startled, I looked back at her. “What?”

  She shook her head, a little out of breath and maybe just a touch frantic. Ruby and Niall wordlessly climbed back in. Pippa hovered behind Ziggy, watching me with guarded eyes. “I really think we should head out,” my sister said.

  Whether she was irritated with Will for suggesting that we skip an entire portion of her carefully laid plans or she was hungry, I had no idea. But I had to take a leak.

  “Okay, let me at least run inside to use—”

  I felt her hand grasp my arm as I pushed past her, felt her panicked grip around my bicep. What in the world was wrong with her?

  “Jensen,” Pippa said quietly.

  Or maybe she shouted it.

  I barely heard.

  Ten feet ahead, but I knew it was her without needing her to turn around.

  Her hair was shorter, but she had that tiny mole on the back of her right shoulder. A shoulder I had kissed too many times to count. There was the scar running down the length of her left arm, where she’d been bitten by a dog when she was eight.

  I took a blind stumble forward. It was true how these moments are described, like the world spins. Like there isn’t enough gravity. The world was definitely spinning, and I wasn’t sure when I’d last taken a breath.

  “Becks?” I asked, voice rough.

  She turned, deep brown eyes wide with surprise. “Jensen?”

  I could practically feel the heavy silence behind me: my entire group of friends watched this unfold, no one else breathing, either.

  A smile broke out on Becky’s face and she came forward and threw her arms around my neck. It was only when I lifted my arms, numbly, to return the embrace that I realized Pippa had been gently holding my hand. She let go but stood just beside me, a supportive presence.

  Becky stepped back, reaching behind her. “Jensen. I want you to meet my husband, Cam.”

  I hadn’t noticed the man at her side, though I have no idea how. He was a tower of muscle and bone, with brilliant white teeth when he smiled. His grip around mine was strong but easy. The way he slid his arm around Becky’s shoulders, the way she turned into his side, was like watching a memory unfold.

  “Good to meet you,” I managed, somehow. How was this possible?

  He smiled down at her. “You too, man, I’ve heard about you for years.”

  Years.

  She’d had someone else for years and I was still standing, left at the starting gate.

  I grappled to my side, finding Pippa’s warm, comforting hand again. I felt Becky’s eyes follow the movement.

  Before I could stop myself the words were out: “This is my wife, Pippa.”

  I felt the tiny tug of her hand in mine, the stunned jerk of her arm. And I saw Becky take this in: Pippa’s hair in a messy bun, her fuzzy orange sweater, tight ankle jeans, and sky-high bright blue heels. I saw her take in Pippa’s necklace—a complicated cascade of green and red and yellow beads—and her wide, brilliant smile.

  Fuck.

  What have I just done?

  “I’m sorry—” I began, wanting to immediately backtrack. Seeing Becky, being here . . . I knew in a heartbeat that the face I used to love—and which swam in my heartbroken thoughts for years—was now only a face from my past. With startling clarity, I felt very little hurt.

  No renewed heartbreak.

  No heated jealousy of her new husband.

  Not even a hint of nostalgia.

  But Pippa cut me off, letting go of my hand to grasp Becky’s instead. “Becky,” she said smoothly. “It’s lovely to finally meet you.”

  Straightening, she looked up at me, eyes gleaming, and then slid her arm around my back, reaching down to spread her hand across my ass.

  She gave it a squeeze.

  “Jensen and I are celebrating our honeymoon. How funny to run into you here!”

  Seven

  Pippa

  When I was little, Coco and Lele repeatedly watched—and sobbed over—a film about a bunch of old people in ruffled shirts or tiny running shorts who all got together after a funeral and basically sat around for a week afterward having sex with each other.

  At least, that’s how The Big
Chill felt to me when I was small.

  All these years later, one scene in particular stuck with me—the scene where Chloe walks over to Nick, reaches out for his hand. She’s the young, odd one, the ex-girlfriend of their suicidal friend—the one none of them knew before the funeral, the one who sounds a bit daft and laughs at the wrong time—and she’s taking a chance by asking the other odd man out to come with her.

  He says, “You know I don’t do anything.”

  (Meaning sex!)

  And Chloe nods, because she doesn’t care. She just wants to be with Nick, because she feels that he might understand her grief in a way others don’t.

  All of this had been running through my head when I’d taken Jensen’s hand. I was thinking of Chloe, and how it was quite brave that she did this, quite noble really, to offer Nick access to his dead friend’s closet to rifle through his clothes and remember him.

  In my case, and even if Jensen didn’t realize it at the time, I’d also taken his hand for support. Just outside the van, it took Hanna about two seconds to identify Becky from the back—about as long as it had taken Jensen himself—and she’d quickly told me who the woman joining our tour was. I’d taken his hand because I imagined the same scenario, years in the future, where I might run into Mark and see him happily married—again—and even then, no matter how hard it was, it would feel only a fraction as bad as how this probably felt for Jensen.

  I would be the first person to admit that I rarely think things through, which is both a blessing and a curse. When asking Billy Ollander to meet me in the broom cupboard in year six, I hadn’t anticipated that he’d run out and tell his twatty little mates that I was a sloppy kisser. When blindly agreeing to a holiday with Ruby and her friends, I figured Ruby was undoubtedly being overly positive, and I would never have guessed they would end up being some of the loveliest people I would ever meet. And when I’d reached for Jensen’s hand, never in a million years did I expect him to introduce me to his ex-wife as . . . his wife.

  His wife.

  Jensen and I watched in mutually bewildered silence as Hanna came forward and tentatively hugged Becky, and then Will took a turn. Both hugs were visibly awkward; I’d spent enough time with them in the past four days to know their hugs were normally tight and warm—not these stiff triangles formed by bodies touching at the fewest points possible.

  I watched them stumble through the explanation that yes, they were married now. Yes, that’s what they meant, Will and Hanna were married. It seemed this hit Becky someplace tender, because we all watched, unsure what to do, as she teared up and pulled Hanna back in for another hug.

  But beside me, it was impossible to miss the stiff lean of Jensen’s posture. I knew without having to ask that sure, it was all well and good to see this affecting Becky, to see her registering the extent to which she wasn’t a part of their lives anymore. But that was a choice she had made.

  I tugged his arm, his hand still in mine.

  He turned to face me, and I sensed Will and Niall struggling to not gawk at us.

  “Thank you,” he whispered while Hanna and Becky talked, his eyes searching mine. “What the hell did I just do?”

  I shook my head, smiling up at him. “I have no idea.”

  “It’s a mess. I need to tell her the truth.”

  “Why?” I asked, shrugging. “This is the first time you’ve seen her in over six years, isn’t it?”

  He nodded, but began to turn to look back at them.

  The misery on his face was nearly too much for me to bear. Instead of letting him turn back over to where Becky and Hanna stood speaking, I cupped his jaw and pulled him to me.

  His mouth met mine with a surprised gasp before he slowly relaxed, tilting his head and turning the kiss from a simple meeting of our lips to something real, and warm, and . . . lovely. My mouth opened under the urging of his, and I felt his arms go around my waist, his chest press into mine.

  He leaned away, just a breath, and it was all I could do to not pull him back again. “You’d do this for me?” he whispered against my lips.

  I giggled. “Kissing you is a hardship I’ll have to bear.”

  Jensen pressed another sweet peck to my lips. “It was already so weird, and then this . . .”

  “It was never that weird.” I glanced over at the group of friends catching up, pointedly ignoring us. “But this . . . this makes things very interesting.”

  We were all a bit stunned, to be fair. The entire drive from Jamesport to Willimantic, Hanna and Will had been prattling on happily about the history of our next destination and all the things we were going to do. I assume this played into our reaction when we saw Becky and Cam and were faced with either climbing into the tour bus or awkwardly bowing out: we moved on autopilot, silently forward.

  We could have left, really. There were a million other things to do, and absolutely no reason to stay in a stilted situation, but in the end—standing in a small huddle outside the bus—it had been Jensen who insisted he was fine.

  And, at his side, I nodded. “We’ve got this. Not a problem.”

  So we climbed aboard the tour bus, sitting in tidy rows and making polite small talk as we drove.

  In truth, I had no idea what I was in for. We got off pretty easy with the brewery tour—hand-holding throughout, a few kisses here and there when it seemed the newlywed thing to do. I figured the rest of the week would be more of the same: some snogging, some canoodling, maybe I’d get to sit on that lap, feeling those muscular thighs beneath me for a few minutes here or there.

  All of this was so naïve, and just within the context of brewery tours, wine tasting, grape smashing. It never occurred to me what it meant that we were all staying in the same small B&B in Windham.

  Until we stood at the reception desk, checking in.

  “I have you for four rooms, three nights,” the woman said, smiling up at Jensen. “Is that right?”

  As fate would have it, Hanna had sent Jensen and I up to check in for all of us while she found a parking spot for our van on the street. Becky and Cam and the other couple in our group—Ellen and Tom—were lined up behind us to get their own room keys.

  “That’s right,” Jensen said, and then startled markedly beside me. “Oh,” he said, too loudly. “No. Only three. Rooms. We only need three rooms. Right? Did you . . . ?” He turned and looked down to me. In my peripheral vision I could see Becky watching us.

  “We got four rooms at the last place,” I explained to the woman, laughing awkwardly.

  “Pippa likes to . . .” Jensen said, searching. And then he answered, “Sing loudly,” just as I answered, “Practice yoga early.”

  “Very early,” he agreed in a burst, just as I said, “Very loud singing.”

  “Singing and yoga,” I said, laughing.

  Because that’s what normal people do.

  Because I didn’t look at all like a bleeding idiot.

  “You practice yoga?” Becky asked, eyes lighting. “Me too—I’d love to join you!”

  Cam squeezed her, a proud smile on his face. “Becks is getting her instructor certification. She’s a real convert.”

  I nodded quickly. Shit shit shit. “I practice a . . . special . . .”

  “Hot yoga,” Jensen offered helpfully.

  “Bikram?” Becky said.

  “Oh . . . it’s the British version . . . of that,” I said, with a casual wave of my hand. Yes, because I was so sophisticated that I practiced a niche British version of hot yoga. My brain went into overdrive as I tried to explain how I would do this in my hotel room. “You know, with the . . . steam, from . . . the shower?” I said, looking up at Jensen, who nodded as if this were a perfectly normal explanation for why he and his new bride would get two bedrooms on their honeymoon.

  “Listen,” Becky said, excitement making her voice go up an octave, “Cam runs early every morning. Why don’t you just save yourself the money and come do your steam yoga in my room in the morning? Or better yet, we could do some
yoga outside, in the field? I’d love to practice some of the routines I’ve been working on with someone else.”

  I blinked at her, wondering why she was being so nice, trying so hard. Really, wasn’t it better for everyone if we just agreed there was no requirement to socialize?

  “It won’t really help with the loud singing,” Jensen said dubiously.

  The woman at the front desk perked up and handed us the three room keys. “We have karaoke at the bar next door, every Tuesday from seven to close!”

  Beside me, Becky clapped in delight. “Perfect!” She looked emotional, almost as if she might . . . cry?

  I glanced up at Jensen.

  He worked to smile through a grimace. “Perfect.”

  “I don’t think you realize what a disaster this is,” I said, opening my suitcase and pulling out my toiletries bag.

  Jensen stared bleakly down at the tiny bed we were meant to share. “No, I think I do.”

  “I don’t mean the bed, you wanker,” I said, laughing. “For fuck’s sake, we can share a bed. I mean the yoga.”

  “You don’t have to do the yoga,” he said, confused.

  “Of course I do! Did you hear the hope in her voice? She was nearly in tears, she was so happy. I can’t suddenly be like, ‘Oh, yeah, I don’t want to do the famous British Steam Yoga I prattled on about.’ We’d look insane.”

  I walked into the bathroom and heard him laughing behind me. “As opposed to how we look right now?”

  Jensen followed me in and watched as I unpacked my toothbrush and squeezed some toothpaste on top. I wasn’t all that bothered about my impending yoga fail, or the fact that I’d essentially agreed to give a concert at karaoke tonight. It wasn’t that we would be spending the next four days with the woman Jensen had married. It wasn’t even that it would be so hard to pretend to be married to Jensen on this short leg of the trip.

  It was that I was sort of looking forward to it.

  I knew myself and my own heart. It tended to dive first, think later. Working like this, as a team—a kissing team, for God’s sake—I was doomed.